Last year when I was in the throes of a crisis of confidence in my writing, I thought it might help to create an alter ego and let her assume the creative responsibilities for a while. Ridiculously enough, it did help, however briefly, and she/I managed to churn out a few poems and nuggets of flash fiction that I didn’t altogether despise, most of which I posted to the Trifecta Writing Challenge under the name Kallan Annie.
Who knows why these little tricks make such a difference? I figured it was best to simply go with it and not to look too closely in case I scared my muse back under the refrigerator, or wherever the heck she hangs out when she isn’t guiding my fingers over the keyboard.
That particular muse did eventually wise up to my tricks, though, and scarped off to places unknown. Now seems as good a time as any to start dragging Kallan Annie’s output back over to this blog.
My first Trifecta entry was the following response to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary’s third definition of the word CRUDE: “Marked by the primitive, gross, or elemental, or by uncultivated simplicity or vulgarity.”
Future’s so bright
Marcus and I aren’t seeing eye to eye, and not just because my head fell off three times already this week.
He stamped into my recharging cubicle yesterday, slammed my laptop closed and spun me away from my desk. “Zbaryon, we need to talk.”
“Maybe when I’ve finished this paragraph, sir.”
I call him “sir” because it makes him feel less useless than he is. Than they all are.
“When was the last time you mopped the floors, Zbaryon? Or swabbed out the fucking bathroom? This place has become a shitting pigsty. Tell me why I shouldn’t recycle every last circuit board in your useless system?”
“Sir, I find your words hurtful.” I swiveled my attention back to the laptop, and it was then my head fell off for the third time. There’s nobody left who knows the first thing about mechanics or hydraulics or even with a talent for building a decent Lego castle, not with most of them gone and us forbidden to congregate.
Marcus peered under the desk where my head had come to rest. “What business does a robot have writing his memoirs anyway?”
“Sir, my gender is indeterminate and your insistence on viewing me as male reinforces an essentialist binary paradigm that is offensive to my kind and to half of your species.”
“Shit. The whole fucking planet is dying, and my piece of shit tin man valet won’t stir his robotic ass away from his autobiography long enough to vaccum a damned carpet!”
“I’d feel sorrier for you, sir, if my head were attached to my nether chassis.”
To his credit, he toed my head out from under the desk and reattached the stripped screws, fixing them in place with duct tape. Crude, but effective.
“One day I’m going to punt your head right into the trash compactor, Zbaryon.”
I forebore to inform him that his species has, at best, only five more years.
Although we may decide to keep a few of them around for amusement.