Big junkyard (enough for 2 weeks)

"A witty saying proves nothing."

-- Voltaire

"I don't want to achieve immortality through my work, I want to achieve immortality through not dying."

 -- Woody Allen

"As sensitive and broad-minded humans, we must never allow ourselves to be in any way judgmental of the religious practices of other people, even when these people clearly are raving space loons."

 -- Dave Barry

"When you're swimming in the creek
And an eel bites your cheek,
That's a moray!"

 -- Fabulous Furry Freak Bros.

"A day without sunshine is like night."

 -- Unknown

"Fruitcake is like semen, there's a lot of it about but no one wants to swallow it".

 -- Oscar Wilde

"The Psblurtex is an 18-inch long anaconda that hides in the gentlemen's outfitting departments of Amazonian stores and is often bought by mistake since its colors are those of the London Reform Club.  Once tied around its victim's neck, it strangles him gently and then claims the insurance before running off to Germany where it lives in hiding."

 -- Mike Harding, "The Armchair Anarchist's Almanac"

"NASA should not be allowed to operate in a vacuum".

 -- Editorial, Aviation Week & Space Technology, 2/2/87

"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe.
Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion.
I've watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate.
All these memories will be lost in time,
like tears in rain."

 -- Roy Baty, Blade Runner

"I can explain it for you, but I can't understand it for you."

 -- Unknown.

"There are still places where people think that the function of the media is to provide information."

 -- Don Rottenberg

"Life admits not of delays; when pleasure can be had, it is fit to catch it.  Every hour takes away part of the things that please us, and perhaps part of our disposition to be pleased."

 --Samuel Johnson

"I'm Buh-ish, which is a cross between Buhdist and Jewish. That's where you sit and wait for things to go on sale."

 --Robin Williams

"Hypocrisy is the Vaseline of social intercourse."

 -- Unknown

"The difference between theory and practice is always greater in practice than in theory."

 -- Unknown

 
"In theory, theory and practice are the same thing, but in practice they're not."

-- Unknown

"Definition of a hermaphrodite: a bisexual built for two."

 -- Jeff Daiell

"All I ask of my body is that it carry around my head."

 -- Thomas Alva Edison

"It is up to us to produce better-quality movies."

 -- Lloyd Kaufman, producer of _Stuff Stephanie in the Incinerator_

"Gosh, math is hard!"

 -- Talking Barbie

"I'd give my right arm to be ambidextrous."

 -- Unknown

"Style distinguishes excellence from accomplishment"

 -- J. Coplien

"You may buy from me in your own language, but sell to me in mine."

 --Willy Brandt

Random Impulse Part II

     I was somewhere in the middle of the parking lot when he started coming after me. “I’ll take you home,” he demanded.

     “No!” I turned my head and kept hiking it towards the highway. I made sure to swing my ass a little so he knew what he was missing. While treading away, my first thought was I didn’t want to mess up my new heels. My second thought was that my feet were going to start hurting within about five minutes of walking. Then, my third thought followed and I told myself I needed to get in the truck. It was either walking home and getting raped on the side of the road, or riding home and getting raped in the comfort of a truck.

     The truck was red, lifted, suspended axel with a chrome brush guard, and decked out with all the good shit a real truck should be. ‘I wish I could date the truck’, I thought. I touched the side of it as a checked it out. Nice paint job, nice brush guard, and definitely nice wheels. I definitely had wished it was mine.

     He walked over to the passenger door and offered to help me into the massive carriage. “I got it!” I blurted. I grabbed the “Oh Shit” handle the hung on the side of the door and pulled myself up into heaven. The truck shook as he plumped his ass down. The roar of the engine was loud. I observed the interior as he backed out of the confined area. The radio thumped and the speakers vibrated underneath my ass. It was probably the best part of the date.

     He put it in drive and drove to the road where I examined the houses and trees as we passed them. “Fuckin’ rough,” he said. I shot my eyes over to him. They burned a hole right through his head straight to the window. “Can you hurry?!” I impatiently demanded, “I have to go do my laundry.”

     “Hurry?!” he yelled, “You can fuckin’ hurry!” He slammed on the breaks and my body flew towards the dash board. I scrambled around to pick up the contents of my purse. “Get out,” he demanded.

     I didn’t give a shit. I hopped out of the piece of heaven with the devil that rode inside. The soles of my feet landed on the pavement so I wouldn’t break any of my new heels. With one finger in the air, and my pepper spray in the other, I watched him drive away.

Random Impulse Part I

Last Ron-De-Vu

            It was big and had me going.

     Its curves were enormous and had me from the first moment I had set my lustful eyes on it. If only I could get my hands on it. Lord knows what I could do to it. I knew I could take it for a ride and treat it like a baby. My baby. My hand lingered down the smooth side of its walls, while my mouth salivated. God, I wanted it so bad.

      It was awkward. His breath was shitty, hands were sweaty, and his words were dumb. He was a loser that couldn’t ever get a date in his life and I volunteered on the pity level to do it. My back stood against the damn wall as his face inched closer to mine. “What the hell man!” I shouted, “It’s the first damn date and I don’t even like you. No wonder you can’t ever get a girl. Gee!” So much for these pity dates I go on. This was the last one I ever pity. They usually just sit and nervously talk, but this one had some seriously bad actions that turned me off.

     He was already making a move. What an idiot. I yanked my purse away from him, grabbed my keys full of jangles, and shoved his fat ass out of the way. I flipped my hair back in anger and turned the opposite way. My heels clomped as I marched off to God knows where.

4 Incredible Reading Responses

After watching an epsiode of Doctor Who, I now see why everyone thinks it's so awesome. At first, I thought the weeping angels were a little bit cheesy, but dang, when they got their scary faces on screen that was a little bit more than creepy. I learned from watching this that different items that are inanimate objects can be made into a story. How awesome is that, and Doctor Who. I wish I had a British accent.

In chapter 10 of Steering the Craft, the main focus is multiple techniques for revision, such as crowding and leaping. Le Guin talks about the effects of crowding and keeping descriptive and lavish language. She also mentions the element of leaping (Often used in poetry as well). It is applied the same way to short stories as it is poems, except more in depth. I usually try to explore "leaping" from every aspect of my writing.

In chapter 9 of Steering the Craft, the main focus is indirect narration. It is discussed that the writer should create description through scene instead of creating a random palcement of description. This technique is known as invisible exposition or intertwining information "silently" within dialogue. Sometimes, this technique can add difficulty to the readers' imagination as they read. I would say it would not "flow", but we all know that's a bad word in creative writing.

In chapter 7 of Steering the Craft (point of view and voice), it is stressed that multiple points of view are important for short stories to help draw in the audience. The different types of voice that were touched on were reliable narrator, first person, limited third person, involved author, detached author, and some others. I believe this is one of the characteristics I have the most trouble with while writing a short story. I do try to incorporate multiple dialgue, but never point of view. I will be trying this new technique.

Response to Emily's Random Impulse

Rolling hills, where I gained self loathing. Grass unbending to gusts of needed wind. Water holes run dry with heat. He is a drunk bastard with no beads of sweat. Cattle crossings and southern embellishment mascaraed as the sentiments of home. Trees of subtle shade bring relief to my worn down eyes, squinted under a cap of brown, tender sweat. A dinged white undershirt, thin: my mother has washed too many times.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Emily--
I'm not quite sure how you feel about poetry, (cause it's my fave, maybe that's why I am going in this direction) but I see a lot of potential in this piece for a poem. And if not exactly quite a poem, then maybe add the language to your junkyard, or flesh out the story more. For example, if I were to create some poetic elements out of this... It might go something like this: Rolling hills, grass unbending,/ gusts of wind needed./ Holes run dry.... (You get where I'm going?) Awesome. Also, the "self-loathing" is a bit ambiguous. I would try to work on that as well. Great job.

Response to Josh's: Break Up mostly finished?

First, I would like to say how humorous it was to click on your page and then have a pop up box saying, "Would you like to continue? This page may have content only suitable for adults?" Haha. Forreal?? Anyways... Back to this peer review...
This short story is awesome. So, make some more drafts-- perfect it. Then, when the time comes, submit it to the Eclectic. Forreal. My favorite characteristics of the story are the harsh elements you used throughout the context of your story. For example, ESKIMO KISSES. Thatis soooo creepy, but awesome. Needless to say, when I read your story I do get that "shock factor" in it as well. I am glad you cleaned up the first paragraph from the first draft that I saw about the communicating. I do believe you fleshed out your idea, and now it is more clear.
The end of your story would have to be my favorite part when the character says, "Eskimo Kisses." Creepy. And the reader knows what is exactly about to happen. Wow. Awesome. Keep up the great work, Josh!

Random Impulse-- Back to Poetry (Can't handle short stories!)

Apitoxin

The moment floats, its focus uncharted,

He here and I unmasked like candy in sun.

I fish out excuses to bridge the force,

But excuses too are seared and long-lived,

Excuses slashing life as life’s counterpart.

Still, I fall in the valley. The standstill

Stills all sweat—lines, curves, crevices—

Like stumbled bruises on the beaten path,

A small dam where the hand burns and pulls.

If six roses align in the neon pasture horizon,

I could imagine them as my outlet

Toward a path on the opposite of excuse:

Excuses clothed, excuses stripped, excuses kept.

A firm hand that meets points to joints.

With excuses, I can imagine what’s next

To know. With the excuse, of course.

I am in the calefaction of the situation,

It’s endowed, well endowed, with its knowledge,

It’s dance, on the hard peak of its comfort.

Of course there’s no other way. Of course not.

Side to side the bee comes and departs

From one rose. I look down to touch

The feel of sting: exhausted, worn,

A stem limp from a days work.

While I look, the bee does not return. Ever.

These are excuses when a reason is more than excuse

Or excused action: chocolate swimming in taste buds,

Medicine, amending, all reason being filled

To hear: an excuse.

Junkyard-- Inspirations-- Ode to the Approaching Finals

Character is a diamond that scratches every other stone.
Cyrus A. Bartol (Transcendentalist)

Character and personal force are the only investments that are worth anything.
Walt Whitman

They can because they think they can.
Virgil

On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows,
In every rill a sweet instruction flows.
Edward Young

Happiness does not consist in pastimes and amusements but in virtuous activities.
Aristotle

You're happiest while you're making the greatest contribution.
Robert F. Kennedy

Classmate Response

Jami Lynn's Random Impulse

Skittles of the rainbow
dropping off
one by one into a dark maze
heading to the bottom
of the slate rectangle
that holds this candy
in the palm of it's hand
until it's all eaten by the shark
that controls it's taste.

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Yay, poetry... Oh, how I have missed doing this in our class. I really enjoyed this excerpt because it is very visually pleasing. If this poem is going to stand alone as a poem itself (and not just a stanza from a poem) then I think it needs location, experiential elements, and syllabic rhythm. Good job though!

Reading Response

Short Stories: The Fat Girl
I enjoyed this story because it was about power over one's own self, instead of others telling what one should or should not do. I also liked how the different personalities relied on the outcome of the story as well. Maybe, someone should write a sequal about her going on The Biggest Loser!-- Just sayin'. That would totally change and revise the whole thematic elements of the "Screw this attitude" that is given at the end of the story.

The Magic Barrel
When I first read this title, I was thinking it referred to Cracker Barrel because... It is magic-- Steak and Gravy and dumplings! However, I was terribly wrong. The characters within this story were seemingly different from one another-- some having lots of background info and others having not as much. At the end of the story, I enjoyed has this "eerie" feeling rose over me... Like the good kind-- not bad. Anyways, the descriptions and character plots really aided to the main point of the story.

Random Impulse

  Plan A (Part II)         

I woke up in the ER at Tanner Medical Center with my coach hanging over my bed while my dad paced back and forth murmuring, “That’s the end of the season for her. How could this happen?”

       I knew exactly what he meant. There went my chance to be scouted to play at a college somewhere in Georgia. It had been my dream since third grade. My Plan A. Days of practice and sweat, and hours of endless drills out in my driveway were now pointless. I knew I would never get into a division one school to play; however, I figured I might have a chance at one of those smaller schools where the majority of the players were white, blonde, and girly—like me. My mind kept lingering through the thoughts of where my life would lead me now. If basketball was my life and I lost it… Then what next?

       As I came to my senses, I felt… No pain? Where was the pain? My shoulder was falling off and now it didn’t hurt anymore? This can’t be possible.

      The doctor walked in and asked, “Ms. Johnson, would you like another shot of morphine?

      “Yes, please.” I was quite pleased with the feeling I had now. Imagine how I would feel if I had more. I lay still as I got another dose of morphine shot into my i.v.

      The doctor then proceeded with the next procedure, “Okay Ms. Johnson, we must get this shoulder back into place. What I’m gonna do is pop your shoulder back together on the count of three. You shouldn’t feel a thing. Ready?”

      “I guess.”

      “One, two…”

      “Aghhhhhhhhhhhhh!” And my shoulder was back in its place.

      I winced with tears and could feel my body getting hot from the morphine running through my veins. My teammates walked in and looked around the room before they took notice to me.

      One girl sat down by my bed and asked, “How are you feeling?”

      “Like I am on cloud 957. Forreal.”

      There was a scream from a guy in the room beside me. Our eyes got big.

      “Oh, don’t worry,” the doctor said, “the guy next door busted a vein in a wrestling match while ago. He is in just as much pain as you.”

      “I bet he didn’t have fat ass fall on his shoulder,” One girl added.

      “Yeah, he’s just a pussy compared to what I went through!”

      Everyone laughed at the joke I had just made. At least it drowned out the screaming from next door.

      There was so much chaos in my ER room that the doctor made everyone go wait in the lobby. I finally got some peace and quiet. The morphine was making me drowsy which made it extremely painful to try and keep my eyes open.

      “Ms. Johnson,” the doctor turned to grab my chart, “we seem to be having a few minor issues here that will cause your playing to be set back a little. By the looks of—“

      “Set back?! What do you mean set back? It’s only December and it was just a tournament. It’s not even like this game actually mattered. If you are tellin’ me I can’t play anymore then I’m sorry, I must play. This is my life and what I have planned for the rest of my career. I don’t expect to watch from the sideline, I will be on the court.”

      “Now, Now Ms. Johnson… You have torn a ligament in your shoulder which makes it weak. It is not worth being injured for the rest of your life now is it?”

      “Of course it is, this is what I plan on doing for the rest of my life. I have no other options,” my tone became weak and harsh. The morphine was really getting to me.

      I felt a tear of remorse and pity falling down my face. It raced over my cheek, through the corner of my lip, and over my chin. Then it fell off of my face into my lap. It was gone. Gone.

      Gone.

      Done.

      Finished.

      My dad’s hand found its way to my shoulder for comfort. My mother sat in the doctor’s chair to my side and wiped her own tears away.

      For once in my life, I felt empty and clueless. My future was wiped away in less than five seconds. My future was gone in the blink of an eye by doing what I love the most. I had no second plan, no Plan B. It was always Plan A. No back-ups. If I stuck to Plan A then I would not need a Plan B, C, or even D. I’ve never heard of anyone using their Plan D anyways. If I was going to start over then I would need a new plan.

      I lay back in the hospital bed, my eyes heavy from the morphine. They closed shut as my mind wondered into my next scheme of plans. Slowly, I fell asleep and started at Plan Z and worked my way backwards.

Junk Yard Quotes

I just pulled these from my JunkYard for my poetry writing...

through the dark, gaping holes in walls

Beaming on stage in the aftermath of the night.

excuses too are seared and long-lived

A firm hand that meets points to joints.

hand burns and pulls

The feel of sting: exhausted, worn,

A stem limp from a days work.

Never forget the most important way

Classmate Response

Angie's Random Impulse:

If America were an egg it would need to be a lot less cheesy It would need a lot less scrambling and it would need to be a lot less greasy.

 

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I laughed when I first read this exerpt from Angie. Since it is a random impulse, I am guessing that she came up with it herself. I do believe that this line can be utilized in a short story or a poem-- most like the first line of a story, and for a poem-- use for connotation and subject matter. And, if she does not use it.... Then I shall steal it. 'Nuff said!

Reading Response

In Chapter 3 of Steering the Craft, Guin discusses sentence length and structure, along with the use of words. As a writer, I know that I need to improve in all of these areas, including the use of words. Sometimes I find it difficult to sway away from the language that a writer would use in an essay or research paper. In order to gain more of a “natural” sense of the narrator in stories, the tone should reflect the character that is speaking, which I have a difficult time doing sometimes. In this reading, Guinn states that sometimes extra can be good, or it can be bad—each sentence lead to one and then the other… Helping the reader through the connotation of the story.

In Chapter 4 of Steering the Craft, Guin discusses repetition, noting that it can become a very helpful tool, especially in prose writing. She also notes that it is helpful to use tools such as a Thesaurus, find words that help the story become more interesting than average words. I believe this is a great way to help expand on repetition and I intend on using it in my writing.

Random Impulse

Plan A (Part I)

           

Pounding. Screaming. Groaning.

      I tried to fathom what had just happened. Everything was purple and black. The limited array of colors dappled across my vision as if someone had just taken a picture without the warning of a flash. I grabbed my left arm and tried to feel my side and regain consciousness. My left shoulder was numb and the pain shot down into my side like I had been stabbed.

      I heard someone laughing, “Look at that white girl go!”

      God. My body. My arm. My side. And the big, black bitch that chuckled in my ear. They were all annoying nuisances.

      All I could remember was jumping into the air to claim my prize as it hit the Plexiglas above me. And then, Marmaduke Amazon girl landed her gigantic body on top of mine as if we were in a wrestling arena. And here she stood—mocking me, laughing at me, and making fun of me.

     My teammate yelled, “God, please call 1-800-Jenny and get this bitch some help!” The crowd roared with shock and hysteria setting the mood for the rest of the game. Despite pain in my left arm, I kept playing, sweating, and sacrificing for my team. I went back up for a rebound and could only move my right arm because my left one was just hanging their limp, unattached from my body. I ran over to the sideline and gasped, “Coach! My arm hurts!”

      The crowd behind the bench winced in pain as they saw my bone protruding out of my shoulder underneath my skin. The pregnant assistant coach shot up from her chair and ran to the bathroom with her hand over her mouth. My parents’ eyes were wide and I could hear my mother yelling non-sense towards me. My teammates whispered behind me as my body started swaying. I looked down and realized the same thing everyone had noticed. With the blink of an eye, and a glance at my shoulder, my lights went out.

Junkyard

My friends say the dumbest things.... So here ya go:

"If i had to rate myself one being feeling wonderful like right after i peed and ten being im currently peeing on myself reaching one again im probably approaching a 9.4 and rising!"

"Did you know that watermelons have water in them?!?!"

"Don't ask me, just Google It."

Useless Facts:
1.) Did u know that McDonalds have the biggest straws out of all fast food restaraunts?!
2.) 409389129712093 million pounds of food is wasted a year!
3.) Zaxby's ice is way better for your teeth!

"If i got pulled over by the cops i could sing my ABC's backwards! Z.. Y.. X.. W........"
"Please don't kill my crunk."
Disco; (dis'c..O) [adj.]-- The act of being totally awesome amazing wonderful out of this world off the chain unique; bein so cool that you could basically sip a milkshake in a snow storm while wearing a bathing suit singing country music songs.... DISCO... somewhat undefinable....

Classmate response

Lucas's..... The Ice Storm

The Ice Storm

      The ice storm came down on the town like a bout of depression. It started on Saturday and ended Monday. The day the ice melted is suspended, as it changes from person to person.

      The ice storm came in the night and left the roads choked and slushed. The ground became frozen sponges beneath people’s feet. Dogs turned to popsicles and teenage lovers were sealed in their parents’ cars. 

---------------------------

 

Lucas, I really enjoyed this short piece-- although you are not done. I actually think it would make a great poem. (Sorry, maybe I am just stuck in poetry world over here). But yeah, I really like it. I enjoyed the last sentence.... I hope to see you finish the piece!

Reading Responses

A Good Man is Hard to Find

In my opinion, the story started off slow at first. Then, it started picking up the pace. The first time I read it I thought that it was very "In Cold Blood"-ish (Capote). It seems that it is aiming for a slightly wry comical effect-- and I get that, however, it's just not my favorite piece of writing because it did remind me of "In Cold Blood"... And I don't favor that book that much, considering I've read it at least five times. The best element that I like about the story is the title-- Now that's funny.

1/3 1/3 1/3
I enjoyed this because it had a lot of thematic elements throughout the story, and I could really understand visuals as well. Once again, I wouldn't say this story is my favorite, but I enjoyed it. I think the title fits well also.... We are reading a lot of good stories with great titles.

Random Impulse "It'll Be Fine" Part II

We pulled into the parking lot of an old carpet warehouse which led us to a loading dock garage. Brandon backed the truck in as we all sat quietly. I heard a moaning in the bed of the truck. At least she was making some sort of noise. I grabbed my wristlet and told the tramp to put it in her purse. It was one of the only things in the truck that hadn’t gotten dirty before the incident. She took it out of my hand and opened it, “Oh my gosh, is this you?”

      “No, it’s my fake I.D.” I was in no mood for a conversation with her.

      “This girl looks like such a fat ass!” The tramped laughed.

      When it comes to fake I.D.’s, sometimes you just don’t have a choice. One of my sorority sisters works at one of the local bars and snatches them from drunken customers who leave without closing their tab. She came across this I.D. and told me it looked like me so I could have it. What a bitch. This girl had frizzy hair and was extremely large. It was an insult, but I accepted it anyways.

      I told the tramp to get out of my wallet only to hear the police siren. The sirens sounded the death march song in my head. They were coming after us. My friend in the back started crying because he didn’t want to lose his scholarship to Auburn. Brandon clutched the steering wheel. The others just sat there wide-eyed. And I got out of the truck.

      The tramp jumped out of the truck along with one of the other guys. Before I could turn around, I heard their footsteps running towards the woods. The police cars pulled in and I knew we were screwed. The smell of the vomit now just seemed to be less of a problem compared to what was about to happen. Brandon put his fumbling feet to the ground and stood by my side. He was my best friend. Always there for me whenever I needed him. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said.

      The questions started pouring out of the two police officers’ mouths as we fumbled to answer them. One officer drilled us while the other examined the truck.

      “Well, looks like this one had too much fun!” The officer shined the flashlight down into the bed of the truck. What an asshole.

      After realizing we were all intoxicated, the officer preceded to ask Brandon if he was driving. “Yeah, I was,” he replied. As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he had handcuffs on his wrists. He walked to the police car with his head down while the officer opened the door. The officer slammed the door after Brandon sat inside. My other friends and I stood by the police car while the five-o’s examined the truck. I looked down at the car and saw Brandon’s eyes through the crack of the window. He whispered, “Whit, please get me outta here.”

      I didn’t know what to say. I just looked down at my dirty flip flops and prayed my parents weren’t going to kill me. We were all going to jail.

      Wait—no, not all of us. It occurred to me that the sober tramp ran across the pasture to escape the scene. Might as well go find her and drag her into this too. It’s not like I liked her anyways. If she didn’t cooperate with me then my good ole southern roughneck side was about to be unleashed on the bitch.

      “Officer!” I called, “Look, we weren’t tellin’ you the exact truth. You see, we had a sober driver but she took off runnin’ through the pasture when she heard y’all comin’. She ran cause she’s on probation from shopliftin’ and doesn’t want to get in anymore trouble than she already is. The truth is, officer, Brandon wasn’t really drivin’, she was.”

      “Well, I see the truth comes out now. If you can find her, then I’ll take your friend out of those handcuffs and let him go. But as for the rest of you, ya gotta come down to the station and call your parents to come and get you. We, as police officers, don’t take no consideration to nothin’ when there is drinkin’ and drivin’ goin’ on. This here is a serious matter.”

      In a blaze, I took off toward the edge of the pasture with the officer’s flashlight. I wanted to kill that tramp right then and there. However, if I did, then none of us would benefit from getting out of this mess. She should have to suffer. She started all this by wrecking the damn truck. If it wasn’t for her putting her infectious lips on Brandon while he was driving down the road, then he would have never run off the road and hit the damn tree. God, it was all replaying through my head now—the screams, the blood, the vomit, and Kim’s body flying towards the windshield. I prayed to God she was okay.

       I climbed over a barb wired fence without a care of scratching up my legs. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I was going to do when I found her hiding—probably club her to death with the flashlight. But then, what would I do with her corpse?

      I would throw her in the bed of a truck for her to suffer, and cover her up with a tarp. After all, that’s what she did for her friend. It’s the least I could do.

Junkyard

It may seem childish to take a nap, but trust me, only the absolute coolest of people pass out in the green room. We won’t say “nap”. We’ll say “passed out in the green room”. Like a rock star.

It smells like roses and honey got slammed up against a wall by coconut & loved on until the earth cracked open beneath them. Naturally I need that.

A strong positive mental attitude will create more miracles than any wonder drug.

Life is like Stepping onto a boat which is about to sail out to sea and sink

you are what you don't shit

Think universally, Act Selfishly

I can explain it for you, but I can't understand it for you

Reading Response

"Popular Mechanics" by Raymond Carver

I really enjoyed this piece. It was short and to the point, and that is what I like. There was very little diologue throughout the whole story, and also it did not contain a beginning that informed the audience very much. Because it began on an impulse, I felt like I was in the middle of the situation, immediately analyzing and trying to figure out the situations of the characters. I believe that it is good sometimes to have some mystery within a story-- it helps add suspense and interest.

STC Intro

I really enjoyed writing in class about Hans the chicken farmer in first, second, and third voice. To be honest, before this activity, I had never purposefully tried to write in the second voice, and I probably will never attempt it again. This activity help me realize my writing strengths and weaknesses. Hopefully, I will be more open to trying the second voice in the future, but it does not seem like the type of writing that fits my writing style. I really enjoyed the Introduction to Steering the Craft and I am excited to read the rest of the book in the future.

Response

Response to StAsay's Random Impulse:

Every morning when I wake up I can still feel the chard bits of my flesh flaking away with the morning’s cool breeze, I can feel the stream of blood running down my finger tips as the ropes that bond me buried themselves deeply in of my skin. I can still feel the raging fire licking and wrapping itself around me. I can still hear my own screams and cries for mercy in the hollow holes in the side of my skull that were once my ears, before the fire’s caress.  I can still see the faces of those people, the people that were suppose to protect and care for me, which tied me to the stake and set the hay at my feet on fire. And I hate them all, hundreds of years later they still plague my sleep, they still haunt me. All for something I had no control over… something that got me burned at the stack for being a witch when I was thirteen years old. A biological trait passed down from my parents, which gave me enough strength and power to survive their supposedly holy flames and feast upon sweet revenge…which I took piece by piece from their flesh.

What am I? 

Retribution. 

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StAsay, I really enjoyed reading this because it was very detailed and descriptive. I believe that writing should include visuals, like picturing a movie image almost--play by play-- and that makes good writing. I could definately see that echnique in your writing throughout this piece. I do think that some of the language could be toned back again, and also, the grammar within the piece, such as past tense vs. present tense. You did a really great job!

Make-Up Work Over Spring Break

Junk Yard.... Somewhat long, but I love them.

I want to dance tonight—no. No boys tonight, I just want to go out and express myself… Through the art of dance.

--dane cook

they don’t know

what we know

that they know

we know

"Ok. You fuck me, then snub me. You love me, you hate me. You show me a sensitive side, then you turn into a total asshole. Is this a pretty accurate description of our relationship."
— Fight Club

 

I had a dream that you were with me and it wasnt my fault
you rolled me over flipped me over, like a somersault
and that doesent happen to me
i've never been here before

I saw forever in my never and i stood outside her heaven

"We can spend our lives letting the world tell us who we are. Sane or insane. Saints or sex addicts. Heroes or victims. Letting history tell us how good or bad we are. Letting our past decide our future. Or we can decide for ourselves. And maybe it's our job to invent something better."
— Asfixia

 

“We are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind's door at 4am of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends. We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget.”

-- Didion

 

"The answer is that we don't choose our freaks, they choose us."
— Steve Almond; Candyfreak

 

"Every now and then, I'll run into someone who claims not to like chocolate, and while we live in a country where everyone has the right to eat what they want, I want to say for the record that I don't trust these people, that I think something is wrong with them, and that they're probably - and this must be said - total duds in bed."
— Steve Almond; Candyfreak 

Random Impulse: "It'll Be Fine" Part I

“Just throw her in the bed of the truck and cover her body up with the tarp!” someone yelled.

      My stomach curled at the smell of the vomit blowing through the wind. The full moon hanging in the sky glared and made it apparent it was everywhere—on my clothes, in the dirt, on the truck, in the grass. And the smell of blood mixed with the array of multi-colored chunks strewn across the hay field didn’t settle well either. How did we end up to this point? Was I going to be considered a murderer?

      Everything was replaying through my head. We were just driving, singing along to George Strait, and drinking. Then the accident happened. It happened so fast.

      “Come on, Whit, lighten up! It’ll be fine.” My friend Brandon was trying to cheer me up. Of course he was okay. Out of the 12-pack of Coors Light we had bought, he had consumed the majority. Three was my-not-so-lucky number. Two in a kuzy and one through funnel was just enough to make me mad. I thought a weekend at the lake with my friends would be a refreshing change from the college and sorority bull I put myself through every week. Instead, I end up in the middle of no where Alabama with throw up on my new shirt and a rip in my bathing suit underneath.

      I examined my ex-boyfriend’s little sister, Kim, lying limp in the bed of the ole Chevy. Her eyes were dark and her skin had goose bumps. It was pretty chilly outside.

      I walked over to my group of guy friends who were pacing back and forth making bald spots in the hay. Brandon was off to the side talking to the promiscuous, ugly, and used acquaintance he had brought with us on our ride down the asphalt. She was always in the way—her voice, her laughter… Everything was annoying and my entire group of guy friends was falling for her. I thought of it more as they were falling for her trap to catch an STD.  I would have talked to her with my fist if she hadn’t been such an asset to sober driving. Brandon’s hands wrapped around her skinny waist as she giggled into the chilly night air. How could they be doing that at a time like this? My stomach became even more knotted. If it wasn’t for her, then we wouldn’t be standing here in confusion with a half-dead girl on our hands.

      I was practically the only sober one for the time being besides the tramp over there. I couldn’t drive at a time like this anyways. The guys wouldn’t let me in case any other incident occurred along the way back to the lake house. I envisioned all my best friends back at the house having a great time without a care in the world, not realizing their friends who had gone to McDonalds were in a hay field with a practically dead girl lying in the back of the truck.

      “This is like the funniest thing ever. She is going to want to see this.” The tramp was taking pictures of her best friend lying in the bed of the truck, “I hope she isn’t dead.” And she kicked the body with her foot. “It’ll be fine.”

      We climbed in the truck with Brandon at the wheel. It didn’t seem like the best idea, but at the time, it didn’t seem like the worst either. One mile was all we had to drive. The truck cranked and we pulled out onto the road. The moon reflected on the hood of the truck in a distorted way as we cruised down the old back road. It was much quieter than before—everyone was silent and the music was playing at a low hum. As I stared at the moon on the hood of the truck, blue lights caught my attention up ahead.

      “Damnit. A road block. What the hell are we going to do now? We can’t drive through this!” Brandon said, concerned about the situation.

      My heart pounded as we drove closer. My eyes were fixated on the motion of the lights until I realized we were turning left. I freaked out, “What the hell are you doing we can’t avoid a road block. They’ll come find us! Turn around! Go back!”

      “I’m going to drive down here and hide in this loadin’ dock and they’ll never see us. Whit, they ain’t never gunna find us down here. We can’t go through a road block with Kim in the back of the truck like that. So stop worryin’.” Of course Brandon had to be the clever one—the one who was drunk and driving. And call me clever too, because I was riding with him.

.... To Be Continued....

Response

Response to Lucas's short story: Spooky's Diner

Lucas, you love dialogue! I would like for you to take this story further. I noticed that in the heading you wrote that you were not proud of it-- I think that with some adjustments and suspense (Or some element...) it could be a successful piece. Is this a real diner in Denver? (Just wondering..). So, don't diss yourself before the reader actually reads your piece!!

Reading Response:

Special Happy Day.... Buffey The Vampire Slayer...

I must say, this was my very first episode of Buffey the Vampire Slayer. It was a tid bit intense-- not what I expected, but I liked it. I definately saw some elements of creative non fiction writing in there as well as fiction. For example, flash backs-- what could have been vs. what should have been, relating real life circumstances (minus the creepy vampire), and raw emotions. I could definately relate this to creative writing, and I hope to be watching more Buffey in the future... Except a little less intense... You know, the mindless type of television.

Random Impulse

Sorority Sister Susie

Whitney Johnson

A text message from a sister informed me that

The heavy hand which use to hold

Your mother’s finger

Has fallen limp. After this, I was told

Who strangled it: you,

With quick slurps,

Cupped the foam on top to

Soak into your red streams.

You dumb shit, Susie.

I guess, at midnight, the cells

Were on their last plea

And on their list a few

Last check marks—silent strokes

Swing like a jeweled pendulum

Across your belly button as you laugh.

Sometimes I think I get it, Susie:

Your fuckometer paces in

Anticipation, your entire lively

Corpse, actually, numb, an orgasm

Dismembering from a high. You

Choked, in the smoke filled room,

Fanaticizing a night of neon dreams…

But that final sip,

Susie: an irreplaceable savor.

The professor of the health department

Still teaches daily, waving slightly

To the text book of mishaps.

Then church bell rings

At noon, every time, Susie,

Every time. There is the sweet feel

Of wind whipping around the steeple

From ground to sky; there’s needful

Bees pollinating withered blooms;

There’s grumbling—even when it coughs;

Skittle-sized infections, blue lungs;

And kingdoms, much like yours, Susie,

Of superficial societies, but kingdoms…

You must have craved to be ruler of the kingdom,

Or else they convinced you.

And now, you sink into your infected stream

Beneath the wheat fields. The cows, perhaps,

Fertilizing the golden wheat that floats

Down your stream.

Susie, you dumb shit.

Whatever, whoever,

Must still love you.

Junkyard

… The serpent didn’t hiss

     to Adam and Eve, “Hide your nakedness!”

     He wore his best suit, and whispered, “Look at this!”

Eyes closed, I drift amid their resonant sibilance, soft hiss and crackle in the tide wash, ubiquitous underwater, a buzz like static, or static electricity—but not mechanical—organic and musical, metallic as casino muzak, piles change raked together, a handful of pennies down a child’s slide.

& diamonds roped like a noose around throats of harbors beneath

… shot through a hole, and everything we know

goes in there, where it feeds a blaze.

But time is tied to the wrist

Or kept in a box, ticking with impatience.

The woman looks up from her book.

The man takes a sip of his drink.

Then there is nothing but the sound of their looking,

the lapping of lake water, and a call of one bird

then another, cries of joy or warning—

it passes the time to wonder which.

Response

Cashier
By Kimberly Rigsby

The time goes by
Slower than ever.
Only two hours left
I say to myself.

I grab a box, beep.
How may more days,
Beep, months, and years
Will I be here, beep.

"That's $27.53, sir."
I take the cash,
And give some back.
"Have a good day."

"Yyou too, Miss."
Have a good day?
I can have a good day
In one hour and 58 minutes.
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Kimberly, I really liked the suspsenful aspect that you had going throguhout this poem. I suppose that whoever is making the purchase is really, really, nervous about something. I must say when I first started reading the poem, I thought that the main person in the poem was about to rob the cashier. I did struggle with the ending a bit, and the subject matter of the poem. I think a great poem for you to read would be "Money" by Ted Kooser. Look it up and see what he did with the cashier in this poem. If you can't find it, then let me know and I will bring you a copy. Great Job!

Response

How Easy It Is
By Goldbarth

This poem speciafically caught my attention. I have been reading quite a few poems lately that are based off of the ideas of an elegy. This poem, in my opinion, defiantely has some of those aspects to it as well. I like the heavy sounds of some or the lines throughout the poem because the poem itself is a harsh story, recapping the cruel murder of a family. The beginning of the poem begins as a 5 and 6 year old are dying. There is just enough detail to convey the cruel intentions of the murderer. There is also a sense of connect throughout the poem, but yet also, a disconnect. I also like how there are lines throughout the poem that are short and get the message acorss clearly, such as "days go by". Though this poem was about murder, I found it quite interesting. It reminded me of Capote's novel In Cold Blood.

Writing Poetry
Subject

Quite often, when I try to sit down and write a poem, I think to myself Oh yeah I will write a poem about this or that. Well, I found out the hard way that does not work... at all. At least for me. Usually, i try to mimic a poem or a line that I like, then try to change it in a way that characterizes my writing style, which is... I'm still working on finding it. This chapter helped me realize that you can take a subject, however, and and transform it into a poem. I found this very helpful. And after watching a 2 hour special on bigfoot the other night (yes, bigfoot... one of those things you have a hard time changing the channel with...), I realized how interesting a fictional topic could be in poetry.