Shit I wrote at the Conference today. Not masterpieces, but cute (IMO).
From Flash Memoir (time for each prompt, 4 minutes.)
Prompt: Fingers
My mother’s fingers are short and stubby like my little sister’s; my dad, however, has long fingers like mine. One day, at my first and last dance lesson, the teacher looked at my fingers, awkwardly held in the wrong position connected to a knobby figure where every limb was out of place, and told me, “Your hands are a beautiful gift from your parents.”
I never went back to dance after that.
Prompt: Talk About a Person in Your Life
In a family full off conservative, religious people, it is often more than uncomfortable for me to make the trip back to India with my family. It is six weeks of discomfort, like fingers in an odd-fitting glove; I know I should be there, but nothing fits. My dad’s younger brother, however, has a small apartment in a dodgy neighborhood with no statues of elephant-headed gods anywhere in the vicinity (I’ve checked), and dresses in clothes that do not match while reading Shakespeare.
My mother whispers in my ear, telling me that he is a communist.
Prompt: Three Pieces concerning words that Start with 'B'
Basketball
When I was in fourth grade, all my friends took tap dancing.
I took basketball lessons; I was the only girl.
To this day, I find it funny that I made my first basket on the last day of class.
Bored
Whenever I am bored in Mr. Duay’s last period Physics class, I draw. Sometimes I use pencil, sometimes markers, but more often than not, I use charcoal. Three weeks ago, I did a picture of Paul McGann from the Horatio Hornblower movies in class.
Just last week, however, I wrote a poem called, “A Variable to be Taken Into Account When Grading My Physics Test,” a little piece about how much I despise Physics. Strangely enough, it’s the first bit of good writing I’ve done in months. Perhaps this means I ought to like the class, feel grateful for whatever exists in its atmosphere that induces such creative inspiration-but I don’t.
Bruise
I fell down from my bike the first time I tried riding it and never had a single scrape from that fall or any of the others that followed in the weeks afterward.
One day, when I walked inside to get a drink of water before trying again, I hit my knee mysteriously on the kitchen table. The next day, it turned purple.
From Experimental Writing - Address the Reader of the Book in Some Way or Form (time for prompt, 10 minutes.)
Now is the time you can take a break and go grab that muffin from the kitchen that smells so good-not that you notice because, of course, you have been diligently reading this book in front of you. Take this time to satisfy that roaring stomach of yours, deploying digestive fluids and constricting muscles in order to demand for its right to be stuffed with a gourmet of edible items-just make sure it isn’t powdered doughnuts. The powder will then proceed to barnacle itself to the pages of this novel and act as an ant-magnet, which is never a good thing unless, you’re the type of person who enjoys collecting ants.
Get a drink while you’re in the kitchen too-water or anything sweet, nothing illegal now. Settled? Good. Make sure you needn’t visit the bathroom (or ‘loo’ as they say in London, how’s that trivia for you?) after all that eating or drinking. This is the intermission portion of the novel, where you can get up and stretch, dance, go shopping, or find your spouse, sweetheart, or both to spend some time with. Just make sure you do not continue this page if there is any chance of your feeling any hunger pains or roaring stomachs.
It may seem odd that I talk about food-but it shouldn’t be. Food is an important part of our lives, without it you would not be able to stretch, dance, go shopping, or find your spouse, sweetheart, or both.
Or it could just be that the writer of this piece is facing some intense hunger pains with her stomach growling and everyone around her can probably hear it and they’re just being too nice to say anything.
Prompt: Fingers
My mother’s fingers are short and stubby like my little sister’s; my dad, however, has long fingers like mine. One day, at my first and last dance lesson, the teacher looked at my fingers, awkwardly held in the wrong position connected to a knobby figure where every limb was out of place, and told me, “Your hands are a beautiful gift from your parents.”
I never went back to dance after that.
Prompt: Talk About a Person in Your Life
In a family full off conservative, religious people, it is often more than uncomfortable for me to make the trip back to India with my family. It is six weeks of discomfort, like fingers in an odd-fitting glove; I know I should be there, but nothing fits. My dad’s younger brother, however, has a small apartment in a dodgy neighborhood with no statues of elephant-headed gods anywhere in the vicinity (I’ve checked), and dresses in clothes that do not match while reading Shakespeare.
My mother whispers in my ear, telling me that he is a communist.
Prompt: Three Pieces concerning words that Start with 'B'
Basketball
When I was in fourth grade, all my friends took tap dancing.
I took basketball lessons; I was the only girl.
To this day, I find it funny that I made my first basket on the last day of class.
Bored
Whenever I am bored in Mr. Duay’s last period Physics class, I draw. Sometimes I use pencil, sometimes markers, but more often than not, I use charcoal. Three weeks ago, I did a picture of Paul McGann from the Horatio Hornblower movies in class.
Just last week, however, I wrote a poem called, “A Variable to be Taken Into Account When Grading My Physics Test,” a little piece about how much I despise Physics. Strangely enough, it’s the first bit of good writing I’ve done in months. Perhaps this means I ought to like the class, feel grateful for whatever exists in its atmosphere that induces such creative inspiration-but I don’t.
Bruise
I fell down from my bike the first time I tried riding it and never had a single scrape from that fall or any of the others that followed in the weeks afterward.
One day, when I walked inside to get a drink of water before trying again, I hit my knee mysteriously on the kitchen table. The next day, it turned purple.
From Experimental Writing - Address the Reader of the Book in Some Way or Form (time for prompt, 10 minutes.)
Now is the time you can take a break and go grab that muffin from the kitchen that smells so good-not that you notice because, of course, you have been diligently reading this book in front of you. Take this time to satisfy that roaring stomach of yours, deploying digestive fluids and constricting muscles in order to demand for its right to be stuffed with a gourmet of edible items-just make sure it isn’t powdered doughnuts. The powder will then proceed to barnacle itself to the pages of this novel and act as an ant-magnet, which is never a good thing unless, you’re the type of person who enjoys collecting ants.
Get a drink while you’re in the kitchen too-water or anything sweet, nothing illegal now. Settled? Good. Make sure you needn’t visit the bathroom (or ‘loo’ as they say in London, how’s that trivia for you?) after all that eating or drinking. This is the intermission portion of the novel, where you can get up and stretch, dance, go shopping, or find your spouse, sweetheart, or both to spend some time with. Just make sure you do not continue this page if there is any chance of your feeling any hunger pains or roaring stomachs.
It may seem odd that I talk about food-but it shouldn’t be. Food is an important part of our lives, without it you would not be able to stretch, dance, go shopping, or find your spouse, sweetheart, or both.
Or it could just be that the writer of this piece is facing some intense hunger pains with her stomach growling and everyone around her can probably hear it and they’re just being too nice to say anything.