Here's the exercise from my second day of Creative Writing... Longtime readers may recognize this as a tie-in to my "Fine Print" script (due to be performed this Winter, also located on this blog). Keep in mind this was merely a five minute piece, not intended to be directly related to anything of performance merit.
Sleeping To Dream
Drenched in sweat, John awoke from his dystopian nightmare. Looking around his apartment for affirmation his dream was in fact just that, a dream, John had to remind himself to breathe. His dream world had become chaotic as of late, but he never experienced anything so vivid. In what can only be described as the Rapture, John found himself caught in a battle between his best friend and a female interpretation of Lucifer. His friend had sold his soul to the feminine Satan for a moment of happiness, thus causing a false deal to be made and the apocalypse to start. John begged and pleaded for a way to fix everything, to set things right, only to have "Lucy" offer him a choice; kill his best friend or live in a world blanketed with Hellfire... As he lunged to deliver a deadly blow, that's when John returned from his dastardly slumber... John pushed his dream aside, refocusing not on his environment now, but rather to the knocking at his door. "Open up, it's Lucy" yelled a voice from behind the door. John laid frozen, afraid of whatever may happen next...
Monday, August 29, 2011
Saturday, August 27, 2011
The Squirrel Story...
Continuing my assignment for class, here is the ever popular squirrel story, tackled in both first and third person perspective...
A VIVID CHILDHOOD MEMORY IN THE 1st PERSON PERSPECTIVE
I once went on this hunting trip with my dad. I wasn’t licensed to hunt big game, so I got stuck going after squirrels (of all creatures). I wasn’t really expecting to find anything, nor did I think it was a big deal, but my dad encouraged me to go and find the biggest squirrel I could… Although, he could’ve just been making fun of me (the norm for my father). After all, he was rather intoxicated for most of our hunting trip. Either way, the sun had started to set and I was told to do a sweep of the area before it got too dark. I grabbed my point twenty-two rifle and walked about fifty feet away from camp. As I was walking, I heard what sounded like something scratching a tree. I looked into a nearby tree and was met with a little, furry squirrel. Wanting to make my dad proud, I pointed my gun at the critter and squeezed the trigger. The force of the bullet knocked the woodland rodent from the tree, causing the body to fall out of eyesight, and it was getting too dark to see on my own, so I returned to camp to get a flashlight. Trekking back to my dad, I told him of my victory over a defenseless creature and how my manhood had been established. He asked where the body was and I had told him about my quest to obtain a flashlight as to find the squirrel I had shot right outside of camp. I grabbed the electronic torch and headed off towards my trophy, only to find that the body went MIA. I scoured the whole area, only to come up empty-handed. To this day I am still made fun of for shooting a non-existent squirrel, and it is jokingly blamed for most ill-deeds that occur in my life.
A VIVID CHILDHOOD MEMORY IN THE 3rd PERSON PERSPECTIVE
Michael reluctantly took up his firearm and marched away from camp. Finally being allowed to hunt on a trip with his father, the boy couldn’t help but feel as if everything he ever longed for was wrong. Sure, he had wanted a gun, and he had gotten one for Christmas when he was eight, but he had never thought he’d be given the opportunity to use it. Thinking of it more so as a trophy, Michael was now dreading the moment he ever asked for the rifle. None of that mattered though, for he was on his way to seek prey in the form of squirrels. How hunting such a small and meaningless creature would prove his manhood was beyond him, but Michael wasn’t going to give up this rite for anything. This was finally his opportunity to show his dad how much he had grown in his twelve years of life, and that he’d be a worthy successor to the name of Flanders. Granted, it wasn’t a kingdom he’d be taking over, but Michael still wanted his father to know he was a man. With that in mind he continued his search, looking for any signs of squirrels within the area. Luckily the search didn’t last too long. Upon approaching a rather large tree, Michael heard the faint sound of scratching, causing his attention to aim upward. On one of the higher branches sat a greying squirrel, complete with nut in hand. Dwelling on how his father would react to failure, Michael forced himself to push back any doubt he had regarding the death of this furry creature. Would Michael feel bad about taking the life of this small animal? Of course he would, but it’d be overshadowed by his father finally putting down his beer and accepting him as his own, rather than just a child for him to yell at in a drunken stupor. Taking aim, Michael lifted his rifle up to the squirrel, trying his hardest to keep his hand steady. Finally within his sights, the boy pulled the trigger and sent the squirrel flying out of the tree. To his distress though, Michael could barely see anything past the tree, for the sun had slowly sank away while he contemplated his decision. Racing back to camp, the boy explained to his father the event that had unfolded, and how he needed a flashlight in order to find the carcass of the assuredly deceased critter. Taking amusement from the boy’s rite of passage, his father tossed him a light and exclaimed he should enjoy himself, almost poking fun at what the boy did for his father’s approval. Back in the forest, Michael searched fervently for the body of the squirrel he had watched fall out of the tree at his own doing moments ago. Time passed by, yet the boy couldn’t find any trace of the animal he had killed, causing a weight to be both lifted and placed atop his shoulders. What if he had only grazed the squirrel, or worse, what if he never even hit it? Bringing despair up from the pit of his stomach, another thought occurred to him. What if in an attempt to appease his father he had imagined the squirrel? With the forest growing darker and no trace of the squirrel around, Michael let his mind drink in the failure he had committed, finally hanging his head in shame and trudging back to camp. He recounted the tale to his father, about how the squirrel had just vanished, and he was met with what he hated the most; laughter. His father tore his self-esteem apart, ripping it to the smallest of pieces with joke after joke. Even to this day, over ten years after the incident, Michael is still ridiculed by his friends and family about the squirrel he had “supposedly” shot, yet never recovered. And it is to this day that Michael still thinks he dreamt up the whole idea of the vanishing squirrel in the tree, if only to get his father to be proud of him for just a moment…
A VIVID CHILDHOOD MEMORY IN THE 1st PERSON PERSPECTIVE
I once went on this hunting trip with my dad. I wasn’t licensed to hunt big game, so I got stuck going after squirrels (of all creatures). I wasn’t really expecting to find anything, nor did I think it was a big deal, but my dad encouraged me to go and find the biggest squirrel I could… Although, he could’ve just been making fun of me (the norm for my father). After all, he was rather intoxicated for most of our hunting trip. Either way, the sun had started to set and I was told to do a sweep of the area before it got too dark. I grabbed my point twenty-two rifle and walked about fifty feet away from camp. As I was walking, I heard what sounded like something scratching a tree. I looked into a nearby tree and was met with a little, furry squirrel. Wanting to make my dad proud, I pointed my gun at the critter and squeezed the trigger. The force of the bullet knocked the woodland rodent from the tree, causing the body to fall out of eyesight, and it was getting too dark to see on my own, so I returned to camp to get a flashlight. Trekking back to my dad, I told him of my victory over a defenseless creature and how my manhood had been established. He asked where the body was and I had told him about my quest to obtain a flashlight as to find the squirrel I had shot right outside of camp. I grabbed the electronic torch and headed off towards my trophy, only to find that the body went MIA. I scoured the whole area, only to come up empty-handed. To this day I am still made fun of for shooting a non-existent squirrel, and it is jokingly blamed for most ill-deeds that occur in my life.
A VIVID CHILDHOOD MEMORY IN THE 3rd PERSON PERSPECTIVE
Michael reluctantly took up his firearm and marched away from camp. Finally being allowed to hunt on a trip with his father, the boy couldn’t help but feel as if everything he ever longed for was wrong. Sure, he had wanted a gun, and he had gotten one for Christmas when he was eight, but he had never thought he’d be given the opportunity to use it. Thinking of it more so as a trophy, Michael was now dreading the moment he ever asked for the rifle. None of that mattered though, for he was on his way to seek prey in the form of squirrels. How hunting such a small and meaningless creature would prove his manhood was beyond him, but Michael wasn’t going to give up this rite for anything. This was finally his opportunity to show his dad how much he had grown in his twelve years of life, and that he’d be a worthy successor to the name of Flanders. Granted, it wasn’t a kingdom he’d be taking over, but Michael still wanted his father to know he was a man. With that in mind he continued his search, looking for any signs of squirrels within the area. Luckily the search didn’t last too long. Upon approaching a rather large tree, Michael heard the faint sound of scratching, causing his attention to aim upward. On one of the higher branches sat a greying squirrel, complete with nut in hand. Dwelling on how his father would react to failure, Michael forced himself to push back any doubt he had regarding the death of this furry creature. Would Michael feel bad about taking the life of this small animal? Of course he would, but it’d be overshadowed by his father finally putting down his beer and accepting him as his own, rather than just a child for him to yell at in a drunken stupor. Taking aim, Michael lifted his rifle up to the squirrel, trying his hardest to keep his hand steady. Finally within his sights, the boy pulled the trigger and sent the squirrel flying out of the tree. To his distress though, Michael could barely see anything past the tree, for the sun had slowly sank away while he contemplated his decision. Racing back to camp, the boy explained to his father the event that had unfolded, and how he needed a flashlight in order to find the carcass of the assuredly deceased critter. Taking amusement from the boy’s rite of passage, his father tossed him a light and exclaimed he should enjoy himself, almost poking fun at what the boy did for his father’s approval. Back in the forest, Michael searched fervently for the body of the squirrel he had watched fall out of the tree at his own doing moments ago. Time passed by, yet the boy couldn’t find any trace of the animal he had killed, causing a weight to be both lifted and placed atop his shoulders. What if he had only grazed the squirrel, or worse, what if he never even hit it? Bringing despair up from the pit of his stomach, another thought occurred to him. What if in an attempt to appease his father he had imagined the squirrel? With the forest growing darker and no trace of the squirrel around, Michael let his mind drink in the failure he had committed, finally hanging his head in shame and trudging back to camp. He recounted the tale to his father, about how the squirrel had just vanished, and he was met with what he hated the most; laughter. His father tore his self-esteem apart, ripping it to the smallest of pieces with joke after joke. Even to this day, over ten years after the incident, Michael is still ridiculed by his friends and family about the squirrel he had “supposedly” shot, yet never recovered. And it is to this day that Michael still thinks he dreamt up the whole idea of the vanishing squirrel in the tree, if only to get his father to be proud of him for just a moment…
My first childhood memory in the first and third person perspective
FIRST CHILDHOOD MEMORY IN THE 1st PERSON PERSPECTIVE
My first childhood memory is none other than Alice Cooper. I’ve been raised on his music for as long as I can remember (insert “duh” here), and it’s shaped a lot of who I am today. I can recall sitting on my living room floor, my mom, dad, and sister all stretched out across the room as I intently watched the television. Alice Cooper was onstage, dressed in a glow in the dark tuxedo (complete with top hat), and he was dancing around with skeletons. For a child of such age as I was (around two or three) this should’ve been somewhat terrifying, if not at least a little disturbing. Instead I was entranced, wanting to be up on stage with Alice, wishing I could be dancing with the skeletons too. The lights onstage flickered off, and the ensemble had disappeared. Suddenly, everything was visible again and Mr. Cooper was strutting across the stage with such bravado that I immediately bowed down to this man’s presence. It didn’t stop there though. Vincent Price, spiders, and a skewed cast of monsters all took to the performance in some way or another, offering narrations, inciting fear into the main star, and crafting a physical dreamscape that no other individual has been able to mimic. In short, when I look back as far as I can into the heart of my memories; it’s almost too easy to see Alice Cooper’s mascara lined face grinning back at me… Welcoming me to his nightmare…
FIRST CHILDHOOD MEMORY IN THE 3rd PERSON PERSPECTIVE
The lights in the room were off, the only illumination being the soft glow of a television set flickering scenes unfit for a boy of age two. Surrounded by his closest of family members, no one came to the aid of the child, allowing his delicate mind to bear witness to images of violence and vulgarity. Nightmarish creatures and rhythmically possessed humans danced around a stage built atop the crazy delusions of a single man. This man assaulted dead bodies, wielded a sword, and even defeated a Cyclops with its own head, yet Michael couldn’t remove his gaze. The boy watched on as this man, a man with a woman’s name, fought poisonous spiders, mingled with skeletons, and paraded around unaffected by these atrocities… All while singing in a raspy key. Michael should’ve been terrified of this man, this Alice Cooper person, but there was not a single fiber in the boy’s being that once screamed for him to look away. Instead, Michael viewed the actions of Alice as an escape, as a way of spitting water into the face of life. It was from that moment on the little boy known as Michael ceased to be, and the little hellion who served in Alice Cooper’s monstrous legion came into fruition…
My first childhood memory is none other than Alice Cooper. I’ve been raised on his music for as long as I can remember (insert “duh” here), and it’s shaped a lot of who I am today. I can recall sitting on my living room floor, my mom, dad, and sister all stretched out across the room as I intently watched the television. Alice Cooper was onstage, dressed in a glow in the dark tuxedo (complete with top hat), and he was dancing around with skeletons. For a child of such age as I was (around two or three) this should’ve been somewhat terrifying, if not at least a little disturbing. Instead I was entranced, wanting to be up on stage with Alice, wishing I could be dancing with the skeletons too. The lights onstage flickered off, and the ensemble had disappeared. Suddenly, everything was visible again and Mr. Cooper was strutting across the stage with such bravado that I immediately bowed down to this man’s presence. It didn’t stop there though. Vincent Price, spiders, and a skewed cast of monsters all took to the performance in some way or another, offering narrations, inciting fear into the main star, and crafting a physical dreamscape that no other individual has been able to mimic. In short, when I look back as far as I can into the heart of my memories; it’s almost too easy to see Alice Cooper’s mascara lined face grinning back at me… Welcoming me to his nightmare…
FIRST CHILDHOOD MEMORY IN THE 3rd PERSON PERSPECTIVE
The lights in the room were off, the only illumination being the soft glow of a television set flickering scenes unfit for a boy of age two. Surrounded by his closest of family members, no one came to the aid of the child, allowing his delicate mind to bear witness to images of violence and vulgarity. Nightmarish creatures and rhythmically possessed humans danced around a stage built atop the crazy delusions of a single man. This man assaulted dead bodies, wielded a sword, and even defeated a Cyclops with its own head, yet Michael couldn’t remove his gaze. The boy watched on as this man, a man with a woman’s name, fought poisonous spiders, mingled with skeletons, and paraded around unaffected by these atrocities… All while singing in a raspy key. Michael should’ve been terrified of this man, this Alice Cooper person, but there was not a single fiber in the boy’s being that once screamed for him to look away. Instead, Michael viewed the actions of Alice as an escape, as a way of spitting water into the face of life. It was from that moment on the little boy known as Michael ceased to be, and the little hellion who served in Alice Cooper’s monstrous legion came into fruition…
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Santa's Edible Boot
Here's the draft for my "free-verse poem" about one of my favorite foods...
SANTA'S EDIBLE BOOT
By: Michael T. Flanders
The deep fried smell of death brings my nose to life,
walking into yet another Clown's House of Sin.
Machines clank together, cooking, re-cooking
and embalming my desired menu item.
Laced with an undetectable addictive seasoning,
I repeat my order for the millionth time in my twenty-three years of life.
Hooked since age four,
I've been shooting up processed meat in front of the likes of
Barney, Elmo, and the Red Power Ranger,
all with judgmental grimaces...
Placing my order I step in line with the rest of the sheep,
awaiting the McPimp's generous dose of greasy ecstasy.
Time ticks by,
every second building up the anticipation
for when my next hit will be acquired.
Finally, the "food" container is thrown in front of me,
my excitement barely held.
I reach for it like a scene out of
Raiders of the Lost Ark,
awaiting the bolder of Barnum and Bailey attire
to squash the hopes of my filthy habit.
The box is obtained and I flee to the back of the
McOpium Den to indulge my appetite.
Heavens can be heard falling
and my soul can be heard dying
as I open the lid of my
Chicken McNuggets.
Portraying the form of edible footwear,
my hunger wins out yet again,
forcing my hand to start shoveling in the
overcooked chunks of meat.
The beast has been fed,
the monkey removed from my back,
only until the next day when the Golden Arches
beckon me once more.
Damn you, Chicken McNuggets,
for my voice of reason is no match
against your delicious poultry bits of
death.
SANTA'S EDIBLE BOOT
By: Michael T. Flanders
The deep fried smell of death brings my nose to life,
walking into yet another Clown's House of Sin.
Machines clank together, cooking, re-cooking
and embalming my desired menu item.
Laced with an undetectable addictive seasoning,
I repeat my order for the millionth time in my twenty-three years of life.
Hooked since age four,
I've been shooting up processed meat in front of the likes of
Barney, Elmo, and the Red Power Ranger,
all with judgmental grimaces...
Placing my order I step in line with the rest of the sheep,
awaiting the McPimp's generous dose of greasy ecstasy.
Time ticks by,
every second building up the anticipation
for when my next hit will be acquired.
Finally, the "food" container is thrown in front of me,
my excitement barely held.
I reach for it like a scene out of
Raiders of the Lost Ark,
awaiting the bolder of Barnum and Bailey attire
to squash the hopes of my filthy habit.
The box is obtained and I flee to the back of the
McOpium Den to indulge my appetite.
Heavens can be heard falling
and my soul can be heard dying
as I open the lid of my
Chicken McNuggets.
Portraying the form of edible footwear,
my hunger wins out yet again,
forcing my hand to start shoveling in the
overcooked chunks of meat.
The beast has been fed,
the monkey removed from my back,
only until the next day when the Golden Arches
beckon me once more.
Damn you, Chicken McNuggets,
for my voice of reason is no match
against your delicious poultry bits of
death.
Monday, August 22, 2011
My first class assignment and updates
Hello all, once more it has been months since my last visit to this lovely, little blog site. Not much has changed in the life of "The Fuzz", but let me give you a breakdown anyway.
Work has been... odd... as of late. I'm not really sure how I pulled it off, but I've been down at one of our other schools sites and they put in a transfer request for me. After declining so I could stay at my work site, I was rewarded with a week-long adventure back to the site I turned down. We'll check the "awkward-meter" tomorrow... On top of that, my work site has been down in numbers, down in happiness, and pretty much down in everything. We're all a wreck over there, with no easy fix in sight.
The Fuzz Mobile is still rockin', 'nuff said.
Yours truly is still a victim of the dreaded single life, even with every attempt to break out of it. Between a busy schedule and "non ex-girlfriends", it seems as if I'll be a one-man wolf pack for awhile.
My grandmother is insane and my grandfather is locked away in a care facility. Fun times...
School started again today, which is actually the reason I'm blogging in the first place. I had my first assignment today; writing a brief piece about eating an apple. It'll be listed below momentarily. My homework assignment, however, is going to be a bit of a challenge. I have to write a free verse poem about my favorite food. Poetry - the bane of my existence... Okay, it really isn't, but it's still pretty bad. On that note, here's the uninspired, completely unoriginal creative writing short from Mr. Devilishly Good-Looking over here...
"Keeping The Doctor Away" (Not my title)
The tough skin felt coarse and rugged under my teeth. I chomped down, tearing through the protective, red shell that housed the juicy goodness I so longed for. Contrary to the jest the ruby peel played, the innards of Eve's temptation screamed of moist pleasure, hardly showing any relation to each other. Another bite and the seduction continued, fending off the doctor's visit with my fruitful lover. Within moments I had devoured the once whole apple, putting an end to any ill delusion its rough casing had made.
I know, I know... It's contrived, but deal with it. I haven't written anything good in months, so I'm shaking out the cobwebs. On that note, it's time to bolt. Hopefully I'll stay more up to date with the updating of the blog (I'm doing two writing classes this semester, so I should have stuff to post often) As always, questions or comments are welcome, and you know where to find me if you wanna talk. Seacrest, out!
Work has been... odd... as of late. I'm not really sure how I pulled it off, but I've been down at one of our other schools sites and they put in a transfer request for me. After declining so I could stay at my work site, I was rewarded with a week-long adventure back to the site I turned down. We'll check the "awkward-meter" tomorrow... On top of that, my work site has been down in numbers, down in happiness, and pretty much down in everything. We're all a wreck over there, with no easy fix in sight.
The Fuzz Mobile is still rockin', 'nuff said.
Yours truly is still a victim of the dreaded single life, even with every attempt to break out of it. Between a busy schedule and "non ex-girlfriends", it seems as if I'll be a one-man wolf pack for awhile.
My grandmother is insane and my grandfather is locked away in a care facility. Fun times...
School started again today, which is actually the reason I'm blogging in the first place. I had my first assignment today; writing a brief piece about eating an apple. It'll be listed below momentarily. My homework assignment, however, is going to be a bit of a challenge. I have to write a free verse poem about my favorite food. Poetry - the bane of my existence... Okay, it really isn't, but it's still pretty bad. On that note, here's the uninspired, completely unoriginal creative writing short from Mr. Devilishly Good-Looking over here...
"Keeping The Doctor Away" (Not my title)
The tough skin felt coarse and rugged under my teeth. I chomped down, tearing through the protective, red shell that housed the juicy goodness I so longed for. Contrary to the jest the ruby peel played, the innards of Eve's temptation screamed of moist pleasure, hardly showing any relation to each other. Another bite and the seduction continued, fending off the doctor's visit with my fruitful lover. Within moments I had devoured the once whole apple, putting an end to any ill delusion its rough casing had made.
I know, I know... It's contrived, but deal with it. I haven't written anything good in months, so I'm shaking out the cobwebs. On that note, it's time to bolt. Hopefully I'll stay more up to date with the updating of the blog (I'm doing two writing classes this semester, so I should have stuff to post often) As always, questions or comments are welcome, and you know where to find me if you wanna talk. Seacrest, out!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
