Another Quick Fiction Exercise. I have no idea how it all comes together, but it does.
As all of my quick fiction, this is an exercise, not a completed piece. My particular parameters of this quick fiction is to write and minimally edit  500-1000 words a 2-4 hour period. Whatever you have at 4 hours max, is what you have. That’s it. It allows me the freedom to let my mind go for about 20 minutes or so during the “freewrite” portion, then forces me to concentrate enough to come up with something at least mildly readable within the following couple of hours. It seems to work ok for now.
 Today, it was my intention to write into, or “go vertical” on  the original idea  of a 4 year old kid who might otherwise be bored sitting on the lawn waiting for her father to bring out the garden hose to was the car, if it weren’t for the fact that she has a powerful internal life.
Fortunately, this girl learns very early on that there are magical places upon which to rely when the outside world unfortunately gets to be too much. Or too little. Or too scary. 
Because I have always love that the French translation of being bored is to say I bore myself, I decided to incorporate that.
The pigshit idea in the story came long before I thought to link it to Arnaud’s famous piece, but I thought it was funny and appropo.
I hope to find a nugget or two, from these exercises to incorporate into my larger piece.
Antonin Artaud. Google him!

"All Writing Is Pigshit"

I sat on the lawn not watching much of what was going on around me. I was real good at sticking right where I was and making something fun out of nothing. All because of Grandpa LeBlanc.

Grandpa all the time said that where he grew up, there was no such thing as being bored.  Je m’ennui is what they called it. I think that’s that’s Indian for I bore myself. Maybe it’s French. I don’t know, I just know Grandpa’s said when he was little, his people were so poor kids had to make up their own games because nobody wanted to be known as a kid who bores itself.

 There were five LeBlanc brothers. My Grandpa Fay, then next on up was Forrest, then Finn, Frank, and Frederic in that order. Grandpa was the youngest of the brothers and Frederic was the oldest. They had a cousin Blaine who lived with them on account of his folks went off with some missionaries to take medical supplies to other Indians that the Canadian government didn’t pay no mind to. That made six of them boys all together.

Grandpa said one winter when it was so cold you could freeze a witches tit, them boys made an old broom out of sticks they found out in the woods beyond the pasture. Said they walked a mile up a hill in moccasins in the dead of Winter just to go hunt down a big old rock. When they found the perfect big old rock, they picked teams, three on each side.

The three biggest brothers crouched down behind the big old rock and pushed real hard. Hard as they could. Grandpa was the littlest, so he ran ahead and picked up rocks and stick and stuff like that. Without gloves, of course. Said he had to stick his hands in pig shit to warm them back up so his fingers didn’t fall off. The other boys on Grandpa’s side got out in front of the big old rock swept a path all the way back to the barn out back of Grandpa’s house while the big boys were pushing. Said it took them all day.

Grandpas would get to telling these old stories, and us kids would stop doing whatever it was we were doing and listen. Grandpa had a way of taking out his teeth and screwing up his mouth making the story more scary when it called for scary and more funny when it called for that, too.

Nobody really cared that grandpa never did own a pair of moccasins, and that he was raised up on white man’s land sheering sheep and bucking hay. Since he was the youngest, he wasn’t born yet when the missionaries came and moved the whole family onto a 10 acre plot to farm. Hitch was that they had to wear regular white man’s clothes, and give ten percent of what they sowed to the missionaries and give the missionaries place to stay when they came through about once or twice a year.  

I supposed it sounded like a sweet deal then, so that’s what the LeBlanc’s did.

 No one ever talked about it, but grandpa was born about 9 months after the missionaries first came, and he was a whole lot lighter than his older brothers. I suppose grandpa got a kick out of telling stories of being an Indian boy, even if it wasn’t true. And all us kids got a kick out of them, too.

I learned how to tell stories just like Grandad. Anything’s better than making yourself pigshit bored.

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