Posts tagged creative writing
Posts tagged creative writing
More importantly, I graduate with my mommy. What an awesome thing to do especially on mother’s day weekend. =)
I graduated from college yesterday. Here are a few of my fellow English graduates. AHHHH! I can’t believe it really happened.
About to head to school to take my final FINAL as an undergraduate. Bring it on, Shakespeare! I cannot wait to graduate!!! Sleep all day and party all night!! ;)
So ready to be done! All I have to do tomorrow is revise one thing and do a rewrite on a paper for The Drama. Then I have all day Wednesday, which is full of meetings about sending my resume out to more people and talk about my writing as a whole. Then head home and watch two movies and write reports on them for my Thursday class. Which brings me to Thursday which I only my final film class and we’re watching a movie (shocker!).
Friday is the English Senior Send-Off (AWE! That’s me!) and the awards banquet is after that.
Saturday is work in the morning and going on my first official date with a certain firefighter. Sunday is church and work. Then I have work and relaxation all the following week, up until Saturday which my graduation. I shall walk across that stage and be DONE with college for now. I shall be getting my masters in a few years (hopefully at NYU), but now I shall look for career-building jobs. Adios, Dairy Queen!!! … hopefully.
Simply unraveling - first at the seams, but then the thread begins to slowly pull away. The form changing from brown, corduroy pants to just fabric laying on the floor. The thread slowly takes away one leg, then the other. Those infamous brown pants becoming nothing but thread full of tangles. Knots. To try and put it back together is impossible. It’s too far gone. The thread sits on the floor in a heap, left alone with eyes circling, staring, crying. Someone finally decides to clean up. The thread is tossed into the trash, taken to the dump, and left. Everything once loved, piled together to be forgotten with the passing time. Somewhere in that pile in a chuck of thread that once formed pants, that held two legs, that attached to a man who too is just a memory of what he once was.
On Front Porches
It’s much easier for me to make major life, multi-million dollar decisions, than it is to decide on a carpet for my front porch. That’s the truth. – Oprah Winfrey
Before you even meet someone, the first thing that you notice is the outward appearance. Personality has the power to keep your interest, but if the packaging is damaged, the chance for that power to work, might not even occur. You might just walk away and meet someone who has bathed in the last decade.
The same concept can apply for a house. Walking down a street, you can look at houses and you can tell whether they are homes or just houses. Is the lawn cut? Are there curtains in the windows? Any flowers planted? Is there a rocking chair on the front porch? Is there a front porch at all?
A front porch can give any house the perception of being a home. Whether it is, is another thing entirely. This small appendage from any house can either welcome or discourage a visitor from entering through the front door.
A front porch can be a great launching pad to start an adventure. Whether you jump out, greeting the morning and begin, or you sit for hours contemplating your next move, it is your choice. It can be an escape from the simplicity of your life, offering the news of the world that goes beyond the badly painted walls of your home.
Three small steps can also become the most romantic spot in the world. The first step holds all your prayers that you brushed well enough earlier for this first, awkward kiss. The second stop is where you run to when the heavens have decided to pour down on upon you. And the top, final step, is where you pause to collect yourself before bringing your first child into the home that will hold first steps, first words, first tears.
That familiar place becomes your friend in times of heartache; Holding you while you let the tears fall over a lost love, always welcoming you home after a long, exhausting day at a job that underpays you, holds every secret shared between you and a neighbor. Not only was your best friend, but it was your mother’s as well. Those few small steps held her as she stood, crying, watching you drive away in a rented U-Haul hours after you left her sight.
My own mother and I plant flowers every Mother’s Day. After hours of digging, weeding, and watering, the front walk looks transformed. It’s in those few moments when everything is put away, the sun is setting, and the smell of wet dirt is lodged in my nostrils, that time seems to slow down. I can sit there with my mom, dirty and tired, and not have to say a word. The pure joy on her face becomes etched into the cracks and imperfections of the porch. This is when time stops. I’m sitting with my two best friends and for just a few breaths, I understand the true meaning of peace.
Any criticism or help is SOOO welcomed!!
You want to rip that skinny, little finger right off, blonde frizzy hair still attached. Every damn day it’s the same thing: she sits, she giggles, she twirls hair that defies gravity, and you choke down the same scream. The perfect specimen of the human race enters and interrupts any hope of trying to remember how to give yourself the Heimlich maneuver. James. Hair gelled so stiff it is on the verge of becoming a new element, eyes green as that cucumber you inhaled last night, and those lips that offer your brain no justifiable comparisons. You trace his every movement; the moment he walked in on slinky legs and sniffed up mucus caused by the change of seasons to him kicking his bag under that lucky chair your focus never strayed. He takes in every person in the room – you’re not included.
***I wrote this for class and I can’t tell if I even like this to revise it and really work on it. I wrote this in 15 minutes so I’m sure there are plenty of errors and mistakes and it just sucks, but is the idea even worth exploring?
You want to come out and scream at that girl sitting by the window to shut up. She’s twirling her hand on her finger again. Just like every other day. Every. Damn. Day. Here comes James. Perfect James with the wavy blonde hair gelled so stiff that a hurricane wouldn’t move a hair. You watch him sit down in his chair and put his things under the desk. He too is watching everyone. Everyone except you. He doesn’t even know you exist.
“Hey, James.” The voice cuts through the air and pierces my body like a knife. It’s Stacy. Beautiful and talented Stacy. She is sitting down next to perfect James and I can almost hear the angels begin to sing. You clear your throat and I feel myself doing it too. Not yet. “Have a good weekend?”
“Eh,” James replies. He is fiddling with his blue notebook. The one with all the writing all over it. You want to move to read the words. I can feel the urge down to my toes. Just move. One step. One step. “How was yours?” Eye contact. The room goes silent as you watch them continue to walk. There’s only a slight buzzing in your ears letting you know that he’s not talking to you.
“Hey, Briana.” Joseph plops down next to me, dumping his crap all over our table. “Sorry,” he mumbles and he attempts to organize his things. “You get all your homework done?” I nod. “Lucky, I’m so fucking behind.”
“Way to go,” I whisper. The instructor comes in late and tells the class to pull out a sheet of paper for a quiz. The class moans in unison, including you. You watch James rip a sheet of paper out of his notebook perfectly. He hands it to Stacy and rips out another one.
The professor asks a question and I answer quickly while you sit there, pondering about James. What kind of gel does he use? Isn’t Stacy seeing someone? Slut. Does James like her? Why won’t he look over here? Is my hair a mess? Next question. I tuck my hair behind my ears as I continue to write like a madman. How old is he? Why won’t he look over here? “Pass them forward when you’re done.” I scribble my name in the corner before passing the paper to Joseph. You cough loudly and look around the room, making eye contact with a few people. James doesn’t look over. I laugh. “How’d you all do? Was it that hard?”
You stare intently at James, trying to burn a hole through his skull. Still, he does not look over. Stacy whispers in his ear and he chuckles. BITCH. “It was the usual,” I answer.
“Can you elaborate Briana?” Professor Nit-Wit asks.
“Sure. Uh… It wasn’t that hard since I read, but there was a lot that I couldn’t remember. Like the part about the duck? I can’t remember what he was wearing. But then again, it was just a duck.” The class offers a few laughs. James smiles, but doesn’t laugh. You smile. You fidget in your seat, trying to pose without making it obvious you’re posing. You toss your black hair over your shoulder and sigh.
“What is wrong with you, Bri?” Joseph asks.
“What d’you mean?”
“You can’t sit still for five minutes. Damn.” Joseph puts his attention back on the professor who is now writing notes on the blackboard. Your eyes narrow at the back of his head, but you quickly erase the emotion and glance over at James who is staring at us. He smirks and nods a ‘hey.’ You begin to melt and I smile back. He looks down at his notebook and begins writing down the notes on the board. I pull out of my own notebook and begin writing while you think of a million reasons as to why he was looking over. He looked at me. He looked at me. He looked. At me. He looked at ME.
Us. He looked at us. I watch as you take notes on the paper and scribble his name in the corner of the sheet inside of a heart. A few smaller hearts go around it. You nudge Joe and he looks over at it, rolls his eyes, and writes on his own paper ‘Good luck with that.’ You reach over and scribble it out on his paper and draw a smiley face next to it. He chuckles and goes back to taking notes. I scream at you to focus on the notes, but you just write James over and over in different fonts that I didn’t know I knew how to write, and I know, as do you, that I will be getting a D on the next exam while you get an A in calligraphy.
On Front Porches
With Jackson there was quiet solitude. Just to sit and look at the landscape. An inner quietness. After dinner, to sit on the back porch and look at the light. No need for talking. For any kind of communication. – Lee Krasner
Meeting people can be an exciting event, if you make it one. But before you even meet someone, the first thing that you notice is his appearance. What does he look like? Sure, personality can either mean you will continue to socialize with him, but if the outward appearance looks rundown or uninviting, you might not even that chance. You might just walk away and meet someone else. Someone who looks like he cares.
The same goes for a house. Walking down a street, you look at houses and you can tell whether they are just houses or homes. Is the lawn cut? Are there curtains in the windows? Any flowers planted? Is there a rocking chair on the front porch?
A front porch gives any house the perception of being a home. Whether it is or not is another question. This small appendage from any house can welcome or discourage a person from entering through the front door.
A front porch can be a great launching pad to start an adventure. It can be an escape from the simplicity of your home life. Whether you jump out, greeting the morning and begin, or you sit for hours contemplating your next move. It’s where you find the news of the world that’s past the four badly painted walls of your home.
It’s also the most romantic spot in the world. It holds all the thoughts of you praying that you brushed your teeth well enough for this first, awkward kiss goodnight. Where you run to when the heavens have decided to pour down on upon you. Where you collect yourself before you bring your first child into the home that will hold first steps, first words, first tears.
The front porch can become your friend in times of heartache. It can hold you while you let the tears fall over a lost love. It can welcome you home after a long, exhausting day at a job that underpays you. It holds your secrets that you share with a best friend before you play Tag. It held your mom as she stood, crying, watching you drive away in a rented U-haul.
It’s where I played with my Barbies during the summer. Making them having excellent journeys that no one could ever recreate. It’s where I sat with my best friend, eating ice cream, and picking at old scabs on my knees. When it is covered in snow, I always make sure it’s completely shoveled and not one snowflake lays on it. It’s where my mom and I sit after we’ve planted flowers and admire their beauty. It provides the perfect place where I can spy on the odd neighbors across the street, laying in their front yard. Memories are made there and are always present.
Never underestimate a front porch. It will always be there, waiting for you to return home. Never to judge you. With all its cracks and imperfections, it’s better than any old pair of jeans.
According to Popular Mechanics, April, 1951,
all of this should have been taken care of by now:
so many roads leading nowhere. In those glossy pages
rocket packs soar over domed cities and all of us
take in delicious food through translucent tubes
and somehow, two moons: one where we farm
our wholesome “food of the future”;
one where we know provocative dances and greet each other,
each mingled race, with intricate handshakes
and bright smiles beneath our visors.
To think of the far-reaching
conclusions we draw, and in such bright colors . . .
well, there’s been a miscalculation somewhere, a hitch
in one of our complicated tenses: past, present, future;
the same human problem over and over. Even as I speak,
I’m getting ahead of myself.
It’s true that we have established
a day before Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony—a tune
no one was humming as they stepped
heavily through the square, and this space, this before, is where
the greatest absence lies; big bang, before Christ. Imagine
the terrible dreams of the first explorers
carrying canoes across our continent;
vicious fish, snakes bigger than bears, topographical lines
of the map showing only where they’d been.
But they woke, walked the earth
and did not fall off, they tried to solve the problem
of armadillos: exactly how deadly
are they? Do we dare push through and disturb
their heavily armored sleep? They named the wide river,
then crossed it. These days our dreams
are finite, solidified—we shy from the known edge
of the water. We solve problems
by saying Strongly Agree, Agree Somewhat, Not Sure,
Somewhat Disagree, Disagree Strongly. A recent test proves
that the bloody tears on the cheeks of the Madonna are actually
of blood from a worshipper’s cut finger, as if that weren’t
an illustration of grief. In my hometown they’ve been planning
the same bridge for twenty years while the river gets wider.
Beethoven wrote one note. Then another.
-Kirk Robinson (my creative writing professor/English professor… genius)
I got my new schedule for this semester! FINAL semester of college! Well, right now anyway. I can’t wait to graduate!
I can’t wait to start on Tuesday! I miss school. My brain misses the knowledge intake.