The Boy That Could Not Dream
Isn't it dandy how often this thing updates?
I'm still working on my short story, but I'm not feeling it that much right now, so I've moved it to the back burner. My usual style is "less is more," so I wrote this little . . . thing this morning. I had the idea when I woke up, thought of a few ideas in the shower, and just kind of pumped the thing out in about an hour.
I was told that ninety percent of writing is revision. I respond to this by saying ninety percent of poetry is a single burst of feeling that cannot be revised, so one must take care not to lose his meaning during the process of revision.
It's kind of a poem, kind of a short story . . . I don't know what it is, but here it is.
Almost there . . .
-fin-
Follow up notes:
Kind of a Shel Silversteen style, kind of a single-effect style . . . I think it's pretty straight foward. I'm sure you understood it if you read it.
Leave some comments, if you please. Rants, raves, suggestions, questions are welcome.
I'm still working on my short story, but I'm not feeling it that much right now, so I've moved it to the back burner. My usual style is "less is more," so I wrote this little . . . thing this morning. I had the idea when I woke up, thought of a few ideas in the shower, and just kind of pumped the thing out in about an hour.
I was told that ninety percent of writing is revision. I respond to this by saying ninety percent of poetry is a single burst of feeling that cannot be revised, so one must take care not to lose his meaning during the process of revision.
It's kind of a poem, kind of a short story . . . I don't know what it is, but here it is.
Almost there . . .
-The Boy That Could Not Dream-
By Anthony Celi.
Many stories begin in some far-away land,
Across many oceans on a beach of gold sand
Or perhaps in a dungeon’s terrible gloom.
Yet, this tale begins in some young boy’s room.
To begin our adventure in such an unlikely place,
Something here should be special; but it isn’t the case!
And in the boy’s mind, we’ll find nothing fun.
In terms of fantasy, he hasn’t got one.
Despite what you hope, I’m afraid it would seem
That we’ve found a boy that just cannot dream.
If you look closer (that is, if you dare)
You will be greeted alone by the blankest of stares.
This dull little child simply sits all alone,
Staring at the wall while he blinks at the phone.
He moves when he has to, but only to breathe.
He’ll gaze at the door, but not once does he leave.
The bees, of course, insist that nothing is wrong
And they hum this to him in a merry little song.
But the boy knows to beware, and his judgment is just,
For a bee is a thing that one mustn’t trust.
For though it bears many attractive and most fetching features,
It is among nature’s most treacherous creatures.
Now, despite his many efforts to hide,
It should be noted this boy was coerced outside.
He sat all alone in a tree’s thickest shade,
Nervously whittling some wax with his blade.
Now here enters Mary, a young candle maker,
Whose amazing talent was that few things could shake her.
Not even a young man that plays with knives,
Talks to himself, and throws rocks at hives.
She approached him one day, but proved quite the menace.
He just shied away from her rude iridescence.
But she was persistent, and after a while
The boy found himself with the slightest of smiles.
Feeling much less afraid and just a tad braver,
The boy found his life had much more savor.
He began to move more, and was much less elusive,
But Mary’s house call was FAR too intrusive.
She had decided to visit his drab domicile,
In hopes that her presence would make it less vile.
All her friends had agreed that she was quite funny,
Her smile was bright and she smelled like warm honey.
Ask all that had known her; search far and near!
No heart was untouched by her unbridled cheer.
So why did this boy now behold her with dread?
Surely her affection had buzzed in his head.
Yet he was reserved; Mary read well his clues,
But soon reassured him with wonderful news.
It seems she had permission to stay for the night!
The boy forced a weak smile and then blew out his light.
Many stories begin in some far-away land,
Across many oceans on a beach of gold sand
Or perhaps in a dungeon’s terrible gloom.
Yet, this tale begins in some young boy’s room.
To begin our adventure in such an unlikely place,
Something here should be special; but it isn’t the case!
And in the boy’s mind, we’ll find nothing fun.
In terms of fantasy, he hasn’t got one.
Despite what you hope, I’m afraid it would seem
That we’ve found a boy that just cannot dream.
If you look closer (that is, if you dare)
You will be greeted alone by the blankest of stares.
This dull little child simply sits all alone,
Staring at the wall while he blinks at the phone.
He moves when he has to, but only to breathe.
He’ll gaze at the door, but not once does he leave.
The bees, of course, insist that nothing is wrong
And they hum this to him in a merry little song.
But the boy knows to beware, and his judgment is just,
For a bee is a thing that one mustn’t trust.
For though it bears many attractive and most fetching features,
It is among nature’s most treacherous creatures.
Now, despite his many efforts to hide,
It should be noted this boy was coerced outside.
He sat all alone in a tree’s thickest shade,
Nervously whittling some wax with his blade.
Now here enters Mary, a young candle maker,
Whose amazing talent was that few things could shake her.
Not even a young man that plays with knives,
Talks to himself, and throws rocks at hives.
She approached him one day, but proved quite the menace.
He just shied away from her rude iridescence.
But she was persistent, and after a while
The boy found himself with the slightest of smiles.
Feeling much less afraid and just a tad braver,
The boy found his life had much more savor.
He began to move more, and was much less elusive,
But Mary’s house call was FAR too intrusive.
She had decided to visit his drab domicile,
In hopes that her presence would make it less vile.
All her friends had agreed that she was quite funny,
Her smile was bright and she smelled like warm honey.
Ask all that had known her; search far and near!
No heart was untouched by her unbridled cheer.
So why did this boy now behold her with dread?
Surely her affection had buzzed in his head.
Yet he was reserved; Mary read well his clues,
But soon reassured him with wonderful news.
It seems she had permission to stay for the night!
The boy forced a weak smile and then blew out his light.
-fin-
Follow up notes:
Kind of a Shel Silversteen style, kind of a single-effect style . . . I think it's pretty straight foward. I'm sure you understood it if you read it.
Leave some comments, if you please. Rants, raves, suggestions, questions are welcome.
posted by Zoopers at 10:01 AM
4 Comments:
Wow. That is a startling lack of response for your fiction.
It seems that whenever you or I write something mostly made-up and totally impressive, the public feels the need to look in every other direction and whistle unconvincingly.
I figure we should ask Andrew for help, write something passingly cool, and then publish it without giving him credit.
We'll be flooded with praise!
Onto your little masterpiece here . . .
I liked it a good deal.
In the words of Inigo Montoya, you have a great gift for rhyme.
Your meter is solid, your vocabulary vast and well-used, your lyrics flow swift and smooth and tartly sweet.
I am a little frustrated by the inner meanings you've written into this perfectly respectable little trifle. I can't find them. I hate inner meanings. I am a very shallow-minded person.
The tale is humorous and paced decently.
It seems to switch gears a bit and accelerate too much at the end. Also, the narrative is a tad unclear.
We'll have to talk more about it in person.
All in all, an impressive, if (from my point of view) somewhat confusing and ultimately improperly effective, piece in the Shel Silverstien / Tim Burton tradition.
Lemme sum up: I liked it. You're talented. Keep writing.
-Richa-roo Out!
Thank you, Richard. I also noticed the gear switching, which I can probably blame on the fact that I had to go to class half-way through writing and finish it after. I'll note that when I revise it.
The abrupt end (as well as a couple shifts in the arrangements of my stanzas) are connected with the meaning of the story. It isn't really a hidden meaning, but it is implicit. The surface plot is a weird story with a happy message, but I threw in clues that were supposed to guide the reader to a darker realization. Consider what Mary represents, how it connects to bees and what they represent, and how it all ties into the last line. It should shed a very different light* on the boy, especially given his odd habit in the park. (All details are connected to second narrative, remember. Nothing superfluous.)
Also, the story is presented in quatrains. Any time it deviates from this indicates the presence of insanity. That should pretty much give it away, but I don't care anymore.
Really, I like the story I wrote, but maybe I'll revise it. It was intended to be cute and weird on the surface level, though. I'm not sure where to shift blame for the meaning being lost on this one, but I'm convinced that it would be read into more if it were posted anonymously somewhere else.
I guess I'll go back to mindless MS Paint Comics like a good little monkey. Sweet Christ, I don't know why I'm so angry. Thank you for your input. It's refreshingly valuable.
My point was more that I was stupid rather than that you were cyrptic.
But you can hit me if you want.
No, I have no desire for such folly, and I disagree strongly on the subject of your stupidity.
As I said, I don't care that much if you don't get it or read it your own way, but you weren't patronizing or insulting, and I appreciate that.
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