Sage Ritskan School: Flash Fiction Intro

I haven't been flexing it lately. That muscle, that nebulous cluster of neurons that gets bored and scatters when under used, I let it atrophy. If ego drives creation, then another kind of ego steers consumption's wheel, and he's a real motherfucker.

We are afraid to talk about the mysticism behind creativity; our sanitized, materialist mode of perception has no room for it in its pie chart model. If the shaman were even so lucky, he'd find himself represented as a fractional sliver called "other".

But what self steers any of those neurons at all? Another blob of electric avenues and intersections pocketed away behind another pink wrinkled valley? Isn't that all we call me or you. It's all very confusing if you ask me.

My point is that the craft of creativity, whatever form it may disguise itself as, needs an engine behind it. If that engine is fueled by ego, fine. Even better, fuel it with a sense of duty, a sense of desperation backed by impermanence.

With all that in mind, time dwindling and a conscience raging, I'm turning to flash fiction to fill in the brief alone time I do have with creative expression. Some output, however small, every day. Every chapter no more than 1000 words (usually a lot less) relayed from the mind of a character existing in a particular setting; I write from the inside of the mindscape of Sage Ritskan School.