It would help if I knew what day it was so I could get these done on time.
As it stands, here’s another more formless “soundless fury” that I spun to try to explain my state of mind, rather than craft a new narrative.
Title: Access Denied
Word Count: 100
Draw sword, wake the horde, batter down this door.
My hatred of slant rhymes stalls my fury. Futility picks up whatever slack left behind. This door is wood, brick, or steel, whatever I can’t break down. Eden is more of a man, a door attendant, than a garden (though he’s standing in one, smiling sagely). I cannot bribe him for he has all that he wants and I can’t ask for time before he’s locked it all away in glass.
Eden IS timeless, like all great art, existing before the first clock clicked.
The crack in the door glows golden.
I don’t even know how to interpret these. They’re just my head piecing together its own distaste for time slipping away from me yet again. Maybe one day, sooner than later, I can remember how to be proud of my mind just being itself again.
Good luck, you brave writer folk!