What’s in a Story?
A .doc, by any other name would read as well. So would a Story, were it not a “Story” called, retain that profound narrative which it presents without that title?
But wait!
Perchance, what light through yonder screen doth break? It is the new day, and our kindle is the sun. But wait! Hark! Our young protagonist breaks the stillness of our musing:
For my mind misgives some consequence yet hanging in cyberspace . . . shall literarily begin with our .docs’ revels.
Hark! again I say. What light through yonder screen doth break? It is the .doc, and our story is the sun, uprising in fair America, where we lay our scene:
Oh, it doth light our devices to burn so bright! It seems our words do hang upon that sight, as a narrative in a tablet’s gear— with drama too dark to be so lit, with plot too profound to be disclosed, methinks, without the turning of a yellowed, textured page. Oh, Lamentable day! Literature, wherefore is thy thing?
And yet, and yet! the show must go on!
And so it does, once. . .
upon a midnight dreary, while we yet linger, weak and weary, o’er many a bright and lit-up tablet of begotten lore. . .
While we ponder, nearly napping, comprehending what will be the ending, in this quaint and curious story that this errant writer hath put forth. . . But wait!
Who goes there?!
Suddenly here comes a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, ringing at my cellphone door.
“Oh shut that door!”
Hie, hence, be gone away! thou intrusive denizen of postmodern life!
Thou art but a distraction to be cast aside. T’is a call of no consequence, I daresay; they’ll ring me back on the morrow. Let ‘em call me while the sun doth shine, not while in my dark reading I yearn to resign! To mine own tablet will I be glue’d, not to yon beastly cell-phone zoo!
Methinks this AI'd session may yet prove profound, if I but persevere, not yielding to this phoney bird that squawks within my writer’s ear. I’ll not be distracted, nay, not by any phonish intrusion. Such urgency is but an (aside) to confusion.
Anon, back now to this quaint and curious doorway of our story, whereupon we do anticipate some serious creative glory!
Perk ye now, while we contrive to kindle this contraption , arriving at some storied satisfaction, here in fair Romerica, where we lay our scene. Even now, as the noddy head of drama-driven plot doth compete
with a midnight dreary, for our weak and weary attention, so soon are we moved to be moody and yet so soon moody to be moved!
Hereupon in our chosen setting, our pesky phone not abetting. . . anon, in that embattled District of Columbia where we lay our scene, we find . . . ’t’is a national bad dream! Yet here, here in our backlit drama, while litinating some terrible American trauma, we come upon our fair hero, Democreo, who, with our disintegrating writer’s dream, we endeavor to redeem. But wait! Cometh he here now . . . Democreo, He speaks:
“Gentlemen, what? what! Cease and desist from this destruction!
Oh Republeo! . . . The Law expressly hath Forbid’n such obstruction! Insurrection in our fair Capitol, inside our very Dome, ye say?!
Hast thou lost thy mind today?!
Stand ye down now; cease this foul destruction!
Rather, redeem this Congress from your obstruction.
Furthermore, Republeo, cease and desist,
Lest by your rebellion our Republic cease to exist!”
( Aside, in yon backlit background. . . a scuffle erupts. After a moment of smoke and scuffle, a cry:)
Democreo: “What now? ‘Z’wounds! ’t’is a cut, I say, the unkindest cut of all!”
Romerica: “Oh, but Rally, all ye, now, who hear my cry! Fetch a Constitution surgeon, to suture us here, before our American union, now so untimely ripp’d, doth come undone!
Oh “Z’wounds! Now our Democreo here— still he doth stumble, while yet he doth begin to mumble. . .
Democreo: “’Tis nothing, man, nothing but a scratch. . . and yet . . . ask for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man.”
Romerica: But hark! still yet doth not all Romerica decry! unto our citizenry, with such urgency, this dire emergency!
Democreo: “Z’ounds! ’tis not so deep as a deathblow, nor as wide as a Capitol door, but ’tis enough. Ask for us tomorrow, and you shall find us in an Arlington van.”
Now deep within our nation’s story dreary,
while we tremble , weak and weary. . .
Lady Liberty holds high her harboring pyre
until our online license doth expire . . .
“Oh, Romerica, RomericAI !, wherefore art thou, Romerica?”
(Intermission) 🎹. . . 🎶
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