TheBanyanTree: A story for today

[Jeri Xiques]

Neeky, I love the way you write a non-story!  Now let's see what you can do
with a real story :)
Oh wait.  I HAVE seen what you can do...do it again, please!!


-----Original Message-----
From: thebanyantree-bounces at lists.remsset.com
[mailto:thebanyantree-bounces at lists.remsset.com] On Behalf Of Monique Colver
Sent: Sunday, January 22, 2012 12:27 PM
To: Banyan Tree
Subject: TheBanyanTree: A story for today

Here's a story!

No, I lied. There is no story. I am storyless, bereft and without stories.
There are stories, but they're in my head (or haid, whichever you prefer),
and I might want to keep them there for a rainy day.

Wait. Today's a rainy day.

But then we have the issue of getting them out of my head and onto paper,
though I rarely use paper these days. I consider using paper from time to
time, and then it occurs to me that I'd then have to decipher said paper,
and given the flurrious nature of my handwriting when trying to get
thousands of words out all at once, that can be a challenge.

I just made up a new word. Add it to your dictionary please. It may make a
reappearance.

Or it may not. It must be reviewed by the Department of New Words, which is
not currently in session, but may return next week. Or not.

See, the Department of New Words has been out for recess for months now,
and the members of said department have been difficult to locate. Some of
them gone underground, and I mean that quite literally. Harold, for one,
has decided to be a gopher. No one is quite sure why, since he was doing
just fine as a harbinger of doom, but he suddenly got it into his head one
day that gophers have a pretty good life. Landscape architects were called
in (he attempted to get Weird Al himself, who studied landscape
architecture before deciding that being Weird Al would make him more
money), and holes were dug, underground caverns were hollowed out, and now
we rarely hear from him at all, especially since his cell service
underground is so spotty.

Then there's Maud, who was last seen boarding a cruise ship headed for
Mexico. We all saw her off, or we at least waved goodbye to a cruise ship,
but we didn't really see her. But she claimed that was where she was going,
and who are we to argue?

Then there's Polly, our resident expert on Misused Words. She went on an
expedition to find the Lost Words of Azkhaban, which happens to be a real
place, though rumors say it doesn't exist at all. She shouldn't have even
gone on that expedition, but Marvin was busy. It would normally have been
his job, since he's in charge of Lost and Misplaced Words, but he was busy
having a spa day when the assignment came up. Polly, who has the energy
level of a three year old on speed, doesn't hesitate to jump on any
lingering assignments.

The three year old on speed was just a metaphor -- we really don't have any
three year olds on speed wandering around the facility, and I can only
guess what that would be like.

We do not recommend providing speed or any other drug to children of any
age.

The point being, there are stories, but the particular ones I have in mind
are not currently accessible. They reside somewhere in the recesses of my
mind, which lately has been spending far too much time on things like
1099's, W-2's, 1040's, W-3's, and other things defined by series of letters
and numbers. This is my busy season, which means it's time for me to Stop
Messing Around and Get On With Things. Deadlines loom with all the urgency
of a midnight awakening that tells me I must get to the bathroom, and I
must do it quickly. These deadlines push the stories to dark places where
they aren't easily located, though I can feel them back in there, pushing
to get out, looking for a way to come back into the light. It annoys the
bejesus out of me, let me tell you. They don't want to stay where they are,
they want to be out in the open, so they can be admired for their words and
sentences, so they can preen, which they are quite fond of doing ("Look at
me!" they say, not all shy), and so they can continue their life cycle.
Idea, conception, life, decay, disuse, and then ignominy.

"Do you really want to go there?" I ask them, wondering if they wouldn't be
happier being unknown than to be ridiculed for not living up to the hype.

"We must!" they yell back at me, "We must be known, even if we're to die a
sad and humiliating death!"

I fear for them, the stories. They have so much hope, they don't understand
how hard life can be. They don't understand that even if they are good
stories, behave themselves, eat all their veg, exercise regularly, there's
still a possibility that no one will care. They say they don't mind though,
they're just tired of not existing, and who am I to argue?

So today I have no stories, but that's not because there are no stories.
It's only because they haven't bludgeoned their way out yet. Some of them
don't want to come out at all, they lie back in the recesses and curl up
into little balls, happy to stay where they are, known only to me, but
mostly they want out, and they will keep insisting on having their way
until I give in.

M
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