Better than the blogs your mother used to make.


February. Fly with the freedom of a future you can’t help but look forward to. A mixed blur of blues. A yellow. No, two yellows. One above, melting me into one below. February.

Then movement. Still February, but a different blue, and only one yellow, the same yellow, but seen from a different angle. I would smile at it if it wasn’t blinding. I would wave if it wasn’t a stupid thing to do. Crouch, steady, on my mark…

Welcome. We’re glad you’re here. Plod. You are the future, you are the reason we are here. Plod. And we want you to Plod. We want you to Plod the best you can. There are countless opportunities for you to do other things besides the necessary Plodding, but remember that it’s how well you Plod that we mark you on. Plod as well as you can. Have fun, but bear in mind: Plodding Comes First.

And the last yellow disappears. Head down, low down, Plodding, I can’t see it anymore. The blues have already both gone, though I can hear them on the cusp if I stop for just a moment. Why not trudge? Could be better than Plodding, I suppose. So I trudge. Trudge. Trudge. Yes, Trudging is better than Plodding, if only because it sounds different, more solid and gravelly than the slow mud-like sucking of the Plod.

There was a flash of red back there, you know? Did you see it? I didn’t. A whiff of green, too. But all I know is the grey of the Trudge, the brown of the Plod. An explosion of orange grins, but I didn’t turn around. Plod. Trudge. Head down. Low down. Push through, uphill, but always down.

I didn’t see him until it was too late. We bumped, and with a soft but warm, “Sorry,” he hurried of again. Downhill. Not uphill. Odd. I turn to watch him pass. I turn. Can I turn? Would it be wise to turn? I’ve heard it can be risky…

I turn. I turn anyway. I turn and see…

A purple whirlwind, meeting a zip of gold that binds blue laughter to green breath. The taste of silver, the brush of amber. A palette spiraling out of control of the all-seeing blind musician of the world full of his dreams. The oranges and reds and yellows and sparks and cries and streaks and smudges and notes and crashes. The taste of a colour the sound of a smell the green of a blue the yellow of a yellow and by God dear God the everlasting soul of it all!

Below between the crashing colours and singing smells, between the multiple tastes of wind I can see him bobbing, up and down, up and down as he springs in the Springtime and conducts this, our sensual symphony. Do I follow? Do I let my foot tap to the beat of the blues?

As the mud that I was plods past me, as the stony hearts roll slowly uphill…

The horizon is behind me in October.


Anonymous said...

Well, firstly, I think this is very good. Probably the best work/story/poem/thing I've read of yours. Reading through it, it actually reminded me a lot of "Anyone lived in a pretty how town," by EE Cummings.

One thing that bothers me a bit is that it juxtaposes oddly with everything else I've read from you. In other words, if this story was placed side-by-side with your "Hero" story, I'd never guess that it was written by the same person.

That isn't a problem per se, but it makes me wonder what sort of writer you really are. Pratchett's books vary widely in tone (the difference between The Color of Magic and, say, Nation), but they're all -undoubtedly- Pratchett. What I'm trying to say, in a roundabout way, is that a certain Kevin-ness is lacking in your writing.

At times, you borrow a bit too much from your favourite writers, which obscures your identity. With this piece, I "feel" more of who you are in the writing, but at the same time you've sacrificed some of the Kevin-esque flair that makes your writing fun to read.

I suppose that's a fairly obscure criticism. As I said, though, this is definitely the best I've read from you.

Anonymous said...

Oh, and before I forget: Horizon doesn't really seem to be the perfect title, but I can't think of anything better at the moment. Also, have you thought of maybe using "plod" as both a noun and a verb?