Free Write
Hey! Trying to write more, doing free writing every morning to get the juices flowing! I'll post the ones that are at all coherent, but one of my rules is no editing, just start and keep going!
The turtle wandered down the road, mud caked around it’s stumpen feet. Beleaguered and solitary, the reptile wondered how long it had traveled for, and if it would ever arrive at its destination.
The most commendable virtue of this intrepid creature was perseverance. Many times in its travels, it had witnessed beasts and birds much faster than itself outstrip its stoic pace, and fade into triumphant invisibility on the horizon’s edge.
And Many times since, the turtle had passed the solemn bones of such speedy creatures. Had passed their remains on the muddy highway.
The turtle walked. It trodded and trudged, and soldiered on. If the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune turned their points turtleward, they would find a shell of uncommon strength and fortitude, not easily punctured.
This turtle had the right stuff.
Now, it so happened that our hero’s journey was not quite as purposeful as we would have otherwise liked to believe. For you see, turtle’s on the whole (not to make generalizations. Some turtles are of course, exceptions) prefer to consider the past and not the future. Unlike snails, who of course, live in the moment, debauched hedonists that they are.
So when our turtle, on it’s path, chanced to meet a snail, it had no words for the beast, aware of its past experiences with these cheerful miscreants.
“Hullo, traveler! Where to in such a hurry?” Remarked the snail.
“My business is my own, Snail.” Stated the turtle, plainly, with not so much bluntness as a slow, explanatory disposition. “I will be on my way, and gladly.”
“Hang on a moment!” exclaimed the snail. “I mean no offense! And what’s more, you’ll find my name is not Snail, but instead Clarence.”
Now there was a funny thought, mused the turtle. A funny thought indeed.
“What’s that now, Snail? What’s that?”
“My name. It’s Clarence, not Snail. Snail is my species.”
The turtle, for the first time, stopped, and craned its scaly neck to consider the snail.
“Exempli Gratia,” said the apparently learned snail, “I can see that you are a turtle, but how gauche of me to call you Turtle, as though this was your sole appellation. What’s your name, friend?”
The turtle sneered and puzzled, not so much at the snail in offense, but at his own inner turmoil, confused.
“I… I do not have a name. I do not have anything, other than my shell, and a pressing appointment.”
“A pressing appointment? What’s all that?”
“I have to be somewhere.”
With this, the snail began laughing uproariously, it’s eyestalks waving in amusement.
“I fail to see the humor in this, or in any, situation, Clarence the Snail.”
“Oh, haha, I’ve quite gathered that much, sirrah. It’s only just, well, most Snails do a cursory bit of philosophy, and it’s just, well… You don’t have anywhere to be.”
The turtle was quite offended. It considered its appointment to be quite real and of more importance than the mud, for example, or the road of said mud. Or even this Clarence Snail fellow.
“And under what authority can you know this, Snail? Clarence Snail? Under whose purview can you make such claims?”
“By the time you’ve made even half of a statement, which begins with the words ‘I have to…’ you’ve committed logical suicide. You don’t have to be, period. Full stop. End of discussion. Your existence, and to go you one further, existence in general, has not necessity as any part of its composition. In short, as I can see you are a busy, nameless turtle, you don’t have to be anywhere, because you don’t have to be at all.”
The turtle was left quite shaken by all this. It wondered what it would be like to stop for good. Then it had another, quite more fearful thought.
“And should I stop my journey, what then? What then, Clarence?”
“Well, you should be very much stopped, I should imagine.”
“And I begin to see your game now, trickster. For many have I seen, faster than myself, who have stopped. Each one on the path to this very spot, and each one as dead as a bag of doornails, yes.”
“Stopping is a condition of death, surely. But death, you’ll find, is not a condition of stopping.”
With this the turtle began laughing.
The snail furrowed its eyestalks, with much difficulty.
“Have a pleasant day, Snail. Stopping is a small death. And I have much farther to go, I should think.”
The turtle continued on its way, leaving the Devil with its brow furrowed, alone on the path, alone in entirety.
The turtle wandered down the road, mud caked around it’s stumpen feet. Beleaguered and solitary, the reptile wondered how long it had traveled for, and if it would ever arrive at its destination.
The most commendable virtue of this intrepid creature was perseverance. Many times in its travels, it had witnessed beasts and birds much faster than itself outstrip its stoic pace, and fade into triumphant invisibility on the horizon’s edge.
And Many times since, the turtle had passed the solemn bones of such speedy creatures. Had passed their remains on the muddy highway.
The turtle walked. It trodded and trudged, and soldiered on. If the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune turned their points turtleward, they would find a shell of uncommon strength and fortitude, not easily punctured.
This turtle had the right stuff.
Now, it so happened that our hero’s journey was not quite as purposeful as we would have otherwise liked to believe. For you see, turtle’s on the whole (not to make generalizations. Some turtles are of course, exceptions) prefer to consider the past and not the future. Unlike snails, who of course, live in the moment, debauched hedonists that they are.
So when our turtle, on it’s path, chanced to meet a snail, it had no words for the beast, aware of its past experiences with these cheerful miscreants.
“Hullo, traveler! Where to in such a hurry?” Remarked the snail.
“My business is my own, Snail.” Stated the turtle, plainly, with not so much bluntness as a slow, explanatory disposition. “I will be on my way, and gladly.”
“Hang on a moment!” exclaimed the snail. “I mean no offense! And what’s more, you’ll find my name is not Snail, but instead Clarence.”
Now there was a funny thought, mused the turtle. A funny thought indeed.
“What’s that now, Snail? What’s that?”
“My name. It’s Clarence, not Snail. Snail is my species.”
The turtle, for the first time, stopped, and craned its scaly neck to consider the snail.
“Exempli Gratia,” said the apparently learned snail, “I can see that you are a turtle, but how gauche of me to call you Turtle, as though this was your sole appellation. What’s your name, friend?”
The turtle sneered and puzzled, not so much at the snail in offense, but at his own inner turmoil, confused.
“I… I do not have a name. I do not have anything, other than my shell, and a pressing appointment.”
“A pressing appointment? What’s all that?”
“I have to be somewhere.”
With this, the snail began laughing uproariously, it’s eyestalks waving in amusement.
“I fail to see the humor in this, or in any, situation, Clarence the Snail.”
“Oh, haha, I’ve quite gathered that much, sirrah. It’s only just, well, most Snails do a cursory bit of philosophy, and it’s just, well… You don’t have anywhere to be.”
The turtle was quite offended. It considered its appointment to be quite real and of more importance than the mud, for example, or the road of said mud. Or even this Clarence Snail fellow.
“And under what authority can you know this, Snail? Clarence Snail? Under whose purview can you make such claims?”
“By the time you’ve made even half of a statement, which begins with the words ‘I have to…’ you’ve committed logical suicide. You don’t have to be, period. Full stop. End of discussion. Your existence, and to go you one further, existence in general, has not necessity as any part of its composition. In short, as I can see you are a busy, nameless turtle, you don’t have to be anywhere, because you don’t have to be at all.”
The turtle was left quite shaken by all this. It wondered what it would be like to stop for good. Then it had another, quite more fearful thought.
“And should I stop my journey, what then? What then, Clarence?”
“Well, you should be very much stopped, I should imagine.”
“And I begin to see your game now, trickster. For many have I seen, faster than myself, who have stopped. Each one on the path to this very spot, and each one as dead as a bag of doornails, yes.”
“Stopping is a condition of death, surely. But death, you’ll find, is not a condition of stopping.”
With this the turtle began laughing.
The snail furrowed its eyestalks, with much difficulty.
“Have a pleasant day, Snail. Stopping is a small death. And I have much farther to go, I should think.”
The turtle continued on its way, leaving the Devil with its brow furrowed, alone on the path, alone in entirety.