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morshy
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In the absence of Montefraya, I thought I'd try and keep the home fires warm by setting an interim challenge.
Usual rules apply: Listed below are 10 words. Incorporate them into a short story (in any tense) and submit within the given timeframe.
The words are:
Aggression
Confusion
Hate
Joy
Manic
Nullify
Observe
Passive
Restrain
Supplicat e
Word limit is set at 350 (but this is flexible). Deadline is 5th December 2013. Won't necessarily choose a "winner", but be fun to see who, if anyone, contributes.
Good luck!
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chelydra
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Didn't both counting words. Came to 595.
* * * *
Walter had dozed off as usual. Heather sharply poked him awake.
"Aggression is the handmaiden of confusion, and yet hate is but a step away from joy." The rapt audience reacted with gasps, deep sighs, and a scattering of manic titters.
"What the hell izzat spossa mean?" yawned Walter.
"Shh!" hissed Heather.
"Whaddaya say we call it a night? Grab a pint on the way home."
"Please!" hissed a bright-eyed devotee on their left.
"Fewkin tell me what this wanker's talkin bout, promise I'll give him my undivided attention for the nex five minutes. Two anyway. Deal?" Walter slurred his proposition carelessly enough for all to hear.
"If you'd done the reading I gave you, you'd understand Master's words now," growled Heath.
"But if you just listen you might still learn something," a roly-poly bespectacled gentleman hummed helpfully from behind.
"Fat chance," mumbled Walter, as his eyes descended again.
The white-suited messiah at the lectern carried on unperturbed in his gently soporific sing-song.
"Those who would nullify the elusive nuances of the Way with low logic can never enter into the rainbow vortex. Those who observe surface phenomena with mechanical precision yet know not the art of passive reception through the heart chakra shall see nothing, not even the Void, as they sink of their own weight into the all-devouring tarpit. And those who assiduously restrain the animal passions yet fail to extirpate the conscious ego remain suspended in the odorless, colorless haze between matter and spirit, communing with neither, alienated from both, fighting a two-front war they're bound to lose, never even aware they've lost, hence unable to learn from defeat."
Walter had almost managed to curl up into a ball, an overgrown foetus overflowing in all directions from a flimsy little steel folding chair. He wasn't a bad-looking bloke, albeit a bit rough around the edges, napping here like a wee lad lost in a snowy wood, thought the bright-eyed devotee as she softly stroked the tousled head on her slender lap and whispered a hundred and eight repetitions of "om padre radome hum" like a lullaby into a hirsute ear. Heather didn't even notice, so intent was she on springing up for the book-signing and blessings to come.
In lieu of vulgar applause, the Followers waved their hands in the air over their heads in a swaying sedentary ballet, to supplicate the gods and show Master they were worthy of his wisdom. It was just enough commotion to pull Walter up from his deep snooze. He felt positively bouyant as he looked up at his new friend. Long dark hair tickled his grizzled cheeks as she bent down over him. and said in a soft voice, melodious and conspiratorial, "We can still catch the end of the Arsenal game if we run out to the Slug and Lettuce right now."
"You're on!" beamed Walter.
"C'mon then, love! Up with you!" She nibbled his earlobe for emphasis. "Mustn't tarry lest we get waylaid. It's by the Islington tube, five minutes brisk trot. And my flat's right over the pub if you need a nightcap or anything."
"I just might."
Heather made eye contact with Master as she handed him a book, lingered long in his ocular embrace, absorbing the benign wisdom of his silent smile. She almost fainted when she saw the inscription "Let us open every chakra together and then discover some we never knew we had". Under a graceful scribble that might have been his signature in Sanskrit was a heart, a hotel room phone number, and "11 tonight. I await."
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