Constrained Fictions #1
For fun, and from time to time, I thought I’d give myself a little writerly exercise. I think constraints are one of the best creative tools we have — more interesting art comes out of limitations and struggle than does out of abundance. (Most) painters choose to be constrained to a canvas, brushes and some paint. Having such “hard limits” helps free your brain to accept the challenge of creating something — of actually getting underway. “Well, I can’t create just anything,” it says, starting to express those creative juices, “so let’s just get started and do something.” Well, it’s a theory.
I thought I’d constrain myself by randomly picking a noun, an adjective and a verb (I won’t tell you which ones because that would spoil the fun) and also by forcing myself to use exactly 400 words (roughly one printed page) in a little rapid-fire fiction. If I can make a story out of it, all the better, but if it just ends up being a scene… Well, that’s fine too. On with the first one!
Unassisted Autobiographicide
by El Jardinero Zurdo, January 11, 2006
Three long slashes cut across the open text on the table. The pages were white, untouched by pen or printer’s ink. Lying neatly next to the book was a stainless steel kitchen knife, black-handled and laser-sharp. A man lay face down on the floor, hands clasped behind his head. “I did it,” he said. The cream-coloured carpet muffled his voice.
“You mean this?” I asked, pointing at the thick, empty book. I lifted it so I could read the cover. An Autobiography of _____, by _____. “It doesn’t look like you did much.”
The man released his hands and lifted his head to squint at me. “What kind of investigator are you? Where are your gloves? You’ll mess up my fingerprints.”
“Did you leave any?” I smiled, reopened the book to the mutilated page and ran my naked finger along one of the gashes. The paper was cool and silky. I squatted down beside the man. “You been waiting for me long?”
“They always force-feed me all their stories. So selfish – I just wanted my own life,” he said softly, nodding to his right before retaking his original position and interlacing his fingers behind his neck. I looked in the indicated direction. The apartment wall was lined, floor to ceiling, with bookcases. I pushed against my stiff knees to stand, then stepped over the man’s prostrate body to examine the shelves. I sampled at random: Life & Times of Nila McMatherty; Luis Roscone: A Life in Three Chapters (2nd Revised Edition); Redirecting the Winds of Change: The Frederic Laurenson Family. They were large, tedious books, all biographies.
“Have you read them all?” I asked, turning abruptly to the man. I could tell he’d been surreptitiously watching me, though he pretended to have been face down the entire time.
“Don’t you have handcuffs?” he said. His head bobbed up and down as his jaw pushed against the floor. “Plastic tie wraps work, too. Keep me from struggling when you take me away.”
“Think you’re likely to struggle?”
The man released his fingers again and brought his arms to his sides, palms down. He turned his head away from me, gently resting his ear against the floor. “I’ve been struggling my entire life,” he said. Then, a theatrical sigh.
I thought I should be the one sighing. But instead I acquiesced and asked: “Who are you?”
“Indeed,” said the man. “Who?”