Stories

A couple of years ago, a friend wrote me a birthday story. Today, I think it's finally coming true. Thank you, my dear. I think I'm ready to be my own life.

Character

Assignment: Using Kingston and Kincaid as a model, write a biography of a speaker/character's family member (whoops); this poem or story should reveal as much about the speaker as it does about his/her relative or ancestor. Remember, avoid broad or general information....thought-provoking details are the order of the day.

Submitted:
Now, THIS one was posted to one of my other blogs, psychobabble, which contains all things Gloria/5250-related because, well... it's about Gloria. Read it here.

Feedback was that it was creepy. Which... yes. It's Gloria. XD I'm not used to people not being used to the idea of her! Also, going to be writing so much about her. Just over a week to game, and gotta get those character sheets out! If more people turn in their dang surveys >:(

Specificity

Assignment: In a short story or poem, create a reality that is convincing - and yet literally impossible (for example - a dog speaks, the speaker/main character is human and can fly... without a plane etc.); this single or impossible event should happen in the every day world. Focus on using the detail to create the reality of both the normal world and the impossible event - the more believable the reality is, the more the audience will accept the magic.

Submitted:

The Power of Imagination

Things were not going well in the totalitarian regime of one Lord von Pantsface. “No no no no no!” the boy yelled. “You gotta do it! You GOTTA!"
“Nuh-uh!” his subject protested. “We’ve been playing your stupid game for all of lunch! You said I could have a turn! No fair!”
“Yeah, well, I’m a total- a dicta- the boss of everything, so you hafta do what I say!” Pouting, the kid folded his arms across his chest and kicked petulantly at the uneven surface of the playground. “That’s the way the game works!”
“Well, I quit! I’m not going to play your stupid game, and neither is Tommy, right?” Malcolm turned to the third boy who had not yet spoken, waiting impatiently for him to agree.
“I’ve been saying this was a dumb idea for the past half hour,” Tommy replied.
“YOU’RE a dumb idea!” von Pantsface retorted, shoving the offender into his co-conspirator.
“Hey!” Tommy cried. “You take that back!”
A tense moment followed, the three children staring across the intervening space at one another. No-one moved as the wind shook the trees on the other side of the chain-link fence, bringing down a rain of dead and dying leaves over the portables. And then Malcolm rolled up his sleeves.

Watching from the break room, Andrew turned to Susan and Bob. “Looks like Malcolm and Tommy are getting in some sort of fight,” he commented. Fights like this weren’t uncommon, but it always put a damper on the teachers’ day.
“How bad is it?” asked Bob, looking up from his coffee. There was always the small chance that it was a mock fight or a scuffle that would resolve itself before the teachers ever set foot on the blacktop.
Andrew mutely shook his head, then, hazarding another glance outside, pronounced, “Yeah, someone’s going to get a bloody nose if we don’t head out there soon.”
“I guess we’d better go and break it up,” Susan sighed.

“Alright, now let’s get to the bottom of this,” Bob said, leveling his eyes in turn at the three children, who sat in gloomy silence.
“Tommy, you tell me exactly what happened,” Susan commanded, singling out the most likely child to turn informant.
Tommy tried to avoid her gaze, feeling the weight of his companions’ stares on the side of his head. The teacher’s eyes, however, were too much to take. Squirming in his chair, he burst out: “It’s just that Malcolm’s friend was hogging all the play time! He made us play his stupid game and we were going to take turns but we didn’t!”
“What friend?” Andrew asked, confused.
“Lord von Pantsface!” Tommy exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at the guilty party. “He said he was a total dick tater, and we had to do what he said!” The light of comprehension began to dawn on the adults’ faces, and Susan and Andrew shared an amused glance.
“Tommy, Malcolm… You know that this Lord von Pantsface is just imaginary, right? You don’t have to do what he says, and if you don’t like what he’s doing, just ignore him. He’ll go away as soon as you don’t believe in him anymore,” Susan explained gently.
“What?! I am so real! Malcolm, tell them I’m real!” Lord von Pantsface urgently shook his friend’s shoulder.
“Hey, look! It really does work!” Tommy exclaimed. The imaginary child was already beginning to fade, Malcolm’s bright yellow shirt clearly visible through his hands.
Panicking, he began to beg. “Guys, no! Please! Don’t do this to me! We can play whatever game you want! I don’t want to disappear!”
“C’mon, Tommy, let’s go play!” Malcolm said excitedly, and the two children rushed off to the playground again.

“These kids,” Bob chuckled, sitting back down to his now cold cup of coffee. “What an imagination, eh?”
“I know,” Andrew replied. “Totalitarian dictators. I’d hate to see what they’re like when they’ve grown up.”
Susan turned to him, a puzzled expression on her face. “Who are you talking to?”

So... yeah. Had the idea of a real imaginary friend, and then the idea that one of the teachers was imaginary, and then just went with the lulz. Can you tell that I suck at writing dialogue? Oh, well. Main feedback I got was that I introduced too many characters too quickly, which was fair enough. I was pretty much just churning it out last minute ^^;

Start From The Beginning

While this isn't necessarily creative, posting it does allow me to post my teacher's response, and brag, and I will take that and run with it.

Assignment: Write 1-2 pages on why you write... What made you want to become a writer? What inspires you? How do you maintain discipline? What keeps you going? You can (also) discuss a book/author that has been/is influential for you and your craft.

Submitted:

Why I Write

Writing is actually quite a curious thing for me, and I don’t think I have quite the relationship with it that most writers do. Allow me to explain. I grew up reading; it was my favorite pastime and, for the most part, still is. My mother delighted in this, and showered me with fantasy and science fiction, hoping to aid the burgeoning author in me, and, at first, succeeded. I wrote the typical Mary Sue stories in middle school: young girl similar to me, possibly even sharing my name, runs away from home into the forest where she lives with the fairies as she is their prophesied one. Luckily, it wasn’t long before I realized that these stories were neither original nor, in any way, good. It was then, also, that things started to change.

It took me a while, but I eventually came to realize that just because I loved to read, consuming books voraciously in my spare time, didn’t mean that I was a writer. I lacked the ideas necessary to create something new or interesting, and what ideas I did foment I could never see through to completion. What I could do, though, was edit. And editing not only allowed me a way to help my friends (many of whom are writers), it gave me a chance to be the nitpicky, annoying, perfectionist that I am without being a brat for it. I could get away with, and even get paid for it!

This isn’t to say that I don’t enjoy writing, or am completely awful at it. If I am given a prompt, more often than not I can come up with something that will tickle the fancy of many reading it. But I, personally, don’t feel that this qualifies me as a writer. Ultimately, writing is not what I would like to do for a living. Observing that process, however, is fascinating and I hope will allow me to understand the minds of those who would.

Feedback: "You are a writer, I can attest to that." I had this teacher last semester for literature from Chaucer to Milton, and she is pretty awesome. That made me smile a lot.

Things Left Undone

This is silly. I've been telling myself since near the beginning of the semester that I would post the things I've been writing for class up here, but I keep dawdling because I wanted to do the writing for the prompts I asked on twitter before the class started, and put them up first. Just post things, woman! Sheesh. Also, I re-posted that thing I posted a long time ago and then took down and saved as a draft, because, while it's not the nicest thing to read... it's honest? It's how I felt at the time? And it is interesting to see that progression as a person. It's not really guts so much anymore, anyway. Usually my back. I like spines.

Hm.

I just stepped outside to get the mail. Returning, the view of the living room was a pleasant one. It's starting to get dark out, and the lights inside looked homey. I like this house. I really do. It's got good memories attached to it, and moreover it's just a nice place. Living here this semester has been a lot better than switching houses. Next semester it looks like I'll be switching houses again. My schedule won't give me an excuse to stay only here, and I couldn't handle the fallout if I did. And then, next year I'll be off somewhere else. And that'll be great. But, this is the first time I've had a real attachment to a place. It's interesting.

I think perhaps when we moved from K's house, the reason I didn't kick up a fuss was because she was making TOO much fuss, and couldn't believe that I wasn't horrendously upset to be leaving. She never understood that it's people, not places, that lend things significance for me. But we moved, and it was fine. And now, here... I don't mind leaving. But L's looking at selling it. Which is her decision, and that's also fine, and it would be good for her and M to move in together and settle down. I'll admit that I don't entirely get him, but he's good for her, and I'm happy to see her happy. His kids are awesome, too, if all older than me. (I met them at Thanksgiving and was very nervous, but they were all perfectly friendly, and one is a huge geek.) Mostly, for a moment I could see IX and myself living here. I stayed home all day and did nothing today, but if I could copy-edit from home... this is a place I'd love to do it. But I'll be gone soon, and as much as I'd love it, I could hardly make enough to even cover the mortgage on this place, let alone rent it out. So it'll stay a nice memory. And I'll keep thinking that someday I'll have a place like this and realize that cozy image in my head. It'll be difficult. And nothing like what I hope; after all, it is an idealized picture... But I'll make it work. And maybe moving across the pond wouldn't be so scary after all. I guess we'll see.

Occupy Berkeley

Every time I go back, they seem to be more well-established, so good for them, I guess. No video this time, but I got some pictures. They're not nearly as big as Occupy Oakland (of which I'll try to get some video next week) but, to be fair, Oakland has all of Frank Ogawa Plaza, while Berkeley just has part of the Shattuck square area.

When I asked this guy if I could take his picture, he said, "Sure! ... If you can get it in the New York Times, that'd be even better!"