Forget “going to the bathroom,” you’re “plumbing the ancient depths of forgotten wastelands, air roiling with lamentations of tenacious sludge bubbling through cracked earth.”
During the last stream, a subscriber requested that we transform some mundane activities into poetic/fancy paragraphs.
After chat brainstormed a bunch of boring activities, we put them on a wheel, spun it, and wrote about whichever ones it landed on.
Here’s what we came up with, with some of my favorite sections bolded.
First was this one: Chopping wood.
Me: My metal claw hungers for the dirt-grown flesh. A hundred years of history, wisdom and silent strength, evaporated by the sharp, relentless bite of progress. No burials, no memorials, only cremation, as the wide-eyed wolves are warmed by its shimmering plasma — photosynthesis-less madness.
gameon123321: Death is a symphony. Listen to the grunted breath of the lumberjack. The incessant whistle-thunk of his axe finding the tree once again – the slide of his foot against soft moss. And in a great finale, like so many cymbals, each fiber of the tree cracking, and falling to earth in a final resolute thud.
RealSayakaMaizono: “Leaves tumbled and twirled amidst the quivering of their timber guardian. As swing by swing, cold steel sapped the lifeblood, and centuries of calm; undone. Splintered shards paid respects, as soft breezes carted them afar, forever.”
AlyxVixen: The steel repeatedly tore eagerly into the aged skin, seeking out the ancient flesh below. The sounds of each thundering impact echoed through the silent forest, each strike shaking the leaves of the woodsman’s victim.
Joe_G89: The Almighty Blade hums with the absorbed souls of trees. Life wavers on the metal’s edge. Tall lumber teeters on the precipice of Earth, a maple misery of sapling scream. The onlooking forest will witness this vicious beheading of brethren, of kin, of towering elders, for death is constant and death is an evergreen spectacle. Trees collapse and life continues to prosper. Only a single voice shouts “timber” but no tree is around to hear it.
bobicus_: The blade rips apart the wood. Snapping apart the walls within, little dead fortresses. A drought of winter saps their water. The fire will claim the rest.
DannyuNDos: “The tall, sturdy prince of plants screams without echoes as it reveals its stripes of sin.”
Next up was this activity: Walking to school.
Me: Each footstep pushes against the asphalt, pushes against the Earth, the crust beneath. A domino series of rock-hard sponges revolving around their own molten-sun core, a brimstone god they are unaware exists until it consumes and combusts their everdark reality. A last wish whispers its way up through the cracks and into the cool air above which it has never seen, never known, only dreamed of: that its sacrifice may help you learn.
RealSayakaMaizono: “The pressured pitter-patter of shoes on well-tread streets scars the peaceful morning. Prim and proper, with practised bravado, students begrudgingly trudge forth with the companionship of classmates. Neighbours gaze grim, at their poor choice of residence.”
gameon123321: It’s three of us today (Jen’s running late, again). We talk as we pass by copy-paste 1980s houses. A bike rings behind us, and we fall into a single line instinctively like baby ducks. It’s that hispanic lady, wearing a Tropical Smoothie uniform and cap – for a moment I wonder what her life is like. We ramble; the next history test is hard, spring break is coming soon, you hear what Hansen did the other day? I don’t yet know to savor these memories, yet I was lucky enough to keep them still.
Joe_G89: My book bag weighs heavy with the knowledge that feeds a doubtful future. Every step of my light-blink shoes murmur my heartbeat, matching the tempo of the First Bell. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. My route to the cell of obligation festered calluses. Finding your education required the pain. But hey, I’m still in the third grade.
Justintoonz: A flock of songbirds greeted me with a sweet serenade on my walk to school. I hadn’t expected their thespian presence—nor their celestial warbling like the voice of avian angels— or a feathered deity. School would be boring compared to this fated encounter.
AlyxVixen: Shuffling down the black mile, getting ever closer to my fate. Trapped by high fences, the staccato barking of dogs follows me. The pack heavy on my shoulders, slowing my approach. Ahead looms the edifice of my depression and pain, infested by the monochrome phantoms of my nightmares. St Catherine’s Catholic School for Girls.
DannyuNDos: “Languages will hear my steps. Mathematics will measure my steps. History will remember my steps. I fear where I’m going to.”
And lastly was this one: Picking what shade of pencil to use.
Me: Vivid in my mind but blank on the page. Waiting anxiously on my desk are the scalpels to carve away the void of the lined paper, revealing the creature that already dwelled within. But which to choose? The thick blade to emphasize greatness, chiseled with confidence and regality; the pinpoint dagger to puncture cool, quiet springs of imagination; the flattened knife of ethereal consumption, to draw a menacing curtain over the page. My fingers clasp around the exact right one, a spider biting and wrapping its prey, as its threads join my body, winding through my arm, chest and heart. It knows. It moves. Together, we bleed on the page. The shade picks you.
RealSayakaMaizono: “In my hands lies a frozen dead lump. Cold, empty, and unfitting for the task ahead. A world of temper awaits at my choice. Mood infused matter, that but by my hand can they be molded. Whether joy or sorrow, anger or lust, there they rest. But mere tools, and I their master.”
gameon123321: The half-constructed sketch awaits – a paper canvas, yearning for a discerning touch. Each pencil is its own voice, the wispy 6H shading off-white eyes, the profound 8B like a black hole or a viper’s pit. Every day, through my hand, they sing. I look between two sisters, the 2H and the 3H, one ever so slightly fuller than the other, one ever so slightly ephemeral. In my mind’s eye, each gives their own character, the final picture balanced in a different way. I step back, discern the differences – and dare to decide.
Joe_G89: Unsharpened tools of progress lined in logs on my desk. Most of them, orange colored, faded away in the dull-terrority of the creative mind. Practical but no spirit or soul. I have pencils with cat paws clawing for a sharp kill. I own Lego-print pencils that do not cause lacerations to the skin. My Dr. Seuss pencils inspire rhyme but now is not the time. The emoji face pencil only reminds me to text back mom. Work cannot be done unless you sharpen the perfect excuse wrapped neatly in wood.
xXrukiXx_: having my fingers slide over the studdy wood of each of those coloring pens. the vibrant color of green, so much like emerald, color of envy and nature. red the color of a ruby, wrath, fire and love. so pure and so strong. blue, as a shimmering sapphire, as cool as the deepest ocean or is it yellow, the color resembling the sunshine, bright and welcoming. the choice is to make to decide with what color, I create a new world, a new universe and a new horizon to rise
If you want to join us and help write a story by trolling in chat, or share your own writing for feedback, then we’d love to have you join us on Twitch.
And you missed the stream, you can still watch them on the YouTube channel or watch the full stream reruns.
Hope to see you next time, friend!
Featured image: Pexels