Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Monday, March 3, 2014
3rd Quarter Reflection
This quarter has given me a lot of time to work on my main piece. This opportunity has been very useful, since I haven’t been able to devote this much time to my novella since the summer. I’ve made a good deal of progress with it, as far as cleaning it up and further developing characters who otherwise would have remained half-finished. When we went to work with Dr. Totland, I was able to stretch and take a bit of a break from my main work and explore playwriting a bit more. As a writer, I discovered that I’m quite uncomfortable with stage-writing, but since I discovered that now instead of ten years from now, I think that’s quite helpful to know. Otherwise, I feel like I am getting on more solid ground with my novella.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
The Danger of Gravity
The weight of the brick is insignificant. All you really need to know is that it’s hard, and that it’ll hurt when you drop it on your foot. You don’t need to have dropped it on your foot in order to know that the brick will cause damage. You just need to look at it.
Kyle was looking at the brick from a distance, as if it would spring up and bite him if he got too close. He considered taking a stick and poking the brick, as if that would cause some violent reaction from the hunk of concrete. After a minute of contemplation, he ran his finger over the porous surface, liking the feeling of his skin scraping against the cold and unforgiving brick. He then picked it up with both hands, moving his arms up and down just to feel the undeniable pull of gravity on his slim wrists.
He put the brick down again, right where he had found it, in a pile in his backyard. Kyle’s father had been telling his mother that he would build a firepit when he brought the bricks home after work three weeks ago. His mother had just shrugged and left her husband alone. It was another one of his projects, after all. Very few of his projects were useful. He’d built a bookshelf that was lopsided and fell apart within a week. He’d tried to build a treehouse for Kyle once, and ended up making a lean-to against the tree in the backyard. He’d once built a stool, and that actually worked very well, until Kyle’s mother accidentally set it on fire.
Kyle sat on the ground then, and began to re-arrange the pile of bricks, carefully stacking them very methodically. The sun beat his back and face, and the wind made his allergies act up, and his fingers were battered by the porous concrete, and bees fluttered around his head threateningly, and his clothes were getting dusty, but none of that mattered to Kyle. He liked the protective warmth of the sun, and the friendly tug of the wind in his hair, and the solid brick in his hands, and the gentle buzzing of the bees, and he could always just wash his clothes again.
He didn’t know how long he had been stacking and unstacking the bricks. Every time he ran out of them, he would tear down his construction just as eagerly as he had built it. The sun stopped beating down so heavily, and the wind got a little sharper, and his hands hurt from the weight of the bricks, and the bees had gone away, and he began to feel grimy. The appeal of building was lost slowly, he noticed. That morning, all he had wanted was to just hold one of the bricks in his hands. Around noon he had begun building. Now, with the sun setting and his arms growing heavy, he was bored and tired. But if he went back into the house, his mother would have asked him to help her with chores. So he took one of the bricks in his hand and began wandering around the yard in wide, slow, loops as he felt the cool grass and still-warm dirt in between his toes.
His eyes caught movement, and he fixated on the shape. A neighborhood cat had come into the yard. It was white, except for his brown paws and his black-tipped tail. The short-haired cat sat on the pile of bricks, and began to clean himself. Kyle inched towards the animal, hoping he would not scare it away. The cat ignored him and kept on grooming himself. Kyle called to the cat, but he did not lift his head. He called louder, but still the cat did not look up. He jumped up and yelled again, waving his arms, but the cat just ignored him. Kyle hated being ignored. He clenched the brick, and grit his teeth, seething. He called the cat names, and he even used the swear-words his parents used with each other.
The cat would not look up until Kyle was less than three feet away. Kyle felt the anger surging and before he could stop himself, he held the brick, ready to bash the cat’s skull. He held his hand up, shaking, and he dropped the brick. Down it came. He felt it drag at his fingers as it fell away. He swore that he heard it whistle on the way down. The black tip of the cat’s tail was smashed, and in slow motion, the brick bounced off and onto Kyle’s foot. Reacting first, the cat yowled and sputtered hisses as he ran out of the yard. Kyle took longer to realize that the brick had indeed sunk into his foot. Then came the pain. Hot and stabbing and throbbing, he howled and began to cry, clutching his crushed foot uselessly.
His mother ran out, panicked. She scooped up the boy and tried to calm him down. His left foot was turning purple, and Kyle screamed when she tried to touch it. Feeling helpless, she let him cry while she murmured quietly. He stopped, and only whimpered occasionally, pushing his head against her shoulder.
She got up then, holding her son protectively, and took him inside where she applied an ice pack to his foot. When Kyle’s father came home, she ordered him to remove the bricks from the yard. He never attempted another project.
The weight of the brick was no longer insignificant to Kyle. His foot was fractured, and he was in a cast for weeks. He knew the brick was hard, and he had even known that it would hurt him, just by looking at it. But none of that mattered to Kyle before he hurt himself. None of the warnings ever seem to matter, until you find out why for yourself.
Kyle was looking at the brick from a distance, as if it would spring up and bite him if he got too close. He considered taking a stick and poking the brick, as if that would cause some violent reaction from the hunk of concrete. After a minute of contemplation, he ran his finger over the porous surface, liking the feeling of his skin scraping against the cold and unforgiving brick. He then picked it up with both hands, moving his arms up and down just to feel the undeniable pull of gravity on his slim wrists.
He put the brick down again, right where he had found it, in a pile in his backyard. Kyle’s father had been telling his mother that he would build a firepit when he brought the bricks home after work three weeks ago. His mother had just shrugged and left her husband alone. It was another one of his projects, after all. Very few of his projects were useful. He’d built a bookshelf that was lopsided and fell apart within a week. He’d tried to build a treehouse for Kyle once, and ended up making a lean-to against the tree in the backyard. He’d once built a stool, and that actually worked very well, until Kyle’s mother accidentally set it on fire.
Kyle sat on the ground then, and began to re-arrange the pile of bricks, carefully stacking them very methodically. The sun beat his back and face, and the wind made his allergies act up, and his fingers were battered by the porous concrete, and bees fluttered around his head threateningly, and his clothes were getting dusty, but none of that mattered to Kyle. He liked the protective warmth of the sun, and the friendly tug of the wind in his hair, and the solid brick in his hands, and the gentle buzzing of the bees, and he could always just wash his clothes again.
He didn’t know how long he had been stacking and unstacking the bricks. Every time he ran out of them, he would tear down his construction just as eagerly as he had built it. The sun stopped beating down so heavily, and the wind got a little sharper, and his hands hurt from the weight of the bricks, and the bees had gone away, and he began to feel grimy. The appeal of building was lost slowly, he noticed. That morning, all he had wanted was to just hold one of the bricks in his hands. Around noon he had begun building. Now, with the sun setting and his arms growing heavy, he was bored and tired. But if he went back into the house, his mother would have asked him to help her with chores. So he took one of the bricks in his hand and began wandering around the yard in wide, slow, loops as he felt the cool grass and still-warm dirt in between his toes.
His eyes caught movement, and he fixated on the shape. A neighborhood cat had come into the yard. It was white, except for his brown paws and his black-tipped tail. The short-haired cat sat on the pile of bricks, and began to clean himself. Kyle inched towards the animal, hoping he would not scare it away. The cat ignored him and kept on grooming himself. Kyle called to the cat, but he did not lift his head. He called louder, but still the cat did not look up. He jumped up and yelled again, waving his arms, but the cat just ignored him. Kyle hated being ignored. He clenched the brick, and grit his teeth, seething. He called the cat names, and he even used the swear-words his parents used with each other.
The cat would not look up until Kyle was less than three feet away. Kyle felt the anger surging and before he could stop himself, he held the brick, ready to bash the cat’s skull. He held his hand up, shaking, and he dropped the brick. Down it came. He felt it drag at his fingers as it fell away. He swore that he heard it whistle on the way down. The black tip of the cat’s tail was smashed, and in slow motion, the brick bounced off and onto Kyle’s foot. Reacting first, the cat yowled and sputtered hisses as he ran out of the yard. Kyle took longer to realize that the brick had indeed sunk into his foot. Then came the pain. Hot and stabbing and throbbing, he howled and began to cry, clutching his crushed foot uselessly.
His mother ran out, panicked. She scooped up the boy and tried to calm him down. His left foot was turning purple, and Kyle screamed when she tried to touch it. Feeling helpless, she let him cry while she murmured quietly. He stopped, and only whimpered occasionally, pushing his head against her shoulder.
She got up then, holding her son protectively, and took him inside where she applied an ice pack to his foot. When Kyle’s father came home, she ordered him to remove the bricks from the yard. He never attempted another project.
The weight of the brick was no longer insignificant to Kyle. His foot was fractured, and he was in a cast for weeks. He knew the brick was hard, and he had even known that it would hurt him, just by looking at it. But none of that mattered to Kyle before he hurt himself. None of the warnings ever seem to matter, until you find out why for yourself.
Friday, January 10, 2014
Creative Writing Second Semester
For the second semester, I would like to be able to explore more forms of creative writing. I think SpokenWord could be an interesting medium worth trying. Also, I wouldn't mind being able to respond to photographs with our writing, because that process usually helps inspire better writing. As for the longer project, I think I will change that from my plans from my one novel to a collection of shorter pieces, since the long piece has shrunk.
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