Poem #03

Dark Purple,

looks like royalty.

Feels like a soft cape, Dark Purple.

Smells like new cloth, Dark Purple, or sometimes fresh grapes.

Tastes clean, like success, like dreams, Dark Purple weaves its way through my day.

Sounds like the city, the night sky, lights clouding further lights, Dark Purple is the destination.

On my Dark Purple days I'm focused, I'm feeling the thoughts that you feel when you're there, known.

Poem #02

"Couch"

The best part is the cushions.

soft as clouds

No, the best part is the length.

for height-endowed

No no, the best part is the depth.

for sinking in

No no no , the best part is the peace.

hear a pin

No no no no, the best part is the back.

for support

No no no no no, the best part is the legs.

four support

Writing Starter #15

Secret doors.
Creaking floors.
Art on walls.
Slippery halls.
Apple cores.

Poem #01

A pinecone, gently growing.
The river, gently flowing.
The crow, gently crowing.
And me, not giving a shit.

The leaves, gently falling.
The bug, gently crawling.
The puddle, gently sprawling.
And me, not giving a shit.

The forest, gently breathing.
The wind, gently screaming.
The Spring, gently leaving.
And me, not giving a shit.

Writing Starter #14

Monster at the window.
I hit it and then he's thrown
Down to the ground that's below.
I hear the door open slow.

Writing Starter #13

Object:  Shovel

Description:  My shovel can do a variety of things.  It can shovel snow.  It can shovel dirt.  It can shovel sand.  It has a green hand, and a shiny silver blade on the end.  My shovel is like a friend to me.

My shovel is the shit
I use it all the time
I love its every bit
And shovel up my mind.
 

Writing Starter #12

“That’s weird, thought Cupid. I’ve never hit the wrong person like that before.”

Come to think of it, that's not even a person is it?  Cupid floated downward to get a closer look to realize that his arrow was wedged firmly in the buttocks of a pale grey statue.  Well that was a waste of a shot!  Cupid floated merrily on his way, still shaken by the event.  The next person that walked by that statue would get an unwanted stony visitor in the night.  

Writing Starter #11

Dad takes his job as a packaging designer FAR too seriously.  Every couple of weeks, he shows up at our door in some new ridiculous getup.  

"Wouldn't feel comfortable shipping products in it if its not safe enough for humans!" he always says.  

I think he's crazy.  But that's what life was like on Birch Lane, in house 4950.  It was anything but normal.  

I carefully unraveled the plastic surrounding my father with a small box-cutter.  He collapsed onto the floor, still unconscious.  He would be up in a few hours, ready to enthusiastically describe the experience to a table of people dripping with apathy.  

Writing Starter #10

“That Thursday morning had been going so well until I found the neighborhood handyman dead on my workroom floor.”

End:  By Friday morning, everything was clear.  Ten seemingly isolated incidents, all connected.  Handymen dead, all over the city.  When will it all stop?  Not today.  The handyman killer handed me the knife.  Our next target was near.  

Writing Starter #9

The thing in life that interests me the most is composing music.  I have been studying it by doing it very seriously for the past several years.  I listen to music, I watch musicals, in order to obtain inspiration and knowledge about the subject.  I also take lessons for composition, I am always around music, always thinking about my next project.  High School makes writing music hard sometimes, because most of the time when I have the most creative inspiration is when I have the most homework.  When I get inspired to compose, that's all that I will focus on, and I will simply not do homework if it gets in the way.  I get penalized for this, which I believe is unfair in some ways.

Writing Starter #8

Life would be so much easier if I were a cartoon character.  I would get a flat rate on everything I bought.  I wanted to think of more puns but I'm really not feeling up to it today.  Basically, being a cartoon would be horrifying because I could not control my own destiny.  Some writer sitting in some dark room in the real world could control my every move.  Everything I did would be some planned plot with some neat resolution.  That's not what life is.  Life could never be a cartoon because cartoons only exist within the life and existence that we have created for ourselves.  But creative writing is about depicting the impossible, and exploring the unimaginable, so I probably should have just tried to think about it instead of writing all of this crap.

Raymond and Joe (Short Story DRAFT)

Can’t feel my left foot, I thought to myself. I squinted my eyes and took a look around. Nothing but empty water on all sides. I was suddenly aware of the presence of a soft, wet plank between my fingers. The rolling waves gently caressed my cheeks with an icy touch. Chipped, white paint crackled between my fingers as I shifted my weight onto my elbow. Nothing else distinguishable was around me to help me get my bearings, or expand upon where I could possibly be or how I had arrived there.

Can’t feel my right foot, I thought to myself. I opened heavy eyelids wider and looked straight up at the dark clouds that blanketed my little section of the sky. My plan of escape got in a car crash on its way to me. The water swirled and swirled in my vision, myself bobbing up and down rhythmically. My head turning in hypnotic circles, spinning, moving, floating, moving, sleepier with each seismic billow of liquid.

I could feel the ebb and flow of the water, the pull of different worldly forces beckoning me down into the abyss. First my chin became submerged, my upper lip desperately reaching for the diminishing pocket of air that it still had access to all the way. Then the water filled in the corners of my mouth, and wrapped it's way around my skull as if capturing me in a bubble of liquid. The last thing I saw before my eyes filled with blue was a small white dot.

After they had hoisted me aboard we sat around a little table drinking mugs of coffee. The boat was small and modest, but it presented a homely level of comfort that struck a nice chord with me after my near-death experience. The two men were rather large, one with a matted black beard.

“Cream or sugar? Or just cream? Or just sugar? I'm Raymond,” the bearded man rambled.

“Aw leave him alone for a little while there Ray, you'll scare him of the edge again won't ya?”

“That's Joe,” continued Raymond. “He' not much of a social type if you get my meaning.”

“Not much of a social type? Now what exactly is that supposed to mean there Ray?”

“I only meant you're not one to talk much is all.”

“Is that some sort of an insult there Ray? Is that. . . would you classify that as, ya know, an insult there Ray? Huh Ray? Would you? Because surely I would in your situation, that's the type of comment I would consider an insult if it were to be coming out of my mouth. Clear as day I'd consider it that. So I should hope you'd have the sense to as well Ray. Well Ray? Do you Ray? Do you there?”

I took a few timid sips of coffee in the silence that followed. A misty haze of exhaustion seemed to cloud my sight as I looked down at the brown substance. My vision began to swim before me. The mug slipped out of my hands and crashed onto the floor, spreading brown pockets of liquid across the deck.

“Now look what ya done now Joe! Look what ya gone and done!”

“Now wait a second there Ray, I don't see one morsel of event that would lead you to believe ME of all people caused this.”

“Well ya gone and scared the poor man with your rambling Joe. Ya scared the poor fellow.”

“If anyone's doing any scaring it's you, with your viciously flawed logic there Ray.”

“Now why do you always have to get all philosophical on me Joe, you know I can't keep them ideas straight in my head.”

“I warned ya I wouldn't stand for any disrespect there Ray. I warned ya. But you didn't listen there. I warned ya I wouldn't hesitate to get intellectual on your ass there Ray. Don't say I didn't warn ya. I warned ya.”

We mopped up the coffee with some wrinkled rags from a drawer inside the cabin. On my hands and knees I began to feel a strange sense of danger surrounding the unpredictability of these two men. They seemed nice enough, but they also seemed utterly insane.

“Who are you calling insane there Ray? You think it's insane that I won't degrade myself by cleaning up a mess I didn't make? Do you honestly think that Ray? Do you? Honestly think that?”

“It's insane ya won't help out, Joe. I do think that, yes I do.”

I tend to enjoy the idea of doing more than the actual doing. I like to become excited, become committed, become prepared for something huge, monumental. Then when the time comes to make it possible, to put forth the effort required and then some, the passion never lasts. Finding passion isn't hard, but finding a way to harness that passion and turn it into hard work is near impossible. But when you control the reins of your own mind, great things are suddenly achievable. Doors begin to open, awe and respect begin to surround your every move, and for one simple reason alone. The humble know that to say nothing is to say everything. Let yourself speak for itself, but not yourself, the projection of yourself created by yourself, ambassador to yourself. This alone says it all.

This is why I said nothing when Joe pulled out his harpoon gun and fired it directly into Raymond's chest with a sickening thunk, and Raymond ran towards the railing, blood streaming out of his ribcage, and flung himself over the edge, and Joe's foot got caught in the harpoon's rope, and Joe got dragged towards the railing, and Joe went under the railing, almost all of him, except for his foot which got caught in between the rails, and Joe's foot broke in half with an audible scream, and Joe went under the water along with Raymond, and Joe and Raymond died that day.

I searched the boat and found pictures of myself, and some other people I didn't recognize were with me too. I found papers with my name on them, the boat belonged to me. I sailed on to the nearest shore and headed for a hospital, where I would eventually wake up and remember everything.

Writing Starter #7

Focus Character:  Milton Price

1.)  The best thing to ever happen to Milton Price was to see the look of joy on children's faces when they played with the first toy that he ever produced.  His greatest passion is making toys, and seeing one become successful was incredible to him.

2.)  He fell in love early on in toy-making school to a man named Jeff Jingle.  They adopted a daughter from Botswana, and live happily in Seattle producing toys.  Jeff Jingle is a stay at home dad, who is missing one of his toes.  

3.)  Milton Price is fiscally conservative and socially liberal, supporting gay rights and pro-choice movements.  He does like to make money though, and opposes taxes on the rich.

4.)  Milton Price wants money more than anything.  His greed will eventually push him away from his family and loved ones.

5 Character Sketches

Character 1:  Milton Price - Toy Salesman
Bad things:  One of the toys he sells malfunctions and kills three children in a freak accident.  His work in the toy factories keeps him away from his family creating a growing divide between him and his daughter.

Character 2:  Brandy Barnes - Barn Constructer
Bad things:  A barn door falls on his leg and it must be amputated.  His young son is trampled by a cow during "bring your child to work day."

Character 3:  Stanley Owen - Nascar Driver
Bad things:  He lost the biggest race of his career in shame after showboating and spinning out.  His yacht was taken over by a renegade group of pirates and piloted to the Caribbean.

Character 4:  Hugo Hansen - Amateur Filmmaker
Bad things:  His parents have never supported him in his dream to make movies for a living.  While filming on location in Mexico, he stepped on a cactus.

Character 5:  Ralph Cross - Cheese-maker
Bad things:  A giant roll of cheese fell off of a shelf and broke his foot.  Discovered that he is actually lactose intolerant.  

Writing Starter #6

Stasis:  The main character (unnamed for now) is floating in the middle of the ocean holding onto a piece of driftwood.  He does not know how he got there, or where he is.

Trigger:  A sailing boat comes into sight, heading straight for the main character.  It stops next to him and picks him up.

The quest:  Two large men are on the boat, one with a huge beard.  They give the main character coffee and have casual conversation.

Surprise:  The two large men suddenly have a disagreement of some sort and one pulls out a harpoon gun and shoots the other one in the chest.

Critical choice:  The main character chooses not to intervene in any way and watches the two fight it out.

Climax:  The two men continue fighting until they tumble off of the boat and sink into the ocean.

Reversal:  The main character searches the boat and finds pictures of himself and papers saying the boat belongs to him.

Resolution:  The main character sails back to shore and heads to the hospital to get his head checked.

Subway At Night (Flash Fiction Story)

There was only one other person sitting on the dirty bench next to the dirty walls under the dirty ground on that Tuesday night at 3:30 AM in Arbor Station.  He smelled like piss, and I wanted to move.  The lopsided clock became the focal point of my vision, the hands ticking slower with each passing second.  Trains run late, I realized this.  They run later when you want them to run earlier, and earlier when you need a moment to catch your breath.  He hadn’t said a word, and neither had I.  The silence was agonizing.  Finally the rumbling of the train crept into the sight of my ears, sending a wave of relief through me.  The smelly old man stood slowly, and shuffled towards the tracks.  There was an eagerness to his movements, slow as they were.  He stopped directly at the edge of the platform, and peered down the tracks, clearing his throat.  I wanted to cry out as I realized what was happening in front of me.  I wanted to run forward and grab him before he stepped off of the edge.  I wanted to convince him to change his mind.  But I didn’t.  The train arrived on time that night, 3:35 AM.  It didn’t stop at Arbor Station.  Nobody to pick up.   

Writing Starter #5

40 Red horses, 6 Yellow bears, 1 Blue turtle, 5 Yellow snakes, and 2 Blue gorillas was the price.  King Bedebe never refrained from making obtuse requests, for he did not know any better.  When the lowly peasant had requested an appointment with the king, he had not realized that it would involve the collection of such a ridiculous collection of obscurities.  When it came time, he had not gathered the required amount of animals, and was promptly executed.  

Fruity Pebbles Ingredients Used:  Red 40, Yellow 6, Blue 1, Yellow 5, and Blue 2.

Writing Starter #4

"No you idiot, AFTER school," she exclaimed forcefully.
"You're a fistula."
"What does that even mean?"
"It's a passage of scar tissue that goes through the body."
The nearby clock ticked impatiently.
"Stop changing the subject you idiot," she sputtered.
"Stop talking to me then."
"You know what this means don't you?  It's bad.  It's very very bad, and it was caused by you."
"It was your idea."
"Can't you just keep it safe for a few more hours?"
"That's the thing. . .  I'm pretty sure it's dead already."
"You're dead."
"No, it's dead."
"If it's dead then you're dead."
"But I'm not dead."
"Then it's not dead."
"But it is dead."
"Then you're dead."
"Not yet."
"Idiot."
And then the owner burst out of the classroom.
"The bag!" he screamed, spittle flying forth.
"Okay."
"I know it was you."
"Okay."
"Give it to me."
"Okay."
"Jerry."
"Oh."
"How could you."
It was dead.

Flash Fiction Question Responses

1.)  Grant Faulkner believes that America's vastness and complex infrastructure lends itself to a maximalist, large type of writing.  America teaches you to "go big," both in life and in writing.  This is why novels are so deeply embedded in this type of culture.

2.)  Faulkner describes "Flash Fiction" as a story that is under 1000 words.  He argues that "going small" can be just as effective in writing as "going big."

3.)  When you write short, every line can hold symbolic meaning and carry the story forward.  Normal, everyday things can seem like large dramatic events when they are highlighted in the context of a very short story.

4.)  Faulkner writes that every line of a flash fiction story must "carry a symbolic weight" in order to move the story forward.  Every little thing that is unnecessary can be cut out of the story.

5.)  Faulkner makes the point that the age of social media lends itself to short-form writing more than ever, and I agree with this statement.  People are able to quickly share their writing on a multitude of websites, and short stories can be quickly read and enjoyed by all of your friends.  It makes writing and sharing a quick and easy affair, and increases the connectivity of creativity.

Writing Starter #3

I tried to explain, but I couldn’t.

You looked at me.

I tried to explain, but I couldn’t.

You spoke to me.

I tried to explain, but I couldn’t.

You touched my hand.

I tried to explain, but I couldn’t.

You turned away.

I did try to explain, but I couldn’t.

You stepped further.

I tried to explain, but I couldn't.

You turned the corner.

I tried to explain, but I couldn't.

You were gone.

I tried to explain to myself, but I couldn't.

Writing Starter #2

You’re digging in your backyard when all of sudden you hit something.  You can’t tell what it is so you thrust the shovel into the dirt one more time and the shovel breaks.  Disconcerted, you continue back to your garage to retrieve a replacement shovel.  Your garage isn't there.  You look around, now more confused than you were before and realize that this isn't even your house at all.  This isn't even your neighborhood.  In a confused panic, you stumble onto the street to realize that this isn't even a neighborhood at all.  And then you realize that your shovel was actually a giant thermometer and now there is mercury all over the grass.    

Writing Starter #1

My favorite work of creative expression is the score of the musical "Sweeney Todd," written by Stephen Sondheim.  I am constantly inspired by anything that Sondheim has written, and this is my favorite work of his by a slim margin.  Whenever I need any sort of creative boost I know I can just listen to a piece by Sondheim and instantly want to compose.  In Sweeney Todd, Sondheim is able to combine horrifying themes with gorgeous melodies and orchestrations to create an amazing juxtaposition.  I find it so fascinating that pieces about murder and cannibalism can be so beautiful.