Spencer Woods
Bio
Hello! I like how language can be used in infinite ways to organize thought and feeling. Happy exploring)
Stories (4/0)
Sally
Sally was the mysterious old lady that lived across the street. That name, Sally, carried the interesting connotation of belonging to an elderly person. Many names carry weight to them, sometimes particular to the person that hears them, and yet others carry a more universal weight, or in this case, age. She fit in with people like my grandparents. Her garb was typically adorned in gray, light pink and blue, her nose strenuously supported oversized glasses, her thin, gravity defying hair floated in some invisible aqueous environment, and her wrinkles convincingly accentuated a lifetime of movements. Such a person occasionally captures my attention, if only for a moment, and a strange (as in foreign and confusing) feeling comes over me. This feeling that the world I accepted and the people I knew to inhabit it were cracking and falling apart, and that the ownership of my place in the world, which I believed in with a subconscious self-entitlement, was blatantly temporary. Strange? Maybe. However, to be frank, the elderly can seem drastically different with their sense of humor, their way of talking, their smells, etc. Is such my fate? Oh no! It’s almost as if they themselves are a different type of human. It’s as if they grew up in some completely different environment. It’s almost as if... they’re from a different planet.
By Spencer Woodsabout a year ago in Fiction
The Sound of Static
The fluorescent gymnasium lights towered overhead like a spotlight alighting a heroic act. One by one, other players were knocked out until he was the last of his team. It was down to him and the challenger; one annoying, smiley, likable kid. Lebert was thirteen years old and completely absorbed in this game of dodgeball, loving how the environment turned his brain into an electrified super machine. The cumulative duel had just begun and Lebert fixed himself upon his opponent’s habits, sloshing around ideas on how to bring him down. He was very good, and yet, one ball after another was a miss. His bombardments were yielding vain efforts, and the shots from his nemesis, at first easily avoided, were getting more agitating and more difficult to avoid. The excitement and adrenaline to survive, which at first was a never-ending flow of energy, began to die down. The minutes of this epic event dragged on, and fatigue was setting in. It came as an all-encompassing, unavoidable, rising tide. Control over his body became indirect and request-like. His mind slowed. It was getting difficult to decide which ball to grab, when to throw, and which direction to dodge. In a moment of mindless repetition, he went to pick up another ball, and WHAM! He was struck in the head and knocked to the floor.
By Spencer Woods3 years ago in Fiction