If you name it, is it alive?

Man kneels to the floor and places his palm on the deerskin rug.

Man closes his eyes and nods.

Woman, in tears, pleads "well?"

Man says "his name was Gilbert," pauses, "but he's better now."

30-minute writing exercise: bones

The underground tunnel held few travelers at this time of night.  Cold fluorescent bulbs illuminated the station, but could never dispel the subterranean weight of a hole.  Somewhere in the depths beyond this urban platform rumbled hulking tubes of steel and glass.

Across from me sat a man.  I hadn't noticed him when I came down the stairs off 45th.  He was the city: a suit, erect posture, and a briefcase.  But this platform was also the city: litter, urine, grease.  Odd that a company man would need a train at this hour.  He seemed at ease, so much so that it was I who began to feel out of place.  My train remained painfully absent.  How could he be so content here?

I watched the man take his leather-bound case and rest it on his lap.  He released the clasps one after another and lifted the lid away from himself toward me.  When he closed it again, he held a white tentacle in his hand.  No, not a tentacle. Bones?! An entire spinal column of some child-sized creature draped limp over his palm!  I stared with fevered intensity as he tilted back his head an raised his prize into the air.  As he lowered it into his throat, his mouth worked back and forth slowly, not chewing, but easing each vertebra down his esophagus with the faint sound of sliding saliva.

I had to flee.  I needed to run, to be rid of this place immediately and forever!  Too late for that.  By some miracle, I had not been noticed yet.  I froze like a small animal.  The man returned his briefcase to the floor.  He resumed staring through the blackness of the tunnel.

A growing roar and gust of tunnel draft brought the train into the station.  The hissing of the doors startled me, my heart skipping a beat.  I dared not move as I watched the man stand up and walk to the nearest open portal.  Just before stepping onto the train, he paused.  He turned his head to face me, staring me straight in the eye.  Then he silently boarded.

30-minute writing exercise: egg, honey, stone

Henry cracked his egg over a bowl, producing a pleasant ring followed by a sharp crack and slimy decompression. The warmth of the pan at his left arm made him impatient. How annoying it was that pieces of shell would break free and sink into what when cooked would be an enticing meal, but now seemed like reproductive fluid, which, Henry thought, was probably accurate technically speaking. It could have been alive under different circumstances. Probably would have become a fine chicken, though it most likely would have ended up in a pan anyway. Why are eggs and chickens so different, he thought. Eggs so pure and round, almost graceful in their stillness; chickens so smelly and clumsy. The egg white had spread over Henry's fingers, so he reached to rinse his hands for what had to be the fifth time since deciding to make breakfast. The first had been when he failed to remove all of the honey from his fingers by licking. Better inside than out, he mused. The same with eggs, though the hen probably had a differing opinion.

Henry poured the whites and yolks into his pan, producing a dry hiss. He then flipped them onto his honeyed toast. The honey had pooled a bit at the corner and the egg slumped lopsided over the opposite edge, the whole thing lonesome in a sea of white plate. Henry pursed his lips. It looked quite sad. I miss Madeline, he thought with a sigh. The counter was cleared, the cupboards opened as Henry began again, preparing a meal she would have enjoyed.

30-minute writing exercise: fire, salt water, snake

A snake does not move as we move, and we comprehend much through movement. Seemingly endless rings of muscle contorting around cages and cages of bone, somehow producing graceful, predatory function. How to empathize with a creature such as this? And so too, how to comprehend its motives, her motives, as she approaches?

Her movements are intentional, they must be. Fleeting eye contact, each glance holding its careful weight; her head unmoving as she glides across the pavement; her ornamentation: hair, jewellery, clothing, things for which I have no frame of reference, no memory of weight, no sense of preparation, all of them moving with and around her. My attention is momentarily transfixed, my brain hypnotized into paralysis at the mercy of her intent. My anxiety could never break the spell, prey that must play its part.

She slithers past, into the arms of the man with the hat and the expensive-looking shoes. I can feel what he feels. I can muster sympathies for his plight. After the encounter, I go on about my way, content not to become food for a creature I can never understand.