This is an example of minimalist fiction I tried-not sure if it's all that great, but no one could figure out what it meant, so I suppose that's a plus-side, what with the mystery of minimalist fiction.
A green haze splits the sky-a barrier between good and evil. A rope-bound mouth rents the air, startling the balance. Intakes of breath turn shallow and water seeps in; counting sheep never worked as well as this.
Light again; the monsters under the cliffs have gone to bed. Red rivers flow through great white mountains, tumbling over the cliffs into the golden sahara. Rope still binds-no, that's just pain-but the water rises ever higher. The barrier is diminished, yet the earth remains tilted in space.
Sun-risings reveal truth, but no upturned lips today-a turtle never survives long without its shell.
"Lay down, get up, go quickly;" words spoken from above; on Day 1825, never to see his shell again.
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