Into the Words

As my closest friends and I went running from the party back home, we dropped our dancing shoes and backstories, took a wrong turn, and somehow ended up down an alley that was not rectangular, flat, and familiar, but rather…

Wild.

Winding and congested, covered with rambling vines and technicolor brush; every address and word drawn out in a language we couldn’t make sense of. Sans serifs, sans street numbers.

Was more of a forest — no, a jungled scene — than a city street.

Was confusing, okay.

“What the hell? What is this place? Where are we?” We asked each other. Too many characters crammed together, our hot sweat still sticking to our skin growing chilly out here now.

“Don’t you know, Narrator?” Propelling Event beckoned to me, breathing hard. “We’ve gotten lost along one of the city’s legendary loopholes. This one is Writer’s Block.”

“That sounds dangerous, I am scared,” whimpered Girl on my side. The supporting character, my potential love interest. Fishnetted legs so long and slender authors would render them awkward, big, long-lashed eyes caked in glitter that keeps falling off of her, like fairytale breadcrumbs.

“Not to me! I love an adventure I’m ill-prepared for!” chimed in Brad, still holding one of his shoes and a beach ball. Good ol’ Brad. Main character ambitions (and head of hair), friend offered for comedic relief.

“This feels hauntingly familiar,” I said quietly, as Girl grasped my hand, shuddering as the vines lurched inward to grab hold of us. I looked around everywhere at the flowering language, the blooming false starts and other fallacies, the sticky metaphors that tried to suffocate us, distract us, overwhelm us.

I feel like it’s trying to eat us! Can anyone hear me!?” Italics cried in an echoing slant.

“Not now, inner monologue. You come later. Right now, we need to walk onward.”

“Exactly,” Propelling Event nodded.

“We could fly up and out of here in a spaceship!” Brad offers, grazing some external reference.

“Probably not,” I respond.

This way? That way? All the ways at once?

Suddenly, an EDM song comes on, and all the vines begin throbbing and clawing at us, yanking us further from coherence, from our destination. One vine grabs hold of Brad and seems to swallow him. But alas, he emerges safely. Although he is now holding a baby, wearing a cowboy hat, and speaking in a southern accent.

“Will this help y’all head on home now?” he twangs, offering the baby.

“No Brad. We don’t need another character. Definitely not a baby. We need an exit plan. A sexy one, technically. And maybe to offer the author some water, they seem to be under an influen—”

“Narrator, look again!” Girl gasps. “It’s not a real baby. If you look closely, it’s a doll! Oh, awwww! It’s a nesting doll, a metaphor. It means—.”

“Let the readers figure that out for themselves, Girl. We have a structure to stick to.”

She, mandatorily, bites her lip and blinks at me, creating a slow motion dust storm of glitter panko.

“I just love you so much, Narrator," she leans in, smelling like well-vodkandcran. "You’re so brave when you keep us on track through our external conflict,” Girl whispering hotly into my ear makes my heart skip a beat.

***

Beat skipped. (Thanks, Italics, but that really wasn’t necessary. Was more of a personal space thing.)

***

“What’s that sound?” Climax asks, arms akimbo, chin jutting outward, as we all look up towards the noise. As the EDM faded, pensive orchestral music was intensifying overhead.

“No, we. Gahhh. We’re supposed to ignore the background music, Climax. And it’s not your turn to ask questions yet.”

“Jeeze sorry,” Climax groans, shimming back behind us, wanting to lead for a while.

“I keep getting distracted, what were we…? Oh right. Thanks, Girl, but if only you knew my internal conflict.” I say, releasing her hand, reclaiming my body boundaries.

I take a deep breath, and turn towards her. “Actually, I’m in love with Brad.”

“Is that a plot twist?!” Girl asks incredulously.

“Wait, you’re doing this now?” Climax blabs, lunging forward again.

“ I mean, I — Look! A light. I think I see our way out,” I tell them, pushing ahead again, through chunky, earlier drafts.

But then something distracts me away from the light, as if an ambulance is hurdling down some cross streets, announcing a better, stronger narrator has killed the contest, crushing my confidence, making me wonder if I even saw a light at all. Or it was just a bird call. Something distracting, muffled through the tangled vines.

Like a parrot, or macaw.

Brad, still underdeveloped yet focused, twang now fading, holds back from noticing the other sounds. “Narrator, is that true?”

“Well Brad,” I say as I pull a talisman off one vine and use it to try to find the trace of light I think I thought I saw. “I do have a character weakness for funny guys.”

“Oh Narrator, how romantic!” Girl swoons. “I hope to have a surprise up my sleeve too one da— Guys! Look out! That middle section needs to be trimmed or it’s going to devour us!”

“Darn word counts, my kryptonite!!” I exclaim as my talisman runs out of battery; every crackly twig of a small sentence the endless number of vines I’d been snapping, now turned into a beastly, knotted paragraph of a massive trunk.

Everyone looks at me, knowing something I don't know.

"What?” I ask.

"It's not the word count that's your kryptonite, pal," Brad snickers.

"Oh, so now I'm unreliable?" I drop the talisman on the ground, and it clonks and murders a metaphorical insect from last week's story.

"Oh Narrator, Brad didn't mean it like that," closing-talking Girl reassures me.

Or does she?

***

How will we ever get out of the woods?! I look up as the music is crescendoing, but of course, I’m ignoring it.

***

“No, I meant ‘is that true’ about the light— Narrator, look out!” Brad shouts, now wearing a spacesuit, holding a laser. “Here, let me take over. I have a keyboard shortcut!” I allow him to take control, watch him boldly highlighting and deleting the unruly obstacles blocking us from our destination. Not all organic methods get the job done as well as some modern poisonous tech, eh?

“God, I really wish we’d stop inviting Italics,” I whisper to Girl.

“Tell me about it. I really wish we could focus on my mature spinoff and arsenal of intelligent solutions to save the world and make us actually excel as upmarket literary fiction, eh. But, alas!”

Brad finishes deleting the attacking brush, all while still holding one shoe and the baby. The ball has popped and is lost from any current versions, a casualty of a lost-wifi/word-processor crashing error.

“Brad!" I exclaim as I see the light. (Wait, shouldn't that be exclaim?). "We now have a clear path ahead! My heart and mind are free! You saved us!”

“Well Narrator, it’s because I love you too,” Brad says while taking off the spacesuit, now wearing a sequined jumpsuit, covered in spray tan and, somehow, a fan blowing his hair. Oh, Brad. “But I’m not ready to end the night yet. I want to go back to the party and dance some more.”

“Me too!” Says Girl. “This night is so fun! I don’t want it to end yet.”

I think for a moment.

This night has been fun, hasn’t it? We can see our way through Writer’s Block now, towards home. The safety and comfort of a smooth ending. Duh. But. Should I go dance some more, with Brad and Girl and the rest of them, and let our night develop further?

Are we even fully realized yet?

“You guys,” I tell them. “I’ve made up my mind. We need to circle back to the beginning of the story, to end this the right way.”

“We do?!” Everyone asks, wide eyed. (Well, except level-headed Resolution. She’s been waiting in the back, acting all unrushed, ennui-ish.)

“Not again,” Climax moans.

“We’re going to go dance again.”

“Yes! You’re so right, Narrator! Let’s dance! But first, we need to go get our dancing shoes we dropped back there,” Girl proposes. Good idea Girl, maybe there is more to you after all. Then she squeals. “Ugh this sounds like such a good ending, I love it soooOoo much!” Oh Girl.

Italics focuses back on Internal Conflict, wondering and tapping me in my chest. Did you see how Brad is looking at you now? Ssshhh.

“Well, we will see. Whether or not we actually find the shoes is—"

“To be continued?” Brad winks, his teeth whiter, hair thicker. He smells like one of the cast members from Thunder from Down Under now during the meet and greets. mmmmVanilla.

“I’m not sure? I suppose we’ll find out next week,” I say.

“Oh Narrator, that’s what Brad already said! You’re soooOo flawed. But still lovable!”

“Um, thanks, I guess, Girl.”

“Narrator, listen. While I do love you, it’s not like that. Sorry but, you’re not my type,” Brad confesses. He drops the other shoe. “I’m more of a vague, artsy, second-person kind of guy. But we can still be friends!”

Ouch.

Yeah, ouch.

We didn’t see that coming. You?!

I find our pile of other dropped shoes. “Propelling Event, Reso, let’s mosey back home. They can go dance. I’ve had enough adventure for the evening. Thanks Girl, thanks Brad, and until next time everyone else.”

“Don’t get lost down Writer’s Block again!” They shout back, a friendly, knowing warning.

Oh, I most certainly will.