The Meadow

this is an experimental work in progress. I only work on it while under the influence of psychedelics.

The Meadow

There is a meadow with a forest on all sides and mountains beyond the forest. Two children sit in a field and watch a fox chase its own tail. One child turns to the other.

I think that fox our sister, says one child.

How do you figure that? Asks the other.

I believe I will call out to her.

What will you call?

I will call her Eternity because she goes in circles and does not seem to tire.

Perhaps, good brother, she can teach us the secrets of the universe.

Perhaps we can share with her our own secrets and see how they compare.

Call out to her then.

Eternity!

You cannot think to disrupt a force as permanent as Eternity with a call so unimposing.

Eternity!

Louder still, good brother, she cannot hear you or if she does, she is not convinced what you have to say is worth stopping for.

Eternity! The fox stops and stares across the field at the children. Please, just a word, good sister, we won’t trouble you too long! The fox looks back at the treeline behind her. Just a moment of your time, while the sun still makes our skin hot, good fox! The fox looks back at the children and trots toward them, looking back and forth as if worried someone may see.

How old do you suppose she is? Whispers one child.

That’s the trouble with Eternity, says the other. You and I cannot judge her age, for while she may have lived our lifetimes a thousand times over, she still has many thousands more to live. The fox sits in front of the children who are sprawled out in a patch of daisies.

What is so important, the fox asks, that you, of all the creatures on this earth found the audacity to interfere with the mechanisms of existence, concepts so beyond your comprehension that any amount of my infinite time would be wasted in speaking of them in front of you?

No, good sister, we mean no offense. We were admiring your beauty just as any creature here would and our only wish was to speak with you, as vainglorious a notion that may be, for only a moment!

A moment of my time is more than a lifetime for you, the fox says. If I so much as blink, I’ll have missed your passing as well as the passing of your children and their children’s passing after them.

Oh, sweet fox, says one child. Spend the rest of this glorious afternoon with me and my brother. We’ll show you the beauties of these moments that must seem so trivial, so fleeting to a force like you whose presence and time is so expansive. Live in this moment with my brother and I and see what lavishness you pass by as you rush about in your incessant circles.

What will come of such an act? The fox twitches her tail back and forth like a metronome. What good can come of this bastardization of all that is certain, all that has ever been?

You’ve stopped your circles and the world has not ended. The sun still shines and warms our skin, the grass still tickles our flesh. I promise no harm will come of your staying with us a while longer. The fox licks a paw and runs it over the top of her head.

I suppose the world might remain unharmed, she says. The fox lies down.

First, says one child. We need to ensure that all of us are operating on the same dimensional plain. The child extends his hand to the fox.

What is this? Asks the fox.

How many, in your enormous time, droughts have you seen?

Millions.

And how many drops of rain have wet the earth?

An ocean worth, a million times over.

You, in this instant can feel the heat of the sun in this field, there's not a drop of moisture in the air. There might as well be a drought today, we could do for some rain.

Indeed we could.

Consider a cool drink the equivalent of nourishing rain today.

Fair enough. One child retrieves a vial from his coat pocket.

Looks like rain, he says.

Rain after a drought is like a child being birthed after the sufferings of labor, says the fox.

Possibly, says a child. But what would you consider the equivalent of a farmer that endures a drought for sixteen long years before at last pours the rain, for months on end and when it finally subsides, to the dismay and disfortune of the farmer, the long awaited downpour is found out to be acid rain.

I would equate a misfortune like that to one of your kind’s women, after sixteen miscarriages, entering menopause.

Reviews

[JayG]

The problem you face is that this isn't either a story or poetry. You provide the reader none of that aids to understanding of fiction, like quote marks and paragraphing. Your characters don't wonder, think, hesitate or rephrase. They simply act for the benefit of the plot, be that reasonable to the situation or not. In other words, they posture and emote for no reason other then as your narrative requires a plot device. One character decides to call a fox eternity, and because s/he does the fox becomes the embodiment of eternity, and filled with metaphysical wisdom.

At the same time you follow none of the conventions of poetry, like stanzas, prosody, rhyme, etc. You simply break the narrative into lines, according to whim.

You have intent, and intent drives your understanding as you read. But intent dribbles from our words at the keyboard, and all the reader has is what the words seem to suggest to them, based on THEIR experience and background, which probably won't match yours.

The conventions of writing, be it poetry or story, like grammar, serve to make the reader "hear" the writing as you intend. But that only works when reader and writer use the same set of rules.

[David O Whalen (O Haol..]

Rules, schmules!!! I understood this perfectly despite the the lack of the usual conventions adhered to by so many as written in stone. Any writing is good if it makes the reader continue to read it. I read this to the end and did not feel any remorse for having read it. Instead I found it to be an interesting write while not profound, and many writers can follow all the conventions, rules and protocols and yet manage to not be interesting or entertaining in the least. While it didn't meet the criteria of some of it's critics, It seems to have held their interest to it's end. Go figure! Write on Evan, pay no heed!

[Evan James Devereaux]

Thank you for the feedback! Honestly this is a work in progress and not even close to the length I want it to be. I only add to this particular piece while I'm under the influence of psychedelic drugs. Unfortunately it's been quite a long time since my last trip so I haven't been able to add much. Hopefully in the next two weeks or so I'll find an opportunity to drop acid and get a little more work done.

[David O Whalen (O Haolin in Celtic)]

It saddens me that you think you need psychedelics to express yourself. You're using writing as an excuse for your drug use. You could rationalize anything to the use of drugs. Man up and write something w/o using stimulants and maybe I'll read you again. If not then I'll never read another word you write. Please don't request a review of anything that requires drug use to write!!

[Evan James Devereaux]

I don't need psycadelics to write. This is the only piece of writing that I've done under the influence of drugs. I encourage you to read my other works.

[H.L. Cerveise]

Hum, it is what I call a story poem. I do not have a problem with the fox talking or having great wisdom for I believe we all contain a spark of the infinite inside us. I know you did italics to show the speaking parts, but I would use quotation marks it would make it easier to read.

Deciding if something is a short story or a story poem is hard for me sometimes, I mean in my own writing. When you have time read my, "Mother are we Gods?" because that one started out as a poem but came out best as a story. I do believe this would make a better story then a story poem, what is the difference? Well for me if the lines can be broken up in what seems like a good flow, and I have stanzas that feel right to me.

I do like it though, don't get me wrong, for the concepts and thoughts it gave me were well worth the read.