Fiction: The Box

I plan to turn this into a novella. But before writing the novella I decided to start with very short short story:

Once upon a time a man left his home for a stroll in the park, and little did he know a giant cube would block his way.

Well, all those things occurred exactly as so: A man left his home for a stroll in the park, and on his walk a giant cube appeared out of thin air and blocked his way, and he cried, "Dangit! What is this block that is blocking my way?" just for a man to step to his side and explain, "Why, sir, if I'm square in my head, I believe that is a block."

However, it seems impossible to know anything of walks in parks, random blocks, or knowledgeable strangers without first knowing about the man. So our story begins in the messy basement of a majestic house. Papers, pens, pastels, and half-painted pictures, along with notebooks, sport-shirts, blurry photographs, cameras, and cover-broken books—all of these things congested the cluttered bedroom of Clark—and all by his doing.

One day in March, he picked up a pen, wanting to craft the best book in the world. One day in June, he signed up for track, wanting to dash the fasted dash off all time. A wintery Wednesday, he peaked out his window and noticed the snow; from there on out he would pursue a career as the best scientist to rear his way into the world. The list piles and piles of tried-and-quit hobbies, and at the end of the day he still lived with his mom. Indeed: lazy, commitless Clark, twenty-two years of age, still lived with his mom. To add to that, he had no friends, except for Hank, whom his mom chose for him for his seventh birthday, for in the seven years preceding he had shown no interest in making friends on his own. He still did not.

"Clark, get dressed," his mom called down, startling him up from his wondrous dreams. Lumbering up from his bed and picking a shirt—baggy and gray as he liked them—he thumped and groaned his way through his bathroom door and grinned in the mirror at his explosive, shaggy bed-head; he kept it that way in the morning, and he kept it that way in the day, and so he had no need to bore himself with a shower. Then he emptied his bladder, pulled on his shorts from the day before, and on his way back out the door he nodded a "goodmorning" to—yet also kept his distance from—his old and crusty toothbrush.

As he walked up the stairs to meet her, he quickly regretted it, for she only wanted argument: troubling him with silly things like “work” and “usefulness” and “using time well.” Soon, raging from his annoyance, Clark stormed from his home for a walk in the park, but on his walk a giant, wooden cube—about the size of the park itself—appeared out of thin air and blocked his way. "Dangit!” he cried. “What is this block that is blocking my way?" So an old man stepped to his side and explained, "Why, sir, if I'm square in the head, I believe that is a block.” Clark flustered red in his face and hissed through his teeth, "Well this stupid block is blocking my way, but I don't think I really care anymore, because I have nothing better to do than dig through it." Yet while he spit his curses at the box, he slowly simmered down his raging tone—he realized the truth of what he said: he really did have nothing better to do than dig through that giant, wooden block. And just like that, he stepped into a new body; all of his stirring anger dissolved so fast he had no time to even notice the shift. So he found a shovel somewhere in the park, lifted it up, and whacked the block, leaving a chip in the wood. Once again he twisted his palms on the orange and surprisingly warm metal handle, and he swung it with even more strength at the block, deepening the gash by another chip. The knowledgeable old man suggested in Clark’s right ear, “It’s going to take quite a bit more of those to get to the center. Probably five million…cubed!”

Laughing at his own joke, the old man ambled off, calling Clark a blockhead and leaving him to face his new challenge. Clark squeezed his eyebrows at the box, more determined than he ever felt for anything in his whole life. For the rest of the night, onlookers could see his silhouette in the moonlight, smacking and splitting the box, trying with all might—for reasons even Clark could not understand—to reach the center of the block; it drew subliminal strength it drew him in, deeper and deeper. As the sun rose the next morning, Clark continued his carving, not even once having thought of sleep. Throughout the night he had dug a good five feet into the block, and he crouched in his wooden tunnel, the morning’s warmth livening his body. Eventually, though—and well into the afternoon—he reluctantly dropped the shovel from his blistered hands and exited the block. Many hours he lied in the soft grass, confused at what inspired him to break from his journey to the center. Yet as he noticed a blue burger stand on the edge of the park, he suddenly realized, ah, yes… I must be hungry. Clark could only laugh at himself for forgetting his favorite part of the day—next to sleep, of course. So he rested from his dig and wended his way to the stand.

“I’ll take a burger please.”

“Yeah, okay.” The cashier, a teenager with a pimpled face, seemed suffering to sell burgers on this day. With dry expression he poked the order into the register, and served Clark his burger.

“What do you think of that box?” asked Clark, surprising himself with is urge to start a conversation.

“Considering we live in the real world and many people have seen it, I’m surprised you’re the only person who’s paying attention to it.”

They both laughed at the possibilities of fiction.

Then the teenager continued. “Why are you trying to dig through it? That seems dumb.”

“I don’t know. Now I feel like there’s something in there, and I don’t know why… But hey, would you want to help me out?”

“Sure. When I get off. Don’t have anything better to do.”

Clark gobbled down his burger, washed up, and returned to his work. Deeper and deeper he dug, never stopping: never wishing to stop. Sweat shot from his brows, the muscles in his arms sprained and snapped and contorted in every which way, but he could feel the center of the block nearing with every strike. Never had he felt as alive as when he smacked the wooden block with a shovel. 

Soon enough the teenager joined in, and with perfect timing, for the arms of Clark had started weakening into spaghetti strands. As they took turns digging, they chatted about this and that: their stories and their passions—they both called digging their first only passion, as useless as it felt. Although, they both knew beyond all doubt something must lie in the center. Something must.

Days passed and they tunneled deeper, living in the presence of each other, and always digging. When they cried from their arms aching, they cried together. More days passed, perhaps even months, and they had practically dug three hundred feet into the block, bodies convulsing and lives slowly draining from their eyes. In this time a street girl had joined their journey, whom Clark fell madly in love with.

At last on a chilly night, the three friends—Clark in love with the girl, the girl in love with Clark, the teenager jealous of Clark, Clark forgiving the teenager, the teenager awkward around the girl, and the girl amused by the teenager—they finally struck the center of the block. All of them gazed around the hollow sphere of the center with their phone lights to illuminate it. Much to their surprise, but not to their disappointment, they saw nothing inside but each other; they laughed, and then left to go eat dinner together.

Criticism: Restoring Literature

A problem threatens our literary world. For this paper it seems unimportant to know when it emerged, but merely the fact it exists and most savagely rips into the soul of our literary world. Many people believe in this threat, and a few even rant in annoyance on its presence; yet none, or at least very few, actually act out against the beast: so it rages on. In this hour the reasons rise for why those who worry about the literary future should amputate the claws of this creature before it rips another tear in our already fraying form of art.

For years the attitudes towards literature have stealthily morphed form one point of view to another, drastically different yet similar enough for people to accidently make the switch.  As an example we may use the case of horror: In its dawn, writers such as Poe would frighten readers for the purpose of unveiling things dreadful in a subject. However, readers—who became the next generation of writers—focused more on his scaring than his reason for scaring. Next they imitated the style of fright, finding it a unique feature, yet forgetting what esteemed the device in the first place. So they morphed it into a genre, similar to the happenings of romance, fantasy, westerns, science fiction, and so on, sinking libraries from treasuries of expression to shelves cluttered with genre fiction: fiction which strives for a certain genre-based persona: a story for the genre rather than a genre for the story.

So what does the future hold? Every movement since the start of Literature has pushed a new manner of expressing ideas; but in the contemporary movement of genre fiction, each innovation only pushes a new manner of writing genres. Sadly this only digs the art deeper into the ground, year by year, “innovation” by “innovation,” to where meaningful literature only appears every so often. Literature still moves as authors experiment with new ideas, but since the goals have changed, so has our tendency to move in a beneficial direction.

Although why does any of this matter? Can readers not read for the mere delight? Literature influences the time people spend. So would we not better ourselves from spending that time enjoying the books as we delight to do, yet at the same time benefit from them? Would not a person rather eat a delicious food which strengthens his health rather than an equally delicious food which turns him sick? After all, literature did emerge as a way of breaking down complex ideas and emotions in a fashion more approachable and engrossing than speaking of them directly; but what value holds the approachability an engrossment without the ideas? Without its valuable attributes, literature encourages only to seek pleasure over knowledge, and such a thing hinders deep thinking—it teaches us we work for pleasure, not for betterment. Societies which value all knowledge and no pleasure produce rigorous people, drained of joy; but societies which value all pleasure and no knowledge produce idle people, wasting moments which they could instead use for good. Yet if society pairs knowledge with pleasure as they may with literature, it produces a heightened culture, its people both merry and philosophical.

A problem threatens our literary world. Instead of continuing our restrictions and muddling of literary value, the time arises for goals to change, and change begins with the people—for works of literature mostly reflect the minds which wrote them. Ages ago in Greece and Rome, the children studied literature joyously, eager to learn of its deep nature, and such eagerness over great literature resulted in even more great literature. How has that morphed into an often grumbled-over required course? Perhaps instead of investing so much time assigning students to studying stacks of great works, the teachers should instead first help the students learn of literature as a whole: assist them in understanding its grand purpose, using the works as examples of the concepts rather than the concepts as examples of the works. Such an education impressions a deeper meaning into the students, producing deeper readers and more expressive writers—only for them to impression the next generation, and so on, each generation once again progressing in the right direction so we may finally regain our ground and restore the literary form.

Poetry: A Short Fuse

The light shines on my deck as I start riding.

'Sprouted ramose from earth and formed real fine,

For my delight.

It leads me places on its wondrous wheels.

And like the skies and seas it fashions me

To feel all things.

Contrast to your caging, baleful, snapping screen,

The tree with wheels's no master, but a friend,

So green and Real.

To swim and feel like flowing liquid forms

A better branch, more stalwart than your wire.

You'll look deformed.