05 - The Letter A

Exercise 05: Patterns/Style/The Letter A:
"Write a story about an ox or a cow. Make the title of the piece one word, which begins with the letter A. Then choose 20 words that begin with the letter A [...] Slowly write a sentence or two or three around each word [...] See if you can find an order to the sentences you've made [...] 500 words."

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ANODYNE

1.
Cow-tipping in record-breaking fields of wheat grass, a sun shining high above in a photograph there'd be a lens-flare. It is warm out I do not really understand cow-tipping but I like to be with, among, the cows. I drove ten miles out of the suburbs to be here. And the camera, yes I did bring it. I did this a lot in high school and sometimes consider the preference I have for the rural over the urban, in terms of landscape.

I still hate the way cows smell, this much hasn't changed. Cows terrify in stature, maybe, I never get too close. I had relatives that worked and lived on a farm. I never knew them well, though I suffer vague memories of visiting them and playing with toys I could never have. Saw them a few times at family reunions when I still had to go. Possibly played basketball with the cousins who were close to my age (though none of us are close now).

My grandmother collected cow themed kitchenware.

The cow in this field is named Samantha. Samantha the cow is friends with a lonely sow. Can I write fiction about a cow that is not mimetic without anthropomorphizing the cow and making her "just like a person." I don't want to write about talking animals. Maybe talk about the fictional "I" again and have "the I" interact with the cow.

In the large wheat field the cows are grazing and we are directly next to the highway. I see myself driving by at 80mph and I wave but I don't think I can see me. I've always wondered what it was like to ride on the back of a cow, or various animals that walk on four legs, basically, but I am not a small person and my weight would probably overwhelm perhaps but maybe not. Can you consider me riding into town on the back of a cow, or a large dog, or maybe a clean pig.

The traffic on the highway is distracting. My tire has blown out and instead of trying to fix it I turn perpendicular to the highway and begin to walk. After twenty minutes I am considering the narrative my life would take if I stopped making decisions and simply laid on the ground, refusing to move. It is now that I notice the cow standing a few feet away from me.



2.

I find myself continuing to walk among the field, the cow walking near me. I look at the cow again and realize she is looking back. The cow's age. It becomes relevant, or important at least. I am still aggravated that my tire is fucked. I am not sure about this cow, but I think I will let her continue to follow me.

The sky's clouds turn anthropomorphic when I refuse to look at them. Are insects animals? I'm not sure how that works. I know that I cannot accurately fix my tire. I am the author of this sojourn, and my body will not stop until the narrative is complete. The art of the air, creation of. No matter how long I've been walking, I can always hear the sound of traffic when I lay down to rest.

The cow has allowed me to walk next to her. This is not an accident. The cow shuts her eyes and the entire field ablates into a void of smoke and terror. The air. All of it, the air disappears. Aerodynamic planes crash as the terror coats the sky. With the sound of traffic gone, I can hear atonal screams, the blades of grass crying, and I am haunted by the fact that my ears cannot shut the way my eyes can.

I suffer an aural hallucination and the cow guides me away from the confusion. I say to the cow, "Cow, arise, float into the sky that is your home." The agonizing wind divorces my mind from any discernible thought.