One of the most satisfying things about writing fiction is that you get the chance to put yourself into a situation you might not normally ever encounter. You might be a superhero or an alien android or a psychotic serial killer. You might be in New York City or on a space station or in a rabbit warren. The possibilities are endless, and you are in complete creative control.
Sort of. I find when I take a stab at writing fiction, it's as if someone else takes over my brain and weird things flow out that I might not consciously choose. These are the writings I normally like the most - the ones that happen when I'm not thinking too much.
I used to regularly write flash fiction limited to just a few hundred sparse words based on prompts from Lillie McFerrin (Five Sentence Fiction) and Angela Goff (Visual Dare). But then, well over a year ago, I stopped. I began to see writing to the prompts as a weekly commitment, and that took all the fun out of it.
Every once in a while, I glance at Lillie and Angela's sites to see what their prompts are. Just for fun, I did so again today. For whatever reason the stars aligned and I felt inspired to write. It's not great prose by any means, but here it is (along with the VisDare photo that prompted it). Clearly, someone with serious issues inhabited my brain for the short time it took to write the allowed 150 words.
I always hated the circus. The clowns hiding behind paint. The trapeze artists, husbands and wives wanting to fling each other into oblivion. And the high-wire artists. I knew that their balancing acts were really a sham. We all pretend to be balanced every day, but behind our shuttered eyes a storm is brewing out of control and threatening to spiral us through the atmosphere into an outer space from whence we’ll never return to solid Earth.
My therapist tells me that the dreams of balancing on a cable, sometimes over a canyon, sometimes over a bridge twisted and collapsed into uselessness, are my subconscious trying to make sense of my pain. I don’t know, though. I think they’re my brain trying to tell me to let myself fall.
But last night there was someone else on that cable with me. Who?
Is the ringmaster finally making an appearance?
