Wednesday, 1 February 2017

Migration - Flash Fiction

The author was dry. His word flow silted up. He needed to dredge through the sediment of his mind. He went back to the port of his writing embarkation. Opened up the containers that stored his past literary consignments. Rich with word ladings and ideational haul. 

He was reacquainted with the foreign folkloric fable he had towed into one of his own yarns. He was confronted with the exotic loan word he had imported and set to work in a poem. He recalled the overseas foundation myth that he had plundered. He recollected the archetype that recognised no borders but seemed to reside in every culture and which he had displaced front and central in his most successful drama. He revisited the etymological formation and word family reunion he repatriated for use as a motif throughout a novel. The brokerage he’d had to navigate with those autochthonal customs to make them pass muster in his narrative. The stowaway idioms, the refugee colloquialisms, the peregrine phraseology, all of which had sought asylum in his output and which he’d formerly welcomed with open arms and avid pen nib.

But now in his infirmity he recanted these itinerant emigres. Eschewed and and all continental cargo in his cahiers. Berated and chastised them for their colonial impurities, where he was after a majestic, imperial linguistics. Thwarted by the bonded excise scheme that he conceived had been levied on his mother tongue. His language was dead, washed up ashore from the shipwreck of his writing style. Close-fisted and minded, he had become holed beneath the load-line, a ink vessel up in dry dock.

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