Fractal Realities: Funneling

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


Story is marked as mature.

I stare into the depths of a cloudy marble. The outermost glass is clear but there is a swirling steel-gray mass inside, like storm clouds just before they extend a tornado to touch the earth. The marble sits in the middle of a plain white table cloth that has nary a wrinkle, spot, or blemish. It's a blank space, a boring plane, to force focus. I push some part of my will toward the glass sphere.

Be inside.

Be the storm.

Feel the clouds swirl.

The air is cold and moist and your skin tingles with electricity.

Hear the roar of winds shriek, beating at the ground.

An inner voice asks what happens if I fail again as I always do?

I stuff the thought into the marble and let the winds drown it out.

An image of Jennifer, eyes scrunched shut, forehead glazed with sweat, pulling me deeper threatens this moment.

Stretching out my hands, I let the marble draw my fingers toward it like a lodestone--

I want the words to flow from my brain to my fingertips in perfect, coherent order.

--and let the magic happen.


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