Epiphany

A stream of consciousness exercise where I just wrote for three minutes and then edited for three minutes. Kinda fun.

Epiphany

     I’m twelve feet from an epiphany with no shoes and the concrete is s****y hot. Reaching for a muse that continually mocks my ability to deliver something salvageable, something salient, something worth my reader’s precious time.    My idea sizzles in front of me just out of reach, and a crowd that has gathered to throw stones instead of seasoning. They watch it cook past over-medium to an unhealthy brown, smiling and wringing their hands in anticipation of failure. I reach for my spatula, an extension of my scribbling hand, and try to flip it before the fullness of its flavor, the center, becomes rubbery to the touch, dry and pasty, inedible. It’s too late, my epiphany, once elegant and pinpoint sharp is now a shriveled piece of pathetic protein not fit for grinding into food for the mongrel pissing on the adjacent fire hydrant. A young woman, in shoes, steps from the crowd and picks it up, holds it too her bosom and tells me how lovely it is. She crusts it in salt, sage, and Cajun spices. She puts my muse on a lavender leash and tells me, “No worries love, we can fix it, but first we need to find you some shoes.”

Author's Note

I know...kinda crappy and wierd, but exercise nonetheless.

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

i used to have that epiphany every time i saw a blond, but of course i'm cured now, going to meetings and all