I am not entirely certain where I am.
For that matter, who I am.
Or even what.
I have a theory. In it, I did not exist before this moment.
My metal limbs are tangled, curled in a fetal position. An enormous hand grips me. Gently, for the sake of my wings and my delicate size. The cool fingers are tense. Through a gap in the their grip I see the long pale length of an arm, disappearing beneath a sleeve. The wide flat back. All topped with an intriguing mess of rich green curls.
From that height, voices. One in favor of my existence. Proud. I hear it ringing in the bouncing, high pitched voice.
The other, melodic tone is more even. More unsure. Thoughtful and wary.
I know, and not how, that the green-haired one created me. And the question over my existence is less about me and more about her power.
My joints whir and hum as I move. I have been still too long.
I am filled with the urge to do something. To take something apart. Transform it into something else.
The hand moves. A looming face to each side. I spot a necklace on the other one’s collar, beneath dark hair.
A good place to start.
Author’s note: These snippets are unedited free-writing exercises that I use as a way to shift my brain into a creative state. I use Lynda Barry’s What It Is YouTube timed exercises (usually 9 minutes worth of writing) for these. They are handwritten in a composition notebook, and then typed up here. As I transcribe them, I do tiny grammar and spelling checks, but the overall “clarity” (if you can call it that) of the exercise is left as-is.