This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge comes from Head Ant (on Twitter @headant), who strikes a ringing chord with this philosophical prod:

Cogito ergo sum.  “I think, therefore I am.” When I was six, I used to think about what it would be like if there was no world.  Consider for a moment that we are only in the imagination and that our world does not exist.  What is the universe really like? Is there a universe at all?

In thoughtful response:

In Your Wildest Dreams

She was surprised that she hadn’t seen it before, really; the signs were all there, people just seemed to conveniently ignore them all their lives, going on as if nothing was the matter, as if things were supposed to be orderly and expected and logical. Logic — she snorted — the mere word sounded foreign to her now.

Sitting there in the dark she knew exactly how it all worked at this point and yet couldn’t fathom exactly what to do about it.    Having this sort of transformative power over the world gave her the ability to do an infinite amount of good — or bad.    This was the problem with absolute power; it tended to get muddled when it came to ethics.

“A drink, madame?” said a stately butler at her elbow, suddenly.    She looked up, bemused.

“Where did you come from?” she asked with a curious tone in her voice.

He looked incredulous.    “Madame clearly feels ill, or she would have remembered that she hired me last year to look over her estate.”

Always logical.    Everything that she thought of to happen always came with a causal, logical reason behind it.    Truth was, she just wanted a drink and, being alone in the house, getting out of the chair would be required.    Instead, her life now consisted of a rather proper-looking French butler standing at her side.   Go figure that he would be French.

She waved him off.    If she thought about it right, he would be gone by morning, complete with yet another logical explanation as to why he was no longer there.   She wondered — would it be because he was fired, or she couldn’t pay him, or because he had a family emergency?    Sometimes the curiosity was worth the sad emptiness of it all.

But the sense of loss remained; she could barely shake the feeling of worthlessness, of meaningless. Did the life lived according to one’s imagination count as a life at all?    When all that you desired — and thought, wished, imagined, and dreamed — came true in one form or another, what was the point?

Anything.    That was the problem — without the accomplishment factor, she had nothing to struggle for.    She had already won the lottery, of course; trips to exotic places around the world, lovers of all types and scents and sweaty nights in Morocco, drinks by the hundreds in small island clubs that resulted in no hangovers due to some factor or another.    She had really lived it up those first few years.

Now….well.     It was all a bit old.    Despair had gripped her heart so tight that sometimes at night she could barely stand to breathe despite the cool air that drifted through her hut each evening.   There was nothing — nothing — that made this seem real.

As she drifted off to sleep, she wondered what death was like and whether it was anything like this, and she feared for it almost as much as she longed for the end.       Later that evening, as she lay there slumbering, a small part of her heart that had gone years without detection suddenly popped — and she was gone.

Logical.   Everything had a reason.

Through Indie Ink‘s @II_Challenge, Debra Elliot gave me this writing prompt for today:  “”You have been invited to the Royal Wedding.  Do you attend or decline? Why or why not?”

A Royal Fantasy

What is, in essence, true royalty?  

We know what it is historically, but have you ever thought about it in terms of what it actually accomplishes?

Many would say its primary function is for a small group of people to be in charge, to rule a land or an area, to be the government in its entirety.    In most cases, they’d be right — to an extent.   Royalty existed to provide that ever-so-difficult-to-come-by means by which a country could figure out who in the hell was calling the shots.   Whether by look, hook, or crook, it worked as a political system (and still does in many ways) in many countries and areas.

Others would also cite the idea of elevating one group above another; the royals and the serfs, the bourgeois and the proletarians, separated not only by mere financial status but by an entire class, thus giving a social order that could be understood and followed by the populace.   A separate, special class of humans.

But I wonder how much having a royalty fulfilled the innate need of humans to feel special — privileged — admired.

Think about it:   A group that has figured out that if they only repress those around them and elevate themselves, they suddenly feel better about it.   They not only get better things but better treatment.   People call them fancy titles.   They give them gifts and praises.   Special clothes adorn you and fill your closets.   You live in great palaces and castles and command many soldiers, servants, and admirers.   Scores of people travel to visit your domains simply because you’re royalty and they are not.

And it perpetuates — once royalty has it figured out, they know the score — and they have time to plan it further, so that they dynasty goes on.   Properties and lands are captured and then rented for income.    Riches and assets are gathered together to fund not only pursuits but to keep up the image — to fuel the party and keep it happening.   And because of time and money, the royals are not mere idiots — no, they are educated and thoughtful and politicians and leaders and an inspiration — to everyone.

And they get married to scenes of pomp and circumstance and many, many more reminders that they are royal and you — you are not.

It is a game in many ways; a complex series of moves that, once you get into a particular places, unless something drastic happens to change the rules, you can stay on the merry-go-round almost infinitely.

Any invitation to a wedding is considered an honour — a request from someone to share in their most special day.    From the royalty, it is a call to populate the church and the event with the very folks that keep them in the royal light — their subjects.    And yet, despite all this, we rather like it.

So if invited I would attend and see the spectacle that is before me; not because I do not see it for what it is, but because it is the fulfillment of the ultimate fantasy that any person can has — to be special.

But I shall never forget my place.

I want to write a short story, but as you all know, managing a blog post is doing pretty well these days.

And so many of you are wonderful bloggers and writers, but you’re busy, too, right?

So let’s write TOGETHER.   What do you say?

A collaborative story.   Kinda like Mad Libs, kinda not.   More like that old campfire activity of making up an entire story by adding a sentence one person at a time around the ring, except this would be adding it a short chapter at a time, one per blog post on your own blog.

Everyone would be linked forward and backwards — forward to the next chapter, backwards to the previous chapter and/or the beginning of the story.     You would be given the starting and ending sentences of your chapter so everything would tie together in the end…somewhat.    The middle would be up to you.

What do you think, bloggers?   Interested?    If so, leave a comment below and say, “I’m in!” and I’ll add you to the list.   Deadline of April 1st at 9:00 AM CDT to sign up so we can get moving and all parts will publish on April 10th.   If you sign up, you MUST do it, even if you turn in a small piece, otherwise the story will break, ok?

Suggestions for general genre and basic plotline are welcome — but keep it simple, I want to show off every writer in their own creativity.

No prizes other than fun, no entry fee or charity donations or any of that crap, no awards other than people reading your blog, link love, and a general feeling of community and accomplishment.   But hey — that’s good, right?

Right.   Jump in.   You know you want to.

UPDATE:   See commentary for additional clarification about how it works.   Thanks!

This week’s IndieInk Writing Challenge (@II_Challenge) is from TJ over at Studio816 (Twitter: @studio816) who draws a sword and yells:

“Do you call yourself a patient or a junkie? The only thing that separates you is who takes your money.” -Atmosphere Using the lyric above as inspiration, write a fictional piece (or non-fictional piece if you have had your own struggles) from the point of view of someone struggling with prescription drug abuse.

I answer back with the following:

Scraping By

The shaking of my fingers almost derails their skittering across the keys as I frantically conduct my search.

“C’mon, c’mon…” I mutter to the glowing screen in the wee hours of the morning, the sun barely ratcheting above the horizon for another long haul across the sky. I know that somewhere — somewhere — inside this wretched city is another doctor’s office. I know it.

I have to know it.

I flip over to the spreadsheet that has all the names, addresses, and numbers arranged in it so neatly it almost makes me bark a laugh; it would be considered a skill in organization if it wasn’t so farcical.

“Renner? Renner? Ren-NER.” I slap the key combo to quickly flip over to the browser and then back to the spreadsheet, comparing entries. “No, dammit, that was 2 weeks ago.”

Again to the Google and again to the search terms: “doctor Chicago walk-in”. The walk-ins are easier; less suspicion, they expect no insurance so they don’t ask as often, more likely not to remember you or care who your kids are, just in and out. In and out. In and out and down the throat again and I can move on with my day.

A hit pops up a few pages in. “There!” I exclaim, quickly grabbing a Post-It and a pen which my shivering flesh dashes to the floor and I spend an inordinate amount of time picking up, the tremors and the adrenaline dancing as an unholy puppeteer in my blood. “Grolsch. Grawlsh-KKKK.” I let it roll off my tongue and out between my chapped lips in a crack. Clicking on the link, I ask Google to do the magic and direct me on which buses to take to the place. “Right, the #13, the #25, and the #39 eastbound.” Three numbers appear in blue on the notepad and I whip the slip off the top and into the kangaroo pouch on my tattered hoodie. Jumping up and through the nearest doorway I nearly run headlong into the open cupboard door and I spin around in a jerky motion, landing me on my ass in the middle of the kitchen floor. Cursing, I pull myself up on the countertop and grab the brown bottle hanging out there near the back.

Shaking it produces only one half moon and some crumbs which I lick off my hand before tossing back the ray of frown into the back of my throat and shoo-ing it with a dash of water from the sink. I cut the last three into halves, somehow thinking that it might help if I had problems locating another supply; in retrospect, it helped. And then not, because the tremors are worse this way, because you’re half there and the pain is enough to cause you to moan but not scream. Not scream, but close. So it’s a half life instead of the dead calm of being medicated or firey existence you are used to when the bottle doesn’t shake anymore.

Sinking back to the ground, I wait for the savoring feel of numbness to come, although it’s not like it usually is with two or three pills; no — this is a brushed kiss across the aching inside, something that barely touches it. You know it’s there because your mind suddenly slows down a tiny bit, just a fraction; it’s enough to bring you back to the moment and realize that the floor is dirty and you need shoes on before you go outside, but the fires are still there, radiating. And you can’t forget — which is the point. Forgetfulness.

It comes, eventually, and although it’s lackluster, I pull myself back up to my feet, snag a jacket with one finger under the hook, and I’m out the door with a harsh slam. The path, the sidewalk in greys and wets, to the corner — busstop. Bench. Sit.

The ride in comes with its usual; gazing outside the window as if the city was new and fresh and amazing, as if you could see out of those foggy panes of glass covered in fingerprints and hot breath from kids gone cold, sweaty pits, greasy hair. The filth of a hundred commuters slapped onto solidified silica, the entire bus a moving display of macroscope slides with specimens from the masses.

The waiting room at the place is nicer than some I’ve been to — a bit more upscale considering the masses served. Magazines are in the range of Good Housekeeping vs. Maxim and there’s a potted plant that smells like pee in the corner. An improvement, if you ask me. I get called back after watching three episodes of Press Your Luck! on TVLand and goggling at the large-breasted receptionist a bit too much.

The doctor is the usual sort, attempting to rid the world of its problems and pains while churning out a respectable wage and keeping up on the boat payments. I’ve seen them all — the young, confident guns with their technology and belt full of tests and procedures. I deny them all, of course. The older sort tend to hum and haw and hrumph as they look over things and can take some time to convince that I’ve, “only had this for a couple of weeks, and my regular doctor gave me morphine, but he’s not in, he’s on vacation, see and….” I wring the story out into the sink of their heads and just wait for the water to run down the drains and score me another paper.

He takes a bit of convincing and redirecting from other drugs and tests. Calls me, “Son”, a lot. “We can try…” “No, this just WORKS.” I emphasize, and he does that clucking sound, but still pulls out his precious pad and writes out the next month of my life as a normal person.

I toss some green at the cashier and by the time I’m out of the door, I’m as high as a kite emotionally and and as low as a sewer in everything else. I know I’ll need this one soon. A pharmacy looms around the next corner and I wait nervously till it’s finally in my hand and I can swallow towards normality again.

“There…” I sigh and lean my head back, sitting on the bench outside a McD’s as the full brunt of the triple dose hits me. “That’s my daddy.” Did I take three? Or four? If one is awake and two is wonder….eh. I’ll pull back for the rest. Have to savor what there is here.

I giggle to nobody in particular, realizing I’ve dumped my Diet Coke into my pants and am sitting in a cold, sticky slush, but it doesn’t matter now. The stares of those walking past me bounce off into the fog that surrounds every thought and I’m happy again. Happy.

Ha. Ppy.

Puh. Eee.

Puh.

This is Week #2 in  Indie Ink.org’s Writing Challenge (Twitter: @II_Challenge), a weekly writing contest pitting author against blog author in an attempt to stimulate good writing and creative responses.    This week my challenger is MyPlaidPants (Twitter: @myplaidpants), who has given me this writing prompt:

“I failed because I believed.”

Here then my divulging:

The Failure of Belief

Belief and I grew up together, side by side, one serving the other in a sort of symbiotic dance that required that each perform his duties to the relationship and everything would stay stable and manageable.    It was a great arrangement — until it fell apart.   The breakup, as they say, was not pretty.

These then were revealed to me the day that I held aloft a clear vision, a logical evaluation, an immolation for all things previously known as “fact” or “truth”; once I performed the Cartesian act of reduction, I arrived at a very dark place, devoid of much except my own beating heart and the sound of my sighs.

It was many days.   It was many weeks.   It was many, many months.

Slowly, like the slow unraveling of a fiddle-head in a misty meadow, a few truths appeared, unhindered by the ponderous maille of blind faith that belief had clothed them in.   They were young, virginal, and shy; quick to run away in the first light of day, hard to defend in the heat of battle.   But they were pure.

There were not many; it was hard to conceive of each one, to give birth to that fully-separate being, and they were very needy.   They required a delicate food, untainted by any preconceived notions or generalizations; they consumed only the finest of evidence, the sweetest of arguments; their palates were extremely discerning.

Over the years I have tried my best to help them to grow, but the progress is slow and daunting.   Each is different, each requires a specific way of caring for it.  A few I’ve had to mercifully take out back behind the shed, because ultimately they were doomed to not survive, and having been down the road of letting beliefs wither and die slowly, I am not prepared to do so again.    This time, it is swift and clean.

Belief doesn’t show up at my door much anymore; there’s little that can be considered a “belief” so much as a truth or a knowledge that lives here.    I have no room in the inn for anything based upon fantasy or dogma or superstition; anything not supportable by the logic I have been blessed with is severely looked upon and disciplined into whatever can be saved of it.

But I am better for it.

And I am cleaner.    Clearer.

I am able to see others for what they are, not for what I suppose them to be.   I see everyone’s flaws as being something that we all bear, that we all have, and those are what build us up or tear us down, universally, and by gaining understanding of each other, we gain more than simple knowledge.

I see the world through clear glass; a world where fairness does not exist, where sometimes circumstances pin people in places they have little or no control over, where influences are sometimes greater than the individual spirit, and where damned-do, damned-don’t is the rule of the land more than any other principle.   Where each and every one of us needs each and every one of the rest of us, fullstop.

I see women now, not as the mystical objects of my youth, but as the wonderful, spicy flavor in every dish of life, one that I would desperately long for were it not present.

I understand now that love — pure, true love — comes in as many fascinating and dazzling forms as a cave filled with a thousand suns and it is all legitimate and good and right.

And I see truth; not as I want it to be, not as I hope it to be, but as it is.

For all the failure of belief, there is victory in that.