In That $100k Writing Challenge

The Muse answers rudely and dreamily

They dance in the prompt heatwaves, where they hurry to grow greenhouse plants reaching for the artificial light to bloom fresh, luxuriant leaves and flowers glossy and smooth, with no cuts from bugging bugs and other pests

All around them, the hum here is “copulate to populate the earth or your race and species go extinct” so females go after the males and, in the grill of the ensuing dance, and the command performance pale albinos overrun the land

They wake the Muse rudely she answers harassed and dreamily, to deliver tools and tokens to the players who race through the sublime to the sordid; leaving them confused, she heads back to sleep

She knows craftsmen need no conveyor belts for the handmade is organic and takes time as real art is a craft of the spirit, not the dense robotics of the intellect, in soulless delivery, lacking life essences

Yet some will not fly if unprompted some will not glide if not pushed many will not grow if not pulled many will not jump if not propelled

In the dress rehearsal of that dance they all learned how to jump to grow they all learned how to glide and fly in that proud plain of the pale and tanned

On the ground where they stand, the confetti will erupt to fill the air, and numb the bewildered earth in the heavy cover of snowflakes

OU082021