1.) The paperclips were organized by size. The spices in the pantry stood neatly in alphabetical order. He couldn't stand untidiness; he wiped the blood away.
2.) I stretched my spine, hoping against hope. Maybe willpower alone would transform centimeters into inches. I lifted my chin. But no. Five feet tall forever.
3.) Tension crackled in the heavy clouds. Raindrops poured down violently. Thunder rolled.
"The weather's bad," one said.
"True. Let's kill him tomorrow," said the other.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Description Exercise: Character; A Close Look at Alfred
He capered in his wire cage, rather like a jester with a bad case of consssstipation.
Even though Alfred alwaysss quivers and shiversss like a plate of tomato aspic in an earthquake, he'sss actually quite...pretty. For a pigeon, that isss. His thick, white featherss poof around his fat, well-fed, entirely edible body. He looksss cuddly--fluffy and cuddly, like a fat little bread roll with butter stuffed inside.
Black and gold spotsss decorate his wingsss; he's so lovely, you could almost believe he wasssn't a pigeon. It all comesss down to breading. Alfred is so well bred that you'd expect to find him in a hilltop bakery, far above the drab city pigeonsss you see in public parks. At least Alfred is clean with normal feet; park pigeons all have grime ground into their feathers, and deformed, clubbed feet.
His good looksss are a bit ruined by hiss eyeballsss, though. His feathers look softer than whipped mashed potatoes, but his eyeballs are like cold little pepper kernelssss. And he hassss pink skin around those mad little eyes, too, as though he has some sort of inflamed skin disease in his eyelidsss.
Even though Alfred alwaysss quivers and shiversss like a plate of tomato aspic in an earthquake, he'sss actually quite...pretty. For a pigeon, that isss. His thick, white featherss poof around his fat, well-fed, entirely edible body. He looksss cuddly--fluffy and cuddly, like a fat little bread roll with butter stuffed inside.
Black and gold spotsss decorate his wingsss; he's so lovely, you could almost believe he wasssn't a pigeon. It all comesss down to breading. Alfred is so well bred that you'd expect to find him in a hilltop bakery, far above the drab city pigeonsss you see in public parks. At least Alfred is clean with normal feet; park pigeons all have grime ground into their feathers, and deformed, clubbed feet.
His good looksss are a bit ruined by hiss eyeballsss, though. His feathers look softer than whipped mashed potatoes, but his eyeballs are like cold little pepper kernelssss. And he hassss pink skin around those mad little eyes, too, as though he has some sort of inflamed skin disease in his eyelidsss.
Description Exercise: Setting
So, here I am in my little glass box, with no one to talk to but Alfred. Daphne the hamster is kept well away from me. As if I'd eat that mangy little rat thing.
As if I could even get to that mangy little rat thing. Like I said, I live in a small glass aquarium, and the funny thing about aquariums is that they're built for FISH. I am not a fish. Bubbles are not a part of my life. This is no place for me.
The light reflects off of the well-polished glass walls, glinting harshly at me. It's cold light, too--the kind of light you'd find in a doctor's examination room, or a school. Definitely not the kind of light you'd want to see at the end of the tunnel.
My owners lined the aquarium with sawdust, too. I expect they felt like they were being charitable by giving me a nice, soft, airy floor. Oh yes. Nothing homier than a bed made of woodchips. The little particles of wood get stuck all over my tongue, coating my mouth with the manky taste of wood that has, over time, soaked in the essence of a snake's bodily functions. Even my water bowl has little floaty gritty bits, like badly brewed coffee.
I have a little igloo, too. A plastic igloo that sits in the corner, looking cheap, dinky, and stupid. I don't fit inside of it, even when I curl up as tight as I can. And it's an igloo. I'm a snake. Igloos and snakes don't even belong in the same sentence, let alone in the same aquarium.
As if I could even get to that mangy little rat thing. Like I said, I live in a small glass aquarium, and the funny thing about aquariums is that they're built for FISH. I am not a fish. Bubbles are not a part of my life. This is no place for me.
The light reflects off of the well-polished glass walls, glinting harshly at me. It's cold light, too--the kind of light you'd find in a doctor's examination room, or a school. Definitely not the kind of light you'd want to see at the end of the tunnel.
My owners lined the aquarium with sawdust, too. I expect they felt like they were being charitable by giving me a nice, soft, airy floor. Oh yes. Nothing homier than a bed made of woodchips. The little particles of wood get stuck all over my tongue, coating my mouth with the manky taste of wood that has, over time, soaked in the essence of a snake's bodily functions. Even my water bowl has little floaty gritty bits, like badly brewed coffee.
I have a little igloo, too. A plastic igloo that sits in the corner, looking cheap, dinky, and stupid. I don't fit inside of it, even when I curl up as tight as I can. And it's an igloo. I'm a snake. Igloos and snakes don't even belong in the same sentence, let alone in the same aquarium.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Monologue: Wilberforce Speaks
My aquarium tumbled to the ground. It wasss not, as moviesss and popular fiction would have you believe, in sslow motion. I did not float to the ground. In fact, the word 'float' dessscribess my fall about as well as rockss sssstick to the ssceiling.
My cage shattered onto the tile floor, shoving glassss sslivers through my sscales and exploding outwardss in a ssparkly dissplay, made all the more noticable by the fact that the glitter came from light reflecting off the decidedly sharp edgesss.
I felt like I had been ssstabbed—which I had, sso let'sss talk no more about that. Jussst know that it wasss a mossst unpleassant experience.
And then the idiot human ssstarted sstamping around in panic, trying to crush me with hisss Nike tennissss shoesss. I wriggled away as I had never wriggled before—the threat of imminent death can do that to a person—or sssssnake—no matter how many sharp pointy objects you have sssstuck in your body.
I dragged my bleeding carcasss under the conveniently placssed piles of clean, unfolded clothess—a sstroke of luck in my usssually luckless world. I wish I could sssay I was dead weight—that would imply sssomeone elsssse would be doing the dragging. As it wasss, I wass dragging my sssory sself.
My cage shattered onto the tile floor, shoving glassss sslivers through my sscales and exploding outwardss in a ssparkly dissplay, made all the more noticable by the fact that the glitter came from light reflecting off the decidedly sharp edgesss.
I felt like I had been ssstabbed—which I had, sso let'sss talk no more about that. Jussst know that it wasss a mossst unpleassant experience.
And then the idiot human ssstarted sstamping around in panic, trying to crush me with hisss Nike tennissss shoesss. I wriggled away as I had never wriggled before—the threat of imminent death can do that to a person—or sssssnake—no matter how many sharp pointy objects you have sssstuck in your body.
I dragged my bleeding carcasss under the conveniently placssed piles of clean, unfolded clothess—a sstroke of luck in my usssually luckless world. I wish I could sssay I was dead weight—that would imply sssomeone elsssse would be doing the dragging. As it wasss, I wass dragging my sssory sself.
Character Creation (First Fabulous Friday)
It was just out of my reach.
I couldn't reach it; it was so close, though, I could almost taste success in my mouth!
I couldn't do it. I was a failure, a loser, a pathetic excuse for a human. I had been sent on a mission, and I had failed. Someone else would be sent after me--they would prevail, and I would be lost from history, not even worth a sentence of remembrance.
How had it come to this?
Life had started out so... good. Success at every turn, working my way up in the world--I'm smart, I have common sense. I never fail.
An emptiness filled my gut more effectively than concrete mix. I would return empty-handed. I gazed longingly at my goal.
"Excuse me miss... Do you want me to get that for you?" He stood there innocently, in all his over-six-feet-tall glory. Tall, good-looking, and with god-like proportions.
I decided I hated him.
I narrowed my eyes and coldly muttered, "No, thank-you." I gave him a look that would toast paint off the wall. He edged by, realizing he had narrowly escaped death. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him skirt around the corner and out of sight.
No. I didn't need help.
I returned my attention to the goal--keep the eye on the goal. This was it. My famous last stand. Do or die.
My muscles strained and cramped as I tip-toed my fingers up the wall, inch by inch... Just a little more...
To hell with this.
I gave a little hop, my arm stretched all the way up--and I snagged it, yanking the long-sought prize from the top shelf. Victory!
Mom would be so pleased that I'd been able to find the multi-grain cereal she likes the best.
I couldn't reach it; it was so close, though, I could almost taste success in my mouth!
I couldn't do it. I was a failure, a loser, a pathetic excuse for a human. I had been sent on a mission, and I had failed. Someone else would be sent after me--they would prevail, and I would be lost from history, not even worth a sentence of remembrance.
How had it come to this?
Life had started out so... good. Success at every turn, working my way up in the world--I'm smart, I have common sense. I never fail.
An emptiness filled my gut more effectively than concrete mix. I would return empty-handed. I gazed longingly at my goal.
"Excuse me miss... Do you want me to get that for you?" He stood there innocently, in all his over-six-feet-tall glory. Tall, good-looking, and with god-like proportions.
I decided I hated him.
I narrowed my eyes and coldly muttered, "No, thank-you." I gave him a look that would toast paint off the wall. He edged by, realizing he had narrowly escaped death. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him skirt around the corner and out of sight.
No. I didn't need help.
I returned my attention to the goal--keep the eye on the goal. This was it. My famous last stand. Do or die.
My muscles strained and cramped as I tip-toed my fingers up the wall, inch by inch... Just a little more...
To hell with this.
I gave a little hop, my arm stretched all the way up--and I snagged it, yanking the long-sought prize from the top shelf. Victory!
Mom would be so pleased that I'd been able to find the multi-grain cereal she likes the best.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Shaggy Dog Stories; Untitled; do not read these if you loathe horrible puns
1.) (Please read the following passage bearing in mind that the character has a British Accent)
This, here, is my lily pad. I live a high-wired life, flicking out my lightening tongue to catch flies. I creep up on them; it’s a talent of mine. One second they’re flying around carefree, committing their crimes—i.e., the crime of being alive—and the next second BAM. No more flies, no more crimes. My lifestyle really pulls in the ladies, too—they can’t resist me when I ribbit and puff out my throat.
I don’t know if I’ve introduced myself… The name’s Pond.
James Pond.
2.) (Takes place on a big boat)
The Dread Pirate Captain, Sea Devil, Man on Water, lowered his telescope and said, “Arrr!” in the tones of one who has wearily followed tradition for a lifetime. His skipper looked up.
“Arr, Dread Pirate Captain, Sea Devil, Man on Water?” the skipper asked.
“Yes, arrr, skipper. It be the time to say ‘arrr.’”
“Why’s that, Dread Pirate Captain, Sea Devil, Man on Water?"
“We must find the treasure, skipper!” Cried Dread Pirate Captain, Sea Devil, Man on Water, rather exasperatedly. Then, for good measure, he growled, “Arrr!”
“Right, sir. Arr.” The skipper had never really gotten into the spirit of things. “What sort of treasure are we looking for, Dread Pirate Captain, Sea Devil, Man on Water?”
“Treasure! Loot! One, two, three, four, What are we pirates for?” replied the now terribly annoyed Dread Pirate Captain, Sea Devil, Man on Water. The skipper thought about this, then took off one of his boots and handed it to the Dread Pirate Captain, Sea Devil, Man on Water.
“What’s this,” snapped the now-furious Dread Pirate Captain, Sea Devil, Man on Water.
“It’s our booty.”
This, here, is my lily pad. I live a high-wired life, flicking out my lightening tongue to catch flies. I creep up on them; it’s a talent of mine. One second they’re flying around carefree, committing their crimes—i.e., the crime of being alive—and the next second BAM. No more flies, no more crimes. My lifestyle really pulls in the ladies, too—they can’t resist me when I ribbit and puff out my throat.
I don’t know if I’ve introduced myself… The name’s Pond.
James Pond.
2.) (Takes place on a big boat)
The Dread Pirate Captain, Sea Devil, Man on Water, lowered his telescope and said, “Arrr!” in the tones of one who has wearily followed tradition for a lifetime. His skipper looked up.
“Arr, Dread Pirate Captain, Sea Devil, Man on Water?” the skipper asked.
“Yes, arrr, skipper. It be the time to say ‘arrr.’”
“Why’s that, Dread Pirate Captain, Sea Devil, Man on Water?"
“We must find the treasure, skipper!” Cried Dread Pirate Captain, Sea Devil, Man on Water, rather exasperatedly. Then, for good measure, he growled, “Arrr!”
“Right, sir. Arr.” The skipper had never really gotten into the spirit of things. “What sort of treasure are we looking for, Dread Pirate Captain, Sea Devil, Man on Water?”
“Treasure! Loot! One, two, three, four, What are we pirates for?” replied the now terribly annoyed Dread Pirate Captain, Sea Devil, Man on Water. The skipper thought about this, then took off one of his boots and handed it to the Dread Pirate Captain, Sea Devil, Man on Water.
“What’s this,” snapped the now-furious Dread Pirate Captain, Sea Devil, Man on Water.
“It’s our booty.”
Monday, September 14, 2009
Clarence the 4,000,000th, Founder of Civilization: The Beginning of the Kingdom (Writing Prompt 9-14-09)
Chapter 4
It was almost 7 AM on the east coast; the sun was not so much as kissing the sea as it was slobbering all over it, and the light lit upon die-hard joggers trotting along the shoreline as they kicked up dust clouds and dripped perspiration off their noses; it would have been a peaceful scene, with its gleaming seashells and seagulls (who would have been pretty if only they weren’t seagulls0, but for the atomic bomb that went off at 7:01 AM.
The mushroom cloud was quite a sight. The black dust and smoke at its feet chocked the air, and the glowing top of the mushroom outshone the sun with its evil red glare. Millions were incinerated, but a few survived…
And two days later, Clarence the 4,000,000th was born.
He was small for a newborn, and he certainly had a few odd traits that most babies definitely did not have. His mother put it down as an effect of The Bomb, though she didn’t really understand how radiation and that sort of thing worked. The fact of the matter was that Clarence was weird, and he was probably weird because of whatever effect the bomb had on him before he was born, so Clarence’s mother left it at that.
The family, led by Clarence the 399,999,999th, Clarence’s father, foraged for food in those days after the bomb. Of course, they had always been self-professed dumpster-divers, but now even finding a dumpster was a struggle, what with all the radioactive ash and debris strewn about the place.
It was in this kind of atmosphere and danger that Clarence was forced to grow up in.
Early on, Clarence knew he wasn’t like his brothers and sisters. First of all, one of his legs was small and under-grown—it couldn’t support his weight, so it simply dragged along uselessly. Second of all, he asked questions—questions like, “Why am I Clarence the 4,000,000th?”
And third of all, though perhaps the most important, was that he was…well, smart. By the age of four days, he could read simple sentences. After two weeks, he could read Paradise Lost and give a verbal dissertation. He couldn’t write, but that was more of a physical problem than a mental one—had he been gifted with the body parts necessary for writing (i.e., hands and fingers), he would have excelled at it.
As it was, he had six legs, and one of those didn’t even work, so he often didn’t count it and thought of himself as Clarence of the Five Legs.
Clarence’s mother had no idea what to do with her son. He…well, he kept thinking about things. And he’d solve problems that the family had dealt with for years in their roundabout but traditional ways. And he would read random pieces of paper left over from the bomb and soak it all in and think some more. So she did her best and tried not to worry about him, which was actually quite a simple task, since she had 7 million other children to mind and couldn’t spare her thoughts on one oddball of a child.
Clarence didn’t mind, really—he just wanted to be left alone to mull things over. He had found a half-burnt encyclopedia in the rubble, and while he had flipped aimlessly through the pages (a difficult task for one so small and hand-less, but he managed by thrusting his thin limbs between the pages and wriggling them over until they turned), he had discovered a picture.
It was a great discovery. He stared at it, and then read the entry that went with the picture. Then he went to go find his mother.
“Mother, we are cockroaches, according to that book over there. A type of insect. And apparently we—”
But his mother cut him off with a stern wave of her antennas. Then she scuttled away to do whatever it was she felt she had to do.
Clarence stood for a moment, staring after her. He made a sudden decision.
It was time to leave home.
He wasn’t terribly sad—after all, he had only known his family for three weeks, and it wasn’t as though they made it easy to get attached to them—but he felt a twinge of a regret as he skittered away from the only home he had ever known.
After he left home, details of Clarence the 4,000,000th’s life are largely cloaked in mystery. His travels around the world and as the first cockroach to circumnavigate the Earth are, of course, legend, and the particulars of those travels are covered in the next chapter.
Before he left on those travels, however, he met the love of his life, Conchita the 339,221,451st. Together, they had over 900,000,000 children, and they and their children began the Period of Enlightenment.
So, two hundred years later, we pay tribute to Clarence the 4,000,000th with the Founder’s Day celebration. Without him, the Cockroach Kingdom we live in today would never have begun.
Please turn to the next page for Review Questions.
It was almost 7 AM on the east coast; the sun was not so much as kissing the sea as it was slobbering all over it, and the light lit upon die-hard joggers trotting along the shoreline as they kicked up dust clouds and dripped perspiration off their noses; it would have been a peaceful scene, with its gleaming seashells and seagulls (who would have been pretty if only they weren’t seagulls0, but for the atomic bomb that went off at 7:01 AM.
The mushroom cloud was quite a sight. The black dust and smoke at its feet chocked the air, and the glowing top of the mushroom outshone the sun with its evil red glare. Millions were incinerated, but a few survived…
And two days later, Clarence the 4,000,000th was born.
He was small for a newborn, and he certainly had a few odd traits that most babies definitely did not have. His mother put it down as an effect of The Bomb, though she didn’t really understand how radiation and that sort of thing worked. The fact of the matter was that Clarence was weird, and he was probably weird because of whatever effect the bomb had on him before he was born, so Clarence’s mother left it at that.
The family, led by Clarence the 399,999,999th, Clarence’s father, foraged for food in those days after the bomb. Of course, they had always been self-professed dumpster-divers, but now even finding a dumpster was a struggle, what with all the radioactive ash and debris strewn about the place.
It was in this kind of atmosphere and danger that Clarence was forced to grow up in.
Early on, Clarence knew he wasn’t like his brothers and sisters. First of all, one of his legs was small and under-grown—it couldn’t support his weight, so it simply dragged along uselessly. Second of all, he asked questions—questions like, “Why am I Clarence the 4,000,000th?”
And third of all, though perhaps the most important, was that he was…well, smart. By the age of four days, he could read simple sentences. After two weeks, he could read Paradise Lost and give a verbal dissertation. He couldn’t write, but that was more of a physical problem than a mental one—had he been gifted with the body parts necessary for writing (i.e., hands and fingers), he would have excelled at it.
As it was, he had six legs, and one of those didn’t even work, so he often didn’t count it and thought of himself as Clarence of the Five Legs.
Clarence’s mother had no idea what to do with her son. He…well, he kept thinking about things. And he’d solve problems that the family had dealt with for years in their roundabout but traditional ways. And he would read random pieces of paper left over from the bomb and soak it all in and think some more. So she did her best and tried not to worry about him, which was actually quite a simple task, since she had 7 million other children to mind and couldn’t spare her thoughts on one oddball of a child.
Clarence didn’t mind, really—he just wanted to be left alone to mull things over. He had found a half-burnt encyclopedia in the rubble, and while he had flipped aimlessly through the pages (a difficult task for one so small and hand-less, but he managed by thrusting his thin limbs between the pages and wriggling them over until they turned), he had discovered a picture.
It was a great discovery. He stared at it, and then read the entry that went with the picture. Then he went to go find his mother.
“Mother, we are cockroaches, according to that book over there. A type of insect. And apparently we—”
But his mother cut him off with a stern wave of her antennas. Then she scuttled away to do whatever it was she felt she had to do.
Clarence stood for a moment, staring after her. He made a sudden decision.
It was time to leave home.
He wasn’t terribly sad—after all, he had only known his family for three weeks, and it wasn’t as though they made it easy to get attached to them—but he felt a twinge of a regret as he skittered away from the only home he had ever known.
After he left home, details of Clarence the 4,000,000th’s life are largely cloaked in mystery. His travels around the world and as the first cockroach to circumnavigate the Earth are, of course, legend, and the particulars of those travels are covered in the next chapter.
Before he left on those travels, however, he met the love of his life, Conchita the 339,221,451st. Together, they had over 900,000,000 children, and they and their children began the Period of Enlightenment.
So, two hundred years later, we pay tribute to Clarence the 4,000,000th with the Founder’s Day celebration. Without him, the Cockroach Kingdom we live in today would never have begun.
Please turn to the next page for Review Questions.
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