“The Hail that Pounded like Chatting Frogs”
Zen couldn’t help but think of Gladriel Ferngully when he walked in this wood. Gladriel was a queen of fairies, a Mother Earth, an elvish woman, or what have you, it didn’t really matter.
Zen walked up the trail to a window pane hovering between trees and reflected on his backward surroundings. He always loved this trail if not for it’s mysteries even more so for it’s horrifying beauty. It was a place that encouraged imagination like nowhere else.
He saw something in the distance, or rather someone, walking toward him on the trail. She seemed to emerge out of the wood itself, her tall, slender limbs and long, flowing hair swaying in rhythm with the wind through the trees. Gladriel. It was too much. Sappy. But it approached all the same.
Zen gulped and glanced at his own reflection in the glass of the hovering window. He was a patient person, though he could be violent when he drank too much whiskey. His friends saw him as a skinny, squashed saint. Is that really how they saw him? What was up with these adjectives? Whatever. Let it pass for now as we see where this story leads.
Once, Zen had even brought a husky baby bird back from the brink of death. But not even a patient person who had once brought a husky baby bird back from the brink of death was prepared for what Gladriel had in store today. WHAT?! LMAO! I’m so sorry. That cannot stay. It’s like a Mad Lib with random adjectives thrown in prepared spots. Who would ever call a baby bird “husky”? And the structure is so cliche! Nothing makes sense, but I cannot stop. Am I the one who’s mad to think that perhaps something worthwhile could come out of this nonsensical, dreamlike state?
The hail pounded like chatting frogs, calming Zen. He followed Gladriel up the trail where a piano stood in a ray of sun on the edge of the cliff. Dramatic. Cliche. She motioned to the piano and Zen massaged his fingers and began to play. As he played, Gladriel’s eyes gained an xanthocarpous glint. A what? “Xanthocarpous: the scientific name for what is commonly called a yellow berried nightshade. It is a prickly diffuse bright green perennial herb, woody at the base, found throughout India mostly in dry places as a weed on road sides and waste lands.” Well, that sounds most interesting. Maybe there’s something worth picking here, or maybe it’s just a weed.
Gladriel glared at Zen with the wrath of a thousand humming birds. She said in hushed tones, “I hate you…and I want a hug.” LMAO! What the heck is this?! But more importantly, how will Zen respond?
Zen looked back even more calm, his fingers still on the piano. “Gladriel, I admire your eyebrows,” he replied. Oh? Well, of course. How else would you respond to that?
They looked at each other with healthy feelings, like two bitter, bored bears sitting at a very intelligent wake, which had trance music playing in the background. Gladriel looked puzzled, her emotions blushing like a selfish, spitezabbling sandwich….
I can’t. I just can’t! They’re not even trying. They made up a pointless word! Can you even call this writing? Can you call this a story?
I should just go to sleep already. The muses obviously aren’t here, and I’m not getting anything out of this mess. Another wad of trash. Even if there’s a few gems in there, it’s not worth trying to pry them out and clean them off. I’ll wait for something better, something whole, something purely beautiful.
Inspired by Random Plot Generators