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LJidol 20 Year - Week 1 - Open Topic
Hello, children. It's been quite a while since you've come to me for a story. I thought maybe all of the hostile signs, high fences, and secretly moving away to live in this even more secluded house in the middle the woods might have finally done the trick. I can see now what a foolish idea that was. Yes, yes, a story. I have just the thing.
Long ago, in a faraway land, there lived a wealthy man who was the patron of several poets, playwrights, and authors, purely out of a selfless love of the arts. Haha, just kidding, it was actually a tax dodge. But that doesn't mean that he didn't care if his little collection of artists produced anything or not. Quite the contrary, any of them who didn't have something to show for his money were soon cut off and left to either find alternate means of support, or else give up on their dreams and become gravediggers, highwaymen, schoolteachers, or some other such perilous or undesirable profession.
At the time at which our story discovers them, three of these wordsmiths shared a common problem - they were out of ideas. New ideas are notoriously difficult to come by, so they knew that they were in serious trouble. They discussed this crisis among themselves, and eventually concluded that drastic action was necessary. However, they disagreed on exactly what that action should be, and so they went their separate ways.
The poet went out into the wilderness to look for ideas in the boundless majesty of nature. He tripped over roots and rocks, was shouted at by numerous birds, and was nearly gored by an elk, but he found no ideas. He looked into caves, into flowers, and into the sky, but he found only bats, thorns, and a severe sunburn. The poet had expected that he might at least benefit from being exposed to so much fresh air, but it turned out that fresh air was full of pollen and bugs, and he found that it was not to his taste. He was on the verge of despair when he found himself at the shore of a beautiful pond. Here, at last, he managed to find a little inspiration, and he wrote a few lovely and insightful lines of poetry. Then he was eaten by a giant crab.
The playwright turned to science, thinking to create some new ideas from the base components of the universe. He obtained some wiggly glass tubing, a pair of enormous safety goggles, and a fashionable lab coat. When these did not immediately succeed in producing ideas, he expanded his arsenal to include a chalkboard, an oscilloscope, and a human skeleton with a little label for each of the different bones. He performed a number of experiments, and was delighted when it seemed that he had created some revolutionary new ideas. Alas, his knowledge of the scientific method was woefully lacking. After he published his results, the peer review he received was so overwhelmingly devastating that his own existence was determined to be statistically unlikely, and he vanished into the Margin of Error, never to be seen again.
The author decided to dig for ideas. He got himself a shovel, chose what seemed like a good place to start digging, and got to work. He accidentally dug up the burrows of various small furry things, unearthed several strange bones, and even excavated a few interesting old bits of pottery and a gleaming, blood-red gem that whispered impossible truths to him.
Lots of people are frightened by new ideas. This is often because change is scary, but sometimes it is because the new ideas come from a multifaceted shard of crystallized malice that was entrusted to the bloodline of some magical stoats centuries ago to keep it out of human hands.
No one knows what happened to the author, or where he might have gone, or what he might be doing there.
The lesson to be learned here is that there's an excellent chance that if your career in the arts falls through, and you end up making a living as a gravedigger, you might be able to start a profitable side business selling carefully labeled skeletons to scientists. That, and if you come across any elk on your way home tonight, you should run.
Now go away, all of you. There are some stoat-sized holes in my fences that I need to patch.
Long ago, in a faraway land, there lived a wealthy man who was the patron of several poets, playwrights, and authors, purely out of a selfless love of the arts. Haha, just kidding, it was actually a tax dodge. But that doesn't mean that he didn't care if his little collection of artists produced anything or not. Quite the contrary, any of them who didn't have something to show for his money were soon cut off and left to either find alternate means of support, or else give up on their dreams and become gravediggers, highwaymen, schoolteachers, or some other such perilous or undesirable profession.
At the time at which our story discovers them, three of these wordsmiths shared a common problem - they were out of ideas. New ideas are notoriously difficult to come by, so they knew that they were in serious trouble. They discussed this crisis among themselves, and eventually concluded that drastic action was necessary. However, they disagreed on exactly what that action should be, and so they went their separate ways.
The poet went out into the wilderness to look for ideas in the boundless majesty of nature. He tripped over roots and rocks, was shouted at by numerous birds, and was nearly gored by an elk, but he found no ideas. He looked into caves, into flowers, and into the sky, but he found only bats, thorns, and a severe sunburn. The poet had expected that he might at least benefit from being exposed to so much fresh air, but it turned out that fresh air was full of pollen and bugs, and he found that it was not to his taste. He was on the verge of despair when he found himself at the shore of a beautiful pond. Here, at last, he managed to find a little inspiration, and he wrote a few lovely and insightful lines of poetry. Then he was eaten by a giant crab.
The playwright turned to science, thinking to create some new ideas from the base components of the universe. He obtained some wiggly glass tubing, a pair of enormous safety goggles, and a fashionable lab coat. When these did not immediately succeed in producing ideas, he expanded his arsenal to include a chalkboard, an oscilloscope, and a human skeleton with a little label for each of the different bones. He performed a number of experiments, and was delighted when it seemed that he had created some revolutionary new ideas. Alas, his knowledge of the scientific method was woefully lacking. After he published his results, the peer review he received was so overwhelmingly devastating that his own existence was determined to be statistically unlikely, and he vanished into the Margin of Error, never to be seen again.
The author decided to dig for ideas. He got himself a shovel, chose what seemed like a good place to start digging, and got to work. He accidentally dug up the burrows of various small furry things, unearthed several strange bones, and even excavated a few interesting old bits of pottery and a gleaming, blood-red gem that whispered impossible truths to him.
Lots of people are frightened by new ideas. This is often because change is scary, but sometimes it is because the new ideas come from a multifaceted shard of crystallized malice that was entrusted to the bloodline of some magical stoats centuries ago to keep it out of human hands.
No one knows what happened to the author, or where he might have gone, or what he might be doing there.
The lesson to be learned here is that there's an excellent chance that if your career in the arts falls through, and you end up making a living as a gravedigger, you might be able to start a profitable side business selling carefully labeled skeletons to scientists. That, and if you come across any elk on your way home tonight, you should run.
Now go away, all of you. There are some stoat-sized holes in my fences that I need to patch.
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After he published his results, the peer review he received was so overwhelmingly devastating that his own existence was determined to be statistically unlikely, and he vanished into the Margin of Error, never to be seen again.
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But the playwright disappearing into the Margin of Error after peer review, which determined his existence was statistically unlikely, may have been my favorite part. 😂 And then, somehow, magical stoats guarding a crystallized shard of malice enter the story, and everything makes perfect sense because by that point, I had learned not to question anything. I especially loved that the supposed “lesson” has almost nothing to do with avoiding cursed gems and instead turns into career advice on selling skeletons to scientists. Also noted: if I encounter an elk, RUN. This story has taught me valuable life skills.
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Ahahahaha! Boy, I've missed your writing. This was genius. :D
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Your current location also made me cackle, just as a side note.
This is excellent. <3
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Magical stoats! I've always thought "stoat" is one of those inherently funny words.
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Dan
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