If Wondered

Discrepant errands vie with errant discretions in discreet erring of my egregiously dysfunctional  day. At least it all came together to some degree, during which I was able to write it down for you, so you’d understand.

Next stop, from here, is over there.

That Way

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You Are A Writer

You are a writer. You put words together to be read toward meanings of substance that only you  can portray. You want to shape these portrayals, to have others read the substance that holds the meanings created of the words you put together in the dimensionless realm of communication. You have a voice that would speak and you would have eyes that will listen.

Listen.

I hear you. I read your words. I read them in your eyes. I see the gleam of the writing you hold in the open palm of your mind, ready to be cast to the variant winds of inspection by minds other than your own. I see how you transcribe your tales of perspective and influence in the open-eared view your hungry eyes sound out in the choices you are given, the decisions you make, the actions you undertake, the results of which you then partake to be written into your stories.

You are a writer. I am a reader.

Write me.

 

The Singing Alarm Clock

“Oh boy!” thought Fnordly, the wind-up alarm clock, “it’s almost time!”
The night was coming to a close as the first faint wisps of daylight shyly drifted through the window and Fnordly’s hands slowly swung around to six-o’clock.
“Gosh,” he thought, excitedly, “my first day and I’m ready to go!”
He was wound up snug, ticking merrily away at the passing seconds, set for six a.m. and anxious to try out his voice in his new home. He knew that he had a loud, sharply clear tone and that he would sing out in ringing glory. He had been made quite well and was confident that his new owner, asleep in the bed next to the table upon which he sat, would wake and enjoy the serenade. Last night his owner had unpacked him from his box, read all the instructions, carefully wound, set and placed him on the bedside table. Now, several hours later, Fnordly was growing excited as the seconds ticked by toward six-o’clock.
The mechanisms within him moved closer to release, so he drew several deep (tick-tocks) to compose himself, then, “RRRRRRRRIIIIIINNNNNGGGGGGG…” he loudly sang, “R-R-R-R-RIINNGGG…” he melodiously wailed, “R-R-R-RIIIINNGG…” smoothly, “R-RIIINNNGGG…” steadily, “…RRIINNGGG…” easier, “Rrriinngg…” slower, “iiinnnggg…” quieter, “nnnggg…” and finally, with, “nnggg…” he ran out of his spring driven breath and stopped.
“Wow,” he thought, “That was wonderful!” He had had no idea that his song would be so tremendously rich and rewarding, or that it would provide such a deep sense of fulfillment throughout his inner workings. He sat ticking away, relaxed and sleepy in the after-glow comfort of satisfied contentment, and dozed off…
Suddenly, he was grabbed from his slumber to hear a groggy voice irately complain, “Nine o’clock! Didn’t this stupid clock even go off?! Bah! That makes me late for work every day this week!” and with that Fnordly was unceremoniously tossed into the nearby wastebasket.
“We thought your singing was beautiful, “chorused the four other alarm clocks already in the basket.