By André Withoutalastname
It was a pleasant Thursday as far as Axver could tell. He hadn't looked outside much, but the sun seemed to somewhat lack the summer heat he despised and a refreshing breeze kept the temperature at a comfortable level. The day slowly melted into evening, and as the sun sunk behind the Gold Coast's Hinterland, Axver finished clearing the last of the accumulated spam and comments from his inbox and began to seriously think about making his LiveJournal entry for the day. A few ideas had been formulating all day, bouncing haphazardly around his brain, seeking events of Saturday to emphasis and adequate forms of description to utilise, but it wasn't until now that he had begun to properly construct his entry. As far as he could tell, conditions were fine for writing - the temperature was not enough to liquify his brain, dinner was cooking in the oven, U2 was playing in his headphones, and ideas were clanging together, sorting themselves into a novel of an entry.
It was then that the unexpected happened. An ant crawled across Axver's left big toe. Startled and bothered, he flung his foot into the air and crashed it against the side of his desk, succeeding in either hurling the ant for ant-miles or crushing it - he wasn't quite sure which occurred and didn't really care, just as long as it was off his foot. The event seemed insignificant and meaningless, but the collision of foot against desk was enough to dislodge the ideas in his head. They began to fragment, and before he knew what was happening, the side of his being that turned thoughts into typed entries was desperately grasping at ideas before they slipped away. His joyful Saturday morning discovery of functioning Internet clung to the typist's outstretched hand for a second before losing its grip, ripped from an opportunity to appear in an entry by the memory of purchasing the Vertigo single for an uncle, a recollection that was swiftly tumbling into the abyss of lost ideas and taking with it anything that was in the way. The series of memories built around the enjoyable visit of bono_man were next to crumble into the abyss - the foundation, comprised of trading U2 bootlegs, began to suffer serious structural faults, and before the typist's hands could rectify the situation, the entire structure tumbled. Discussing U2, burning DVDs, watching rare footage, laughing at extremely rough early U2 demos, poking fun at Bono's lack of co-ordination and dancing skills - all of it came apart with loud screechs of the mind and vanished. The foundation, lacking a structure, was confined to uselessness and abandoned by the typist's hands. Unfortunately, it was too late to save any more events of the day. In the time wasted by the typist to save recollections of bono_man's visit and the vain attempt to retain the subject line 'People 4-0 Stalkers', the remainder of the day had well and truly vanished into the abyss of lost ideas, never to be seen again.
The abyss made a strange creaking noise, somehow wobbled within Axver's mind for a few seconds, sealed itself, became uprooted from the landscape of the brain, and then began to squeeze itself out through the nearest ear. Axver, still clinging to a few meagre shadows of ideas and trying to formulate an entry about Saturday in the absence of almost all creativity, wasn't aware that the sealed abyss had leapt from his head until he felt it slide down his arm before slipping across his keyboard, bouncing crazily off his desk and the wall, and ultimately disappearing for good behind his bookshelf.
"Now what do I?" Axver asked himself. He knew he had omitted a 'do' but thought it seemed somewhat amusing to leave the question typed incorrectly. Uncertain about what he would say in his entry and reluctantly abandoning the thought of a Saturday entry as it would only result in aimless blabber, he ate his dinner, poured a glass of lemonade, drank it, and then loaded the Update Journal page. A short while later, he had a finished product significantly different from anything he had planned and went to enter in final details such as the time and current music.
Finally, Axver thought to remind the reader of a crucial element of information. He felt it should appear outside an LJ-cut, written in small text.
Although he had indeed found himself somewhat devoid of ideas and almost wholly devoid of adequate ways in which to present what he had, some events were fictionalised and/or exaggerated in order to provide a more entertaining tale for the reader. He did desire to make it clear, however, that no fictionalisation had occurred in either of his previous novel entries and was not to occur in future without a similar disclaimer. Axver, after all, was a major fan of honesty.