In the absence of prose....

I haven't been writing as much prose this year as I have the past couple of ones. I seems that my lack of inspiration--or rather, motivation--for most anything in story form has gone dry since December. I've only done one piece since then and even that, though quite long, does not cut it when compared to how I used to cough out one or two new stories a month... ahh those were the blessed days.

In the absence of my short stories though I have found a new alternative: surrealism. Quite the genius invention actually, a god-given mix between normal prose and poetry. The only problem is that its half-poetical so it takes longer to write then prose. Here's the first chapter of the newest piece I've been working on...

I

The Clock


Its is dark… it is night. The frightfulness of the thunderstorm outside pales my already bloodless face. It can see every raindrop as they splatter, as they fall, a thousand little lives smashed ‘gainst my windowpane: each one of them a coup de grace to my soul. I know everything will be fine, so long as it rains. It’s the thunderclaps on hazy autumn nights that frighten me. Afraid I may be, but never scared; I could not allow myself the pleasure of the latter. It is one that could only be indulged by one stronger then me.
Another thunderclap is coming, another drain of life from my clammy face. The rain is beating harder now, can you hear it? Perhaps if you opened the window more then you would know. It is so hot outside, even with the rain. This morning little drops of sweat are what greeted my cheeks. Which is better though: sleepless nights of rain or fogs of sweat in the morning? None, I suppose… but perhaps, a combination of both tonight.
I will not sleep tonight; I don’t think my mind would even let me. Long hours I have already sat waiting in my bed sheets, but to no avail. The elusive sprite of sleep has yet again managed to haunt me.

With her long and wispy trails
Held fast in child’s tales.

There is one thing that offers me solstice in nights such as these. The dark-hued, grandiose clock that stands parallel to my bed’s foot. Its hands reach out from me towards the glass, its ticking tells of nights that passed… and nights that would soon come again. I stared at it and it stared back at me, its wood sprung hard as the hickory tree. It was a good tree that bore it, a strong Hickory branch that reached high beyond those of its neighbors. Now it stands silently within my room, a captive unto my designs.
Yet still it reaches for me, reaches for my soul sometimes, I fear. Its hands are harder now then ever before it was a tree: their as metallurgic spheres encased in time. Encased in time and yet ever not—its hands commune hourly with the great Father of its machination. Every communing is a bitter laugh thrown fast at my restless soul.

Tick-tock tick tock—
Further into line,
Click clock, nick nock—
With every devilish chime.

Pitter patter,
Splitter splatter,
Now far more than then;
Pitter patter,
Bitter banter,
I shall not sleep again.


Honestly now, what do you think?