One

The Writers Studio – Level 2, Assignment #7 June 30, 2008

Preamble: 3rd person patient narrator with empathy showing good and bad. Camera far out but mobile with telephoto lens. Use lists and language. Tone – ?, Mood – ?.

One

glowing swirls,
immense
trotting yellow blotches,
thousand miles each
dust outlined forms,
three dimensional
foreign skies,
caress vibrant worlds
pulsing and spinning
throw off smoky rings

viewed through portals
of an angular womb
regulating, directing,
cradling two
seekers, watchers
speeding through
champagne,
bubble-like

2 astronauts,
countless worlds
10 windows,
meticulously clean
53 notebooks,
long since filled
112 photographs,
wallpaper
8 handmade birthday gifts,
delicately saved
1 sleep chamber,
love scented
1 new closet,
hastily cluttered

2 astronauts,
embraced
4 hands,
interlocked
1 body,
united
rendezvous 2 days away,
air supply – 1 day

2 astronauts,
1 mind
a million memories,
a billion miles
1 ship,
1 soul
2 astronauts,
1 beating heart
1 cyanide capsule,
1 trip home

communion

The Writers Studio – Level 2, Assignment #6 June 23, 2008

Preamble: 3rd person. Celebrating a dark repulsive scene, describing something ugly but showing beauty.

communion

They came from all over,
from hiding under rocks
to those out in the open.
Drawn to his body,
even while he still clutched to life.
Dark worms.

Some started at his hands,
burrowing through pristine flesh.
Others went straight to his heart,
entering through open veins.
Their bodies throbbing with his last few beats,
as they gulped down the freshest mouthfuls of blood.
Then eating through the vein into the meat,
the most tender of cuts,
soft and broken,
Hungry jaws chewing through the sorrow.

Spit and tears coated the newcomers,
those coming last to the table.
They had no choice
after first tasting of it.
Offering nothing for this feast
but their hunger.
Greedy bellies filled up
and he was completely consumed.

Furious sounds of feeding gave way to a quiet pause.
Tranquility only broken by a glow,
beginning from the innermost parts.
Dull bodies lit up, becoming burning jewels,
igniting throughout,
brightening and melding their forms into one.
Now breathing in sync,
after his breath long since stopped.
Beating together
Enjoined
Entwined

In a coherent flash
their own shells, now broken
sprouted forth boundlessly.
High powered silver antennae,
shining wings unfolding and burning bright.
At once they took flight
like a chorus.
Legion after legion,
twinkling upwards and
filling the heavens.
Their glory replacing that of the stars,
where he rises to meet them in the sky.

stand

refusing to
buckle
under the
intensity
of your
pathologies,
I stand
firm
in my
infirmities

Windex

The Writers Studio - Level 2, Assignment #5 June 16, 2008

Preamble: 1st person, judgmental/opinionated narrator. Engaging and revealing. Making a big story out of something small. Have fun. Tone: conversational, close. Mood:

Windex

The 16th floor rose towards me like clockwork. If I start on 20th then work my way down I reach her by 11:30am. Its ironic to have to descend to see an angel. Yet there she was. Sandwiched between a middle manager cheating on his wife and a bank of unhappy telemarketers.

Just before lunch is the surest time to be in one’s office. And she frequently lunches at her desk to boot. Last week I had the fortune of seeing her receive flowers. She must be a week into a new relationship. But from the expression on her face I doubt it will last. Besides that, I could already tell he didn’t deserve her. His flowers wilted in a week’s time! If you care about someone, especially someone like this, you can’t cheap on the flowers. Me, I know where to go. From my great height I can see several flower shops. I see them taking delivery each morning. All from the same truck. But one shop is always that truck’s first visit. That is the shop I would go to for someone like this. And spare no expense.

And that choice of flowers. Very pedestrian. She is a woman of creativity as well as intelligence. That messy desk says it all. She probably likes really cool music too. The kind that you hear about through a plugged in friend and not the radio. By the time they hit the air they are onto their second or third album and its downhill at that point.

She is very successful at her job having moved into a corner office last month. That was good for both of us. Now I get to see her at 11:30 and 2:15p. But she never sees me. Nobody does. Yet I still prefer this side of the glass.

Independence Day

The Writers Studio, Level 2, Assignment #4 June 9, 2008

Preamble: 1st person narrator revealing themselves. Narrator interacts with a character that represents a path not taken. Use scene to convey mood (not so good here). Switching genders for story impact.

Independence Day

Fireworks went up like kamikaze rockets. One after another. They are born. Rise up to great heights. Then disintegrate into a million pieces falling into nothingness. All in a flash. Spectacular lemmings, all of them. I finally was invited to my boss’ 4th of July party. Working 60 plus hour weeks at last got some approval. It wasn’t too long ago when I first sat in her office. Staring at her marathon memorabilia on her wall. In awe of the woman portrayed in that office. Her demeanor. Her confidence. Her self-esteem. The many accomplishments. It was right there when I found my vision. I soon styled my hair just like her. I would have dyed it the same shade but my skin color didn’t match. She is so lucky. I have learned so much. “Follow a higher standard.” “Behave like you are better than other people and you will be treated that way.” She doesn’t say this but she does. And her clothes. I longed to be able to afford those same designer labels. In the mean time I have worked on my figure. Those styles weren’t designed for just any ole body. But a sleek, sexy one. Having dropped a dress size in three months, I was almost there. My husband sure approved. Speaking of which, I wonder what happened to her boyfriend. They seemed so good together. Then all of a sudden, she stopped talking about him. And that was that. He must not have been good enough for her. I strangely felt myself thinking I deserve someone better than my beloved Bobby. She hinted at his awkwardness and seeming to be out of place when mixing with the other executives and their partners. But then I come home after a very hard day greeted by a massage or flowers. He stares into me with those loving eyes, and those thoughts melt into oblivion.

It is during one of my particularly grueling weeks that I realize how incredible she is. I send out my completed project late Saturday nite. Then get a detailed reply an hour later! Such dedication and commitment. Such excellence. I must push myself harder. When she was my age she was already Vice President. At 41 she has a good 10 years on most CEOs. I didn’t put up enough of a fight once and she questioned my self-esteem. That caused me to really examine myself. I am so blessed to have her as my mentor. She cares about me on the deepest of levels.

Fireworks. Visiting her house made my own house seem like a sty. There was not a single personal effect on any surface in her entire 3 story house. I suspect it is like that all the time. It’s easier when you don’t have kids I suppose. Which brings me to my main issue. How do I tell her I may never return from my maternity leave? Life is grand.

For Laika

You sometimes twitch when you
sleep. Your face and eyes jitter with
your legs. You must be dreaming.
A nightmare? I would
jump into your dreams and
destroy your monsters.
Dispose them into another
dimension. Then twirl you around,
throw a ball for you to
fetch. And run with you.
But instead I just watch you
sleep.
And breathe.
And dream.
And realize how much I love you.

New Books

The Writer’s Studio Level II - Assignment 3 June 2, 2008

Preamble: 1st person narrator in a present tense younger voice. Charming, captivating, quirky voice (missed that). Almost unreliable. Let it flow. Reveal. Tone: reporting in young voice, Mood: longing, reminiscent

New Books

It is typically the last stop in my weekend shopping mall pilgrimage. It is
where I would steer my mom to on our wanderings. Hugely tall white doors
covered in black words formed the proper gates to this citadel. Its a fine
8th grade summer day and I enter its doors without expectation. I make
my way through the Science section. Moving on to Psychology. And
anything that catches my eye along the way. My meandering path terminates
to feed my large magazine fix. I was probably up to 10 magazines a month.
Omni synergized both science and psychology.

I looked mildly out of place wearing jeans in perfect summer beach
weather. But I don’t like exposing any more of my thin body than I have to.
A t-shirt and beach sandals completed my outfit. My Ace comb parted my
hair in the middle. Like Ralph Macchio.

As I looked up from the latest Popular Photography I saw you across the
isle. In the new books section. A book can be filled with magic. But you
never know until you open it and read. Depending on the cover I give some
the benefit of the doubt. You enchanted me instantly. You grazed
beautifully. In your pink top and jeans. Blonde hair. Tall and thin. But
your eyes. Bedroom. A new phrase I learned from the Fonz as he described
his wonderful squeeze Linda Purl. I couldn’t keep my shy eyes off you. You
moved delicately. You seemed to notice me. But my mouth was paralyzed. Its
only use was to suck in air like a broken lipped bellows. We rotated about each
other like two stars. Then, after a good while, you left.

I dragged my mom there the following Sunday at 2pm. Searching for you. Hair
combed nicely. Heart beats felt in my mouth with anticipation. Eyes scanning
each patron. And the Sunday after that. And again for I don’t know how
many weeks. But I never saw you again. Summer’s over anyway.

Day 1

The Writer’s Studio Level II - Assignment 2. May 26, 2008

Preamble: 1st person narrator. Describe an earlier period through mood, not directly. Describe the scene. Fill the scene with narrator’s feelings at the time. Mood: anger, frustration, bewilderment, Tone: matter of fact

Day 1

Kindergarten is supposed to be introduced through pre-school.
I can’t remember the season or year. Just that day. So many
new faces. All different. All wiggly. My checklist of supplies –
blunt-nosed scissors, Elmer’s glue, blue/red combo pencil,
#2 pencil, eraser, sleeping mat attended me. With my Ace
comb in my back pocket. And crayons. Crayola. Twenty-four
colors. Smiley cutout flowers linked with
plastic straws surrounded the room. Crepe paper in happy
colors teased around my head. Plastic chairs with metal
feet that swivel, perfect for tilting back on, a catalyst for
reprimands. A cubby hole with a chilled top for a desk.
Foreign activities and smells. Dank carpet at nap time. The
scent of construction paper. With colors melting to the
touch of glue. Painting my fingers. Pink juice drew a
smile on my face that I couldn’t rub away. All clocks ran
far too slowly in that strange place. A hot dog and a carton of
milk for lunch. To be taken home unopened. I received a
sheet of paper with a fire engine and an apple.
I returned it completely red.

JB

The Writer’s Studio, Level II – Assignment #1 May 12, 2008

Preamble: 3rd person narrator but almost 1st. Relaxed, light, playful, precise. Direct access to characters thoughts but there is some distance. Pick a popular character. Put in a dilemma and a scene.

JB

A distant flash could be seen. Moving impossibly
fast through the impossibly beautiful. Aston Martins
were preferable for the English Countryside.
Particularly in skillful hands. He slides up and down
that familiar road with an unmatchable
determination and focus. But the smile he gives
today, that half mouthed grin, is for himself alone.
Top down, he takes flight. Little gusts rush to be the
ones to part his hair. These times between
assignments are his favorite. His Walther PPK sits
at home. Against the wishes of his director. Along
with all the gadgets that guard him. So many new
toys to learn about. They can be a real pain. He
once almost shot himself with his cigarette lighter.
But not today. He soon reaches 200 kilometres per
hour. The remaining stress drains from his body.
Not that anyone could notice. Certainly not him. He
wouldn’t allow it. That’s a job requirement you see.
Thoughts of work tomorrow pushes his foot deeper
and sets them afire. He and his Aston. Their bodies
move together. The Aston turns with his deft
guidance. Without question. He keeps it just above
redline even while downshifting through turns.
Unfolding the machine into its maximum glory. But
there is no rush today. There will be no beautiful
woman at the end of this road. No villain to kill.
Not even someone important to save. Today is not a
day for the Queen. It is solely his. And he has
seized it.

Dog Park

The Writer’s Studio, Level I - Assignment #9 May 5, 2008

Preamble: 3rd person narrator, description of a group I am familiar with. Narrative compassion showing love, sympathy and knowledge. Patient in describing the action (missed that one). Show that group in an activity.

Dog Park

The last had finally trickled in making their daily descension complete, giving life to that small square of green in the middle of their city. What was silent just minutes ago became an excited buzz punctuated by an occasional bark or two. Leashes would unsnap and wrap around hands as the little ones took flight. Soon there would be balls flying all over the place and sticks thrown. Pinecones were partial substitutes when all the balls at home were hidden or destroyed.

Sometimes they were as eager to see each other as their cherished ones were. But most times it was more dutiful. A little chat here with one group then a quick hello with another. Even united with a common purpose their familiarities or distrust would faction them. Conversations would fly, “Did you hear what happened to the Standard Poodle?”, “Skipper’s mom is in chemo.”, “Sousie just had surgery on her tail.” They never knew each other’s names. They just knew enough to pass the time while their dogs tired themselves out for the evening, their winding down from work complete.

Of course the dogs were happy to see each other too. This park was for them after all. Seeing their favorite friends they would run from a distance. But only after a serious winding up tail wag while coiling into a crouch. They had their own groups too. The faster running dogs chasing each other with lightning speed. Some, just plain old friends, simply enjoyed being around each other.

Conversations would pause only to encourage their kids to keep playing. And to run. Run fast and hard. To fit in a day’s worth of play into 20 tight minutes. So they would feel less guilty about leaving them alone all day. In the middle of a city. With only a patch of green in the middle.

It was an Autumn evening. The year didn’t matter. But it was different tonite. Birthday cake looked good enough to eat. It was Laika’s day today. And she was happy.