Shit I've Done Recently :B
Thought I'd post what I've done so far in my online Creative Writing class.
Childhood memory
I had to write a childhood memory with a fictional element. Sadly the fictional element was that Rocky didn't attack the little bitch.
My family has always had birds. Currently we only have an African gray and a Yellow nape amazon. But when I was younger, we had a pair of Sun conures, Sunburn the male and Sunkiss the female. And being a pair of birds in the same cage, they eventually did what most birds do; they made a baby. Unfortunately, sun conures screech like tiny orange banshees and my parents didn’t want our shrieking duet to become a trio. So we…okay, they decided to give up the baby bird for adoption. Being young and loving ice cream, I’d named him Rocky after Rocky Road. We hand-fed Rocky baby bird formula through a syringe as he went from a featherless pink creature to a fluffy squawking lump of green and orange feathers. He was adorable and looked just like his dad. The day finally came for Rocky to go home with his new family. I wasn’t thrilled, but I loaded him into his new travel cage and waited with him in the foyer of our house. Two young girls and their parents arrived that afternoon. As I handed over Rocky’s cage to his new family, I mumbled his name and wished them all well. His snarky new owner looked me straight in the eye and said, “Rocky’s a stupid name. I’m going to name him… Peppermint!” she grinned wide at how clever she was. Deciding to better acquaint herself with her new pet, Smartypants sat the travel cage on the floor and open the tiny door. The second she reached in, “Peppermint” chattered his tiny black beak and bit her index finger. She shrieked, shaking him off her hand. He took off for his parents’ cage on the porch, stopping on top to preen his flight feathers. As I grinned up at him, I saw the twinkle of a smile in his beady black eye.
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Setting
We had to write a 200 word setting. I went a little over, oh well. The pub is actually a tribute to a venue/thrift store/tattoo parlor in Illinois.
The Prancing Pony is a pub in New Jersey.
A faux-wooden sign swings outside the pub, styled after the inn of the same name from The Lord of the Rings trilogy. On the sign, a stout white pony stands proudly on its hind legs, its back bare.
Within the vintage, black wood doors, the pub is much more modern. The flat-screen televisions are mounted above the long, stocked bar. A bar-length mirror reflects the small stage across the room, which hosts local punk rock bands. There are a couple large black amps and a red drum set. Two more televisions are mounted by the lights above the stage, to play music videos or more sports selection if the crowd is large. The floor by the stage is checkered black and white, but the floor throughout the rest of the pub is wooden like the bar, the doors and the sign. A dozen black bar stools line the bar which ends with a set of doors. The doors lead to a small record shop and tattoo parlor, known simply as Mix Tapes. Inside, there are rows of vinyl’s, CDs and cassette tapes, as well as old movies and t-shirts. Here, the local bands hawk their merchandise. Behind a curtain is the tattoo parlor, where shiny chrome abounds. The parlor is immaculate and sterile, only a few sketches on the wall and all the equipment packed away until needed.
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Short story-
I had to write 2 separate short stories, one as a child, one as a 70-year-old man, and they had to be in a plane, a train or an automobile.
Casey six-year-old.
My parents put me on a train to grandma’s house this morning. They say it’s just for vacation, but I know what’s going on. They say I’m smart for my age, so I figured it out. My parents have been fighting a lot. They stay up yelling late after I go to sleep. Sometimes it scares me ‘cause I think one of these times dad’s gonna hit her. He’s never hit anyone, not even me when I deserved it.
They’ll probably see the doctor while I’m gone. The head doctor, not the one that gives us shots and pills. They’ll figure out what they’re doing wrong and then everything will be fixed when I get back from grandma’s.
But it might now happen like that. They might get lawyers and sign papers. And when I get back they’ll be standing on the front porch with all my stuff backed up, and they’ll ask me who I wanna live with. And what’ll I say then? Dad’s more fun. He likes sports, he caught me to catch a baseball, and he even let’s me read his old comic books. But mom cooks. She says dad could burn water. I don’t know…
For now I’m just going to look forward to seeing grandma. She never makes me choose.
Jack 70-year-old.
I hate planes. Honestly, no one likes airports these days, what with security as irritating as it is. But I really, really hate planes. I hate the lines that move so slow through the ramps that seem so rickety. I hate the ridiculously happy flight attendants. I hate the children people bring on those flights; the ones that have too many questions, the ones with leaky eyes and leaky noses and leaky diapers, the ones who scream at every brush of turbulence. But even worse are the parents; the ones who always have a cold when they’re on a flight, the ones who loudly complain about everything, the one who smells questionable and always get seated beside you. The shitty snacks with the half-sized soda cans, and the radio stations that play Top 40 from 40 years ago. I really hate planes.
And yet, here I am, on my way to my brother’s funeral. I was an only child, so was my cousin Greg, so when we were younger, we treated each other like siblings. So in a way, I’m going to my brother’s funeral. He died of a heart attack, apparently stress-related. I had no idea we still had so much in common. There will be a lot of family members and friends there, people I haven’t seen, nor wanted to see, in years. But what I think about more is how many people will there be at my funeral. How many flowers? How many people will even care? See the thoughts I have on planes.
I really hate planes.
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Short story-
Had to include foreshadow
Riley fell back against her parked Harley, a pick-up truck just a breath away from her face. It sped past and she struggled to catch her breath, her heart taking a few timid beats. Her life had literally passed before her eyes. And damn, she didn’t do much.
Taking another deep breath to steady herself, she swung her leg of her bike, her hand trembling as she tried to fit the key in the ignition. It finally slid in and she revved the engine a couple times to cool her nerves. Slipping on her helmet and clicking on the bike’s radio, she pulled out onto the street. The flipped through the stations via the buttons on the handlebars, settling on a classic rock station. The Eagles played “Witch Woman,” the volume rising and falling with the increased and decreased of the gas. She hummed along with it, her voice still shaky. How could she be that stupid, to walk onto the curb without looking around? Sure, she’d left the pub in a hurry, but that college kid was leering and about to make a move and she just wasn’t in the mood for that.
“Woo hooo witchy woman, see how
High she flies
Woo hoo witchy woman she got
The moon in her eye.”
She flicked her eyes, skyward, trying to let the wide expanse calm her nerves. Passing through the intersection, she was clipped by the pick-up truck who had turned around at a distance to return and apologize, her bike was flipped skyward and she landed sprawled on the cement like a bug on a windshield. The moon reflected in her glassy eyes.
----------------------------------
Riley and Jack again. This story had to have a moral or less. The moral is don't be a fucking hypocrite.
Riley stood outside the pub as the last minutes of USA v. UK at the FIFA World Cup played at the bar. England had tied with the United States, and although, in her mind, that meant they had lost, she smiled to herself as she pulled out a dwindling pack of Turkish Silvers. She lit one, shutting her eyes as she took a drag, enjoying the lightheadedness of the day’s first cigarette. She was brought down from her felicity by an obnoxious cough.
“Can I help you?” she muttered, not unkindly, to the older gentleman standing before her.
“You know, when you smoke by the door, people coming in and out breath your smoke,” he replied, sneering. “Enjoy your unhealthy habits, but don’t let them endanger others. I don’t know how you behave in England, but here in America, we have manners.”
Smiling at his cleverness, Jack walked into the pub and up to the bar, ignoring the game and starting in on the first of several gin and tonics.
***
Later that night, he hobbled to his old Chrysler Lebaron, swaying with the influencing of countless gins and Wild Turkeys. He slid into the driver’ seat and revved the engine, pulling out onto the street. Just as he was increasing his speed to take to the main road, and diminutive girl in a leather jacket was in the middle of the crosswalk before him. Not noticing, he screeched to a halt. Not soon enough, as Riley was knocked backwards, her left arm colliding with the hood of his Lebaron. He threw open his door and ran to wear she lay dazed on the concrete.
“I’m so sorry,” he wheezed, his booze breath wafting into her face.
“Unhealthy habits?” she replied, shakily. “How ‘bout you take your own advice?”
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Jack and Casey again. This prompt was more complicated; two people had to be feuding over an object, and the object had to be symbolic. I guess the armrest was a symbol of being right. I don't quite remember.
Jack squeezed passed the other passengers, squinting at the numbers on the seats.
67…68…oh god, what will it be like when I’m 69? I never thought I’d turned 60. What about 70? 71? Why is that important…oh that’s my seat.
He always packed ridiculously light, so he had no big bags to stow. He sat down, flicking the window shut and dozing off.
He was startled awake by the moving of an armrest. Squinting one eye open, his heart dropped at the sight of a young boy strapping himself into the seat beside him. Jack pushed the armrest back up, as it was pinching his side. The boy pouted up and him, promptly pulling the armrest back down and resting upon. Jack scowled for a moment, than plastered on a fake, benevolent grin.
“What’s your name, son?” he asked.
“Casey,” the boy replied, suspiciously.
“Well, Casey, if you continue to push this armrest down, I’ll break this window when we’re airborne and you’ll be sucked out.”
The boy paused for a second, then replied, “ You’re not strong enough to break that window, and even if you did, you would get sucked out first.”
Jack glared at him a moment longer, than surrendered the armrest.
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So, there you have it. CC, please & thank you.
Robin Beth
Childhood memory
I had to write a childhood memory with a fictional element. Sadly the fictional element was that Rocky didn't attack the little bitch.
My family has always had birds. Currently we only have an African gray and a Yellow nape amazon. But when I was younger, we had a pair of Sun conures, Sunburn the male and Sunkiss the female. And being a pair of birds in the same cage, they eventually did what most birds do; they made a baby. Unfortunately, sun conures screech like tiny orange banshees and my parents didn’t want our shrieking duet to become a trio. So we…okay, they decided to give up the baby bird for adoption. Being young and loving ice cream, I’d named him Rocky after Rocky Road. We hand-fed Rocky baby bird formula through a syringe as he went from a featherless pink creature to a fluffy squawking lump of green and orange feathers. He was adorable and looked just like his dad. The day finally came for Rocky to go home with his new family. I wasn’t thrilled, but I loaded him into his new travel cage and waited with him in the foyer of our house. Two young girls and their parents arrived that afternoon. As I handed over Rocky’s cage to his new family, I mumbled his name and wished them all well. His snarky new owner looked me straight in the eye and said, “Rocky’s a stupid name. I’m going to name him… Peppermint!” she grinned wide at how clever she was. Deciding to better acquaint herself with her new pet, Smartypants sat the travel cage on the floor and open the tiny door. The second she reached in, “Peppermint” chattered his tiny black beak and bit her index finger. She shrieked, shaking him off her hand. He took off for his parents’ cage on the porch, stopping on top to preen his flight feathers. As I grinned up at him, I saw the twinkle of a smile in his beady black eye.
----------------------------------------
Setting
We had to write a 200 word setting. I went a little over, oh well. The pub is actually a tribute to a venue/thrift store/tattoo parlor in Illinois.
The Prancing Pony is a pub in New Jersey.
A faux-wooden sign swings outside the pub, styled after the inn of the same name from The Lord of the Rings trilogy. On the sign, a stout white pony stands proudly on its hind legs, its back bare.
Within the vintage, black wood doors, the pub is much more modern. The flat-screen televisions are mounted above the long, stocked bar. A bar-length mirror reflects the small stage across the room, which hosts local punk rock bands. There are a couple large black amps and a red drum set. Two more televisions are mounted by the lights above the stage, to play music videos or more sports selection if the crowd is large. The floor by the stage is checkered black and white, but the floor throughout the rest of the pub is wooden like the bar, the doors and the sign. A dozen black bar stools line the bar which ends with a set of doors. The doors lead to a small record shop and tattoo parlor, known simply as Mix Tapes. Inside, there are rows of vinyl’s, CDs and cassette tapes, as well as old movies and t-shirts. Here, the local bands hawk their merchandise. Behind a curtain is the tattoo parlor, where shiny chrome abounds. The parlor is immaculate and sterile, only a few sketches on the wall and all the equipment packed away until needed.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Short story-
I had to write 2 separate short stories, one as a child, one as a 70-year-old man, and they had to be in a plane, a train or an automobile.
Casey six-year-old.
My parents put me on a train to grandma’s house this morning. They say it’s just for vacation, but I know what’s going on. They say I’m smart for my age, so I figured it out. My parents have been fighting a lot. They stay up yelling late after I go to sleep. Sometimes it scares me ‘cause I think one of these times dad’s gonna hit her. He’s never hit anyone, not even me when I deserved it.
They’ll probably see the doctor while I’m gone. The head doctor, not the one that gives us shots and pills. They’ll figure out what they’re doing wrong and then everything will be fixed when I get back from grandma’s.
But it might now happen like that. They might get lawyers and sign papers. And when I get back they’ll be standing on the front porch with all my stuff backed up, and they’ll ask me who I wanna live with. And what’ll I say then? Dad’s more fun. He likes sports, he caught me to catch a baseball, and he even let’s me read his old comic books. But mom cooks. She says dad could burn water. I don’t know…
For now I’m just going to look forward to seeing grandma. She never makes me choose.
Jack 70-year-old.
I hate planes. Honestly, no one likes airports these days, what with security as irritating as it is. But I really, really hate planes. I hate the lines that move so slow through the ramps that seem so rickety. I hate the ridiculously happy flight attendants. I hate the children people bring on those flights; the ones that have too many questions, the ones with leaky eyes and leaky noses and leaky diapers, the ones who scream at every brush of turbulence. But even worse are the parents; the ones who always have a cold when they’re on a flight, the ones who loudly complain about everything, the one who smells questionable and always get seated beside you. The shitty snacks with the half-sized soda cans, and the radio stations that play Top 40 from 40 years ago. I really hate planes.
And yet, here I am, on my way to my brother’s funeral. I was an only child, so was my cousin Greg, so when we were younger, we treated each other like siblings. So in a way, I’m going to my brother’s funeral. He died of a heart attack, apparently stress-related. I had no idea we still had so much in common. There will be a lot of family members and friends there, people I haven’t seen, nor wanted to see, in years. But what I think about more is how many people will there be at my funeral. How many flowers? How many people will even care? See the thoughts I have on planes.
I really hate planes.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Short story-
Had to include foreshadow
Riley fell back against her parked Harley, a pick-up truck just a breath away from her face. It sped past and she struggled to catch her breath, her heart taking a few timid beats. Her life had literally passed before her eyes. And damn, she didn’t do much.
Taking another deep breath to steady herself, she swung her leg of her bike, her hand trembling as she tried to fit the key in the ignition. It finally slid in and she revved the engine a couple times to cool her nerves. Slipping on her helmet and clicking on the bike’s radio, she pulled out onto the street. The flipped through the stations via the buttons on the handlebars, settling on a classic rock station. The Eagles played “Witch Woman,” the volume rising and falling with the increased and decreased of the gas. She hummed along with it, her voice still shaky. How could she be that stupid, to walk onto the curb without looking around? Sure, she’d left the pub in a hurry, but that college kid was leering and about to make a move and she just wasn’t in the mood for that.
“Woo hooo witchy woman, see how
High she flies
Woo hoo witchy woman she got
The moon in her eye.”
She flicked her eyes, skyward, trying to let the wide expanse calm her nerves. Passing through the intersection, she was clipped by the pick-up truck who had turned around at a distance to return and apologize, her bike was flipped skyward and she landed sprawled on the cement like a bug on a windshield. The moon reflected in her glassy eyes.
----------------------------------
Riley and Jack again. This story had to have a moral or less. The moral is don't be a fucking hypocrite.
Riley stood outside the pub as the last minutes of USA v. UK at the FIFA World Cup played at the bar. England had tied with the United States, and although, in her mind, that meant they had lost, she smiled to herself as she pulled out a dwindling pack of Turkish Silvers. She lit one, shutting her eyes as she took a drag, enjoying the lightheadedness of the day’s first cigarette. She was brought down from her felicity by an obnoxious cough.
“Can I help you?” she muttered, not unkindly, to the older gentleman standing before her.
“You know, when you smoke by the door, people coming in and out breath your smoke,” he replied, sneering. “Enjoy your unhealthy habits, but don’t let them endanger others. I don’t know how you behave in England, but here in America, we have manners.”
Smiling at his cleverness, Jack walked into the pub and up to the bar, ignoring the game and starting in on the first of several gin and tonics.
***
Later that night, he hobbled to his old Chrysler Lebaron, swaying with the influencing of countless gins and Wild Turkeys. He slid into the driver’ seat and revved the engine, pulling out onto the street. Just as he was increasing his speed to take to the main road, and diminutive girl in a leather jacket was in the middle of the crosswalk before him. Not noticing, he screeched to a halt. Not soon enough, as Riley was knocked backwards, her left arm colliding with the hood of his Lebaron. He threw open his door and ran to wear she lay dazed on the concrete.
“I’m so sorry,” he wheezed, his booze breath wafting into her face.
“Unhealthy habits?” she replied, shakily. “How ‘bout you take your own advice?”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jack and Casey again. This prompt was more complicated; two people had to be feuding over an object, and the object had to be symbolic. I guess the armrest was a symbol of being right. I don't quite remember.
Jack squeezed passed the other passengers, squinting at the numbers on the seats.
67…68…oh god, what will it be like when I’m 69? I never thought I’d turned 60. What about 70? 71? Why is that important…oh that’s my seat.
He always packed ridiculously light, so he had no big bags to stow. He sat down, flicking the window shut and dozing off.
He was startled awake by the moving of an armrest. Squinting one eye open, his heart dropped at the sight of a young boy strapping himself into the seat beside him. Jack pushed the armrest back up, as it was pinching his side. The boy pouted up and him, promptly pulling the armrest back down and resting upon. Jack scowled for a moment, than plastered on a fake, benevolent grin.
“What’s your name, son?” he asked.
“Casey,” the boy replied, suspiciously.
“Well, Casey, if you continue to push this armrest down, I’ll break this window when we’re airborne and you’ll be sucked out.”
The boy paused for a second, then replied, “ You’re not strong enough to break that window, and even if you did, you would get sucked out first.”
Jack glared at him a moment longer, than surrendered the armrest.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
So, there you have it. CC, please & thank you.
Robin Beth