Love this idea Cecil - that you are not just reading & consuming, but creating at the same time. and I love where this went for you - following that flow of creativity and curiosity. I also find ChatGPT (Love that you call it Chatwick!) really useful for sparking ideas which I follow.
I do something similar - I love six word stories. I regularly go back through my journal and mine it for six word stories which I collect into a long list. Often they lean "toward one another, certain moods repeating, certain images echoing" as you note. I find that I can then turn them into a string of six word stories in 100 words or similar. Here's an example (scroll down to find it) https://ofmappery.substack.com/p/im-alone-except-that-im-not-sixwoodling
6 word stories. That's a fun idea. Here is your story as retold (unedited) by Chatwick and Co. (about 400 words)
A Day Between Things
Morning opened like a soft petal. Butterflies drifted through the air, unhurried, as if the world itself had slowed to their rhythm. Bumble bees hummed near the hedgerows, stitching invisible patterns between the blooms. Light pooled gently across the lawn, and warmth rose from the earth like a blessing. In the privet hedge, a family of bunnies kept still, only their noses twitching at the scent of new grass. The daffodils, freshly gathered from the garden, leaned in a glass vase on the windowsill, bringing the whole of Spring indoors.
By midday, the garden was alive with its quiet music—rafts of rabbits darting between the clouds’ slow shadows, robins perched and listening, the first drops of rain whispering against the leaves. The grass, thick and mossy, invited bare feet. She stepped out, feeling the soft coolness beneath her soles, the grounding pulse of the earth that seemed to breathe with her.
Beyond the lawn stretched the birch wood, silver and shimmering. The air there felt almost liquid with light. Forget-me-nots traced a blue mist along the edges of the path, and each tree seemed to whisper its own story. She paused to commune with them, her fingertips grazing the pale bark, as if the birches might remember her. Around her, the whole forest shimmered with iridescent lime and silver, a vibrant green smorgasbord of renewal.
Later, the day seemed to widen. The space between things grew generous—the moments between thoughts, between breaths, between sounds. She found herself stretched out on the sofa, sunlight dappling her face, surrendering to a stolen afternoon nap. The hours flowed like honey. Time didn’t move so much as fold and unfold around her, making a cradle for everything unspoken.
As the sun began to lower, she rose and wandered outside again. The light had turned golden, celebratory. She watched shadows spill long and angular across the garden, each one a fleeting artwork. She played with them, caught them, photographed them, laughing softly at how her own silhouette danced across the hedge. The sun kissed the tops of the trees, setting their leaves aflame, while transitory beams slipped through the branches to illuminate an ornate hedge—just for a moment, then gone.
And in that moment, she felt it again: that life was not made of things, but of the luminous space between them.
I wonder if you could then 'mine' a bunch of new 6 word stories out of the above and/or paste in more 6 word stories into it. Your collections of 6 word stories could also be run through a markov text generator such as here: https://projects.haykranen.nl/markov/demo/
I have done that often in the past to create poems. that is fun too. It generate a lot of random reconfigurations of the text that you can then use as 'found material'.
I did a 10,000 word epic poem like this and published it as a book
now, the above text as an (unedited) story by Chatwick and Co.
The Bench Dream
He woke in a jumpsuit, the color of dust and regret.
Someone was shaking his hand, or maybe he was shaking his own, the gesture looping back into itself.
Jump[suit] hand[shake] — a memory of greeting, or arrest.
He sat on a public bench near the chain-link fence of a half-forgotten parking lot. The air smelled faintly of tree sap and exhaust. A clot of something—thought, grief, or just the thick remnants of a cold—clung to his throat. Clot [of snot rake on mind pour and a bench], he muttered. Words came to him as scraps of graffiti, fractured signage, junkyard poetry.
Behind him, someone played a broken tuba, its deep note warbling like a wrench turned in metal. Tore [and wrench tuba].
He smiled, or thought he did, the kind of smile that only half appears before it fades. The fence shimmered, thin as thought. Through it, the world wavered: rabbits of light, cars passing, a man eating a sandwich, a woman laughing into her phone. All of it distant. The fence for a smile and rile on mind pour and mingle.
Then, as if called by rhyme, the word [dingle] appeared in his mind. [Dingle] flavor [to be savored without waiver]. It was nonsense, but it was good nonsense. It had taste. He repeated it until the meaning slipped away and became song.
He thought of guile, of favor, of cleverness that goes nowhere. Never be so clever to sit and mingle, he told himself. Cleverness doesn’t keep you warm on a bench.
Somewhere nearby, a velvet trap flapped in the wind—a poster half-torn from a wall. A face smiled down at him from it, syrupy with promise. Flap [a velvet trap in hiding].
Then came the snore, his own, echoing back like thunder from a cardboard sky. The tuba droned again, low and wet. The parking lot swelled into dream:
Guile on trial with tree sap.
Flap a velvet trap in hiding.
Snore on trial with tree sap.
He drifted into the recurring loop of his life: the same bench, the same fence, the same smile. The flavor [to be savored without waiver]. The sound of a wrench turning. The ache of repetition disguised as rhythm.
Now and then, he thought he heard someone say his name, but it was only the breeze crossing the lot, moving from one empty space to another. The single [thought on mind pour and rile on mind pour and a cap rot covered with tree sap].
Even the words began to nap.
Nap [in a parking lot].
Nap [in a death] sentence.
When the wind stilled, he opened one eye. The light had changed; evening lay thick and amber over the asphalt. The trees glistened with their own slow tears of resin. He felt almost part of them.
The world seemed to whisper its refrain again, half lullaby, half indictment:
Jump[suit] hand[shake]
Clot [of snot rake on a parking lot]
Flap [a velvet trap in hiding]
Snore [on a death] sentence.
And he thought: perhaps this is all the same thing — greeting, labor, fatigue, and release — all one long handshake between being and forgetting.
Then he slept again, under the long slow hum of the tuba, the world folding back into itself.
Could be fun. You start. Let's say we make it into a joint substack post that we post on your substack and mine. We could do it as a long chain of comments like this one. What if I take all of these comments and make a post out of it and then we grow it in the comments of that post and then publish that whole thing as an article? Unless you have a better idea in mind.
Hi Cecil. Just wanted to come on here and tell you that I got your email, and I responded last Friday. Did you get / see it? Looking forward to hearing from you.
I'm not active on Substack at the moment (I'm thinking of a direction change) but we can still do this.
I like the idea of taking all the comments so far and turning it into an article. If you want to go ahead with that, and tag me in, or make me a collaborator, or whatever works best. Then I will comment there...
I am having a play with the Markov chain text generator with some of my stories to see what arises!
Love this Cecil. Everything is collage, how we gather words, phrases, even bits of other people’s personalities. I love the wrinkles, it makes it real.
Thanks Julia. Everything IS collage. We are all constantly building a nest of things we gather to lay our creative eggs and watch over them till they can fly on their own.
Love this idea Cecil - that you are not just reading & consuming, but creating at the same time. and I love where this went for you - following that flow of creativity and curiosity. I also find ChatGPT (Love that you call it Chatwick!) really useful for sparking ideas which I follow.
I do something similar - I love six word stories. I regularly go back through my journal and mine it for six word stories which I collect into a long list. Often they lean "toward one another, certain moods repeating, certain images echoing" as you note. I find that I can then turn them into a string of six word stories in 100 words or similar. Here's an example (scroll down to find it) https://ofmappery.substack.com/p/im-alone-except-that-im-not-sixwoodling
6 word stories. That's a fun idea. Here is your story as retold (unedited) by Chatwick and Co. (about 400 words)
A Day Between Things
Morning opened like a soft petal. Butterflies drifted through the air, unhurried, as if the world itself had slowed to their rhythm. Bumble bees hummed near the hedgerows, stitching invisible patterns between the blooms. Light pooled gently across the lawn, and warmth rose from the earth like a blessing. In the privet hedge, a family of bunnies kept still, only their noses twitching at the scent of new grass. The daffodils, freshly gathered from the garden, leaned in a glass vase on the windowsill, bringing the whole of Spring indoors.
By midday, the garden was alive with its quiet music—rafts of rabbits darting between the clouds’ slow shadows, robins perched and listening, the first drops of rain whispering against the leaves. The grass, thick and mossy, invited bare feet. She stepped out, feeling the soft coolness beneath her soles, the grounding pulse of the earth that seemed to breathe with her.
Beyond the lawn stretched the birch wood, silver and shimmering. The air there felt almost liquid with light. Forget-me-nots traced a blue mist along the edges of the path, and each tree seemed to whisper its own story. She paused to commune with them, her fingertips grazing the pale bark, as if the birches might remember her. Around her, the whole forest shimmered with iridescent lime and silver, a vibrant green smorgasbord of renewal.
Later, the day seemed to widen. The space between things grew generous—the moments between thoughts, between breaths, between sounds. She found herself stretched out on the sofa, sunlight dappling her face, surrendering to a stolen afternoon nap. The hours flowed like honey. Time didn’t move so much as fold and unfold around her, making a cradle for everything unspoken.
As the sun began to lower, she rose and wandered outside again. The light had turned golden, celebratory. She watched shadows spill long and angular across the garden, each one a fleeting artwork. She played with them, caught them, photographed them, laughing softly at how her own silhouette danced across the hedge. The sun kissed the tops of the trees, setting their leaves aflame, while transitory beams slipped through the branches to illuminate an ornate hedge—just for a moment, then gone.
And in that moment, she felt it again: that life was not made of things, but of the luminous space between them.
Thanks for sharing that - isn’t that incredible! Pretty much captures it!
I wonder if you could then 'mine' a bunch of new 6 word stories out of the above and/or paste in more 6 word stories into it. Your collections of 6 word stories could also be run through a markov text generator such as here: https://projects.haykranen.nl/markov/demo/
I have done that often in the past to create poems. that is fun too. It generate a lot of random reconfigurations of the text that you can then use as 'found material'.
I did a 10,000 word epic poem like this and published it as a book
https://smilemagazine.net/markov-suit-shake-for-john-m-bennett/
here is a tiny sample
jump[suit] hand[shake]
clot [of snot rake on mind pour and a bench]
tore [and wrench tuba]
the fence for a smile and rile on mind pour and mingle]
[dingle] flavor [to be savored without waiver]
guile [on a favor]
never [be so clever to sit and mingle]
[dingle] flavor [to be savored without waiver]
guile [on a smile and rile on mind pour and mingle]
[dingle] flavor [to be savored without waiver]
guile [on trial with tree sap]
flap [a velvet trap in hiding]
snore [on trial with tree sap]
flap [a velvet trap in hiding]
snore [on a favor]
never [be so clever to sit and rile on mind pour and a favor]
never [be so clever to sit and mingle]
[dingle] flavor [to be savored without waiver]
guile [on a bench] tore [and wrench tuba]
the fence for a cap rot covered with a smile and rile on a bench]
tore [and wrench tuba]
the single [thought on the fence for a parking lot]
nap [in a cap rot covered with a bench] tore [and wrench tuba]
the fence for a smile and mingle]
[dingle] flavor [to be savored without waiver]
guile [on a bench] tore [and wrench tuba]
the single [thought on the single [thought on mind pour
and rile on mind pour and rile on mind pour
and a cap rot covered with tree sap]
flap [a velvet trap in hiding]
snore [on a parking lot]
nap [in a smile and mingle]
[dingle] flavor [to be savored without waiver]
guile [on trial with a bench] tore [and wrench tuba]
the single [thought on a parking lot]
nap [in a parking lot]
nap [in a parking lot]
nap [in a death] sentence
jump[suit] hand[shake]
clot [of snot rake on a parking lot]
nap [in a cap rot covered with tree sap]
flap [a velvet trap in hiding]
snore [on a bench] tore [and wrench tuba]
the fence for a parking lot]
nap [in a cap rot covered with tree sap]
flap [a velvet trap in hiding]
snore [on trial with tree sap]
flap [a velvet trap in hiding]
snore [on trial with a smile and rile on mind pour and mingle]
[dingle] flavor [to be savored without waiver]
guile [on a favor]
never [be so clever to sit and rile on a favor]
never [be so clever to sit and mingle]
[dingle] flavor [to be savored without waiver]
guile [on a cap rot covered with tree sap]
flap [a velvet trap in hiding]
snore [on a death] sentence
Well, I have learnt something new today - what a Markov chain text generator is! I think I might be going down a rabbit hole .... 😱 but in a good way!
Thank you
now, the above text as an (unedited) story by Chatwick and Co.
The Bench Dream
He woke in a jumpsuit, the color of dust and regret.
Someone was shaking his hand, or maybe he was shaking his own, the gesture looping back into itself.
Jump[suit] hand[shake] — a memory of greeting, or arrest.
He sat on a public bench near the chain-link fence of a half-forgotten parking lot. The air smelled faintly of tree sap and exhaust. A clot of something—thought, grief, or just the thick remnants of a cold—clung to his throat. Clot [of snot rake on mind pour and a bench], he muttered. Words came to him as scraps of graffiti, fractured signage, junkyard poetry.
Behind him, someone played a broken tuba, its deep note warbling like a wrench turned in metal. Tore [and wrench tuba].
He smiled, or thought he did, the kind of smile that only half appears before it fades. The fence shimmered, thin as thought. Through it, the world wavered: rabbits of light, cars passing, a man eating a sandwich, a woman laughing into her phone. All of it distant. The fence for a smile and rile on mind pour and mingle.
Then, as if called by rhyme, the word [dingle] appeared in his mind. [Dingle] flavor [to be savored without waiver]. It was nonsense, but it was good nonsense. It had taste. He repeated it until the meaning slipped away and became song.
He thought of guile, of favor, of cleverness that goes nowhere. Never be so clever to sit and mingle, he told himself. Cleverness doesn’t keep you warm on a bench.
Somewhere nearby, a velvet trap flapped in the wind—a poster half-torn from a wall. A face smiled down at him from it, syrupy with promise. Flap [a velvet trap in hiding].
Then came the snore, his own, echoing back like thunder from a cardboard sky. The tuba droned again, low and wet. The parking lot swelled into dream:
Guile on trial with tree sap.
Flap a velvet trap in hiding.
Snore on trial with tree sap.
He drifted into the recurring loop of his life: the same bench, the same fence, the same smile. The flavor [to be savored without waiver]. The sound of a wrench turning. The ache of repetition disguised as rhythm.
Now and then, he thought he heard someone say his name, but it was only the breeze crossing the lot, moving from one empty space to another. The single [thought on mind pour and rile on mind pour and a cap rot covered with tree sap].
Even the words began to nap.
Nap [in a parking lot].
Nap [in a death] sentence.
When the wind stilled, he opened one eye. The light had changed; evening lay thick and amber over the asphalt. The trees glistened with their own slow tears of resin. He felt almost part of them.
The world seemed to whisper its refrain again, half lullaby, half indictment:
Jump[suit] hand[shake]
Clot [of snot rake on a parking lot]
Flap [a velvet trap in hiding]
Snore [on a death] sentence.
And he thought: perhaps this is all the same thing — greeting, labor, fatigue, and release — all one long handshake between being and forgetting.
Then he slept again, under the long slow hum of the tuba, the world folding back into itself.
Again, wow! Love this "The ache of repetition disguised as rhythm."
Perhaps we should do an informal collaboration with all these words and techniques?
Could be fun. You start. Let's say we make it into a joint substack post that we post on your substack and mine. We could do it as a long chain of comments like this one. What if I take all of these comments and make a post out of it and then we grow it in the comments of that post and then publish that whole thing as an article? Unless you have a better idea in mind.
Hi Cecil. Just wanted to come on here and tell you that I got your email, and I responded last Friday. Did you get / see it? Looking forward to hearing from you.
Yes, let's do it! I'm excited!
I'm not active on Substack at the moment (I'm thinking of a direction change) but we can still do this.
I like the idea of taking all the comments so far and turning it into an article. If you want to go ahead with that, and tag me in, or make me a collaborator, or whatever works best. Then I will comment there...
I am having a play with the Markov chain text generator with some of my stories to see what arises!
Again, wow! Love this "The ache of repetition disguised as rhythm."
Perhaps we should do an informal collaboration with all these words and techniques?
I rather like that story!
Love this Cecil. Everything is collage, how we gather words, phrases, even bits of other people’s personalities. I love the wrinkles, it makes it real.
Thanks Julia. Everything IS collage. We are all constantly building a nest of things we gather to lay our creative eggs and watch over them till they can fly on their own.