Last Creative Writing Blog

What If

Always has it been indisputably assumed that Dark loathes the existence of his sister Light and

likewise, she utters not the name of her brother Dark. Light has always scattered Dark, forcing

him to seek shelter away from her inquisitions and Dark has consumed Light when she could

do no more than fade away in silence but

-what if-

when the shadows approach,

-what if-

the victory of their armies lie not in the devastation of opposition?

-What if-

the celebrations are not brought forth by the taking

of the city but from simply reaching it? The all too brief contact of shady hands sliding across gleaming walls before they can take no more.

-What if-

their dark fingers are searching blindly for an outstretched hand, a coveted invitation into a world that they have never known? One that is far brighter than their own? 

-What if-

when the morning comes,

-what if-

it is merely attempting to take hold of the night, engross it in a sphere of

brilliance, instead of  chasing it away

what if?

CW #11

Wanting

The funeral was today.

She had always wanted to hear the words, “I love you”, just once from her father.  In fact, those words were the only words she said to the church before she took her seat once more.

Her wedding was today.

She had always wanted to get married. Every day she told her husband that she loved him. In fact, she said it so much that he got sick of hearing it.

Today was her divorce.

She had done everything she could to convince him to stay. She cried, begged, threatened, even said that she loved him but he still walked away.

Today was her due day.

She had always wanted to have children when she was younger but she was afraid to raise them, afraid they would leave her like her husband. She kept her distance, she didn’t tell them she loved them, she let them do whatever they wished and hoped that they would love her for it.

The funeral was today.

Her son stood in front of the church and looked at his mother’s body. He opened his mouth and then closed it. His brow furrowed in concentration and he heaved a great sigh. After a long minute he told the near-empty church that he had always wanted to hear the words “I love you”, just once from his mother. In fact, those words were the only words he said before he took his seat once more.

CW 10

Revision piece

Am I Not Important?

My walls are fighting with each other

They can’t seem to agree on what to do with me

So later today, one will simply run away

There are no posters or paintings on the walls

They think they are naked and bare before all

They believe me cruel, uncaring

For them, summer brings sweat and winter chills

They dream of living on sunlit hills

I’ve discovered that I don’t need

Plaster to shield or wood for shelter

An eagle flies above me

As if unbound and free

I can taste their envy

For the things that I love more than them

Am I Not Important? (edited)

My walls are fighting with each other

They can’t seem to agree on what to do with me

So later today one will simply move away

Leaving others to bear the weight

There are no posters or paintings

No colorful covering conceals their form

They think they are naked and bare before all

They believe I’m cruel uncaring

For them summer days bring sweat and winter night chills

They dream of living on sunlit hills

Anywhere but here everywhere but here

I’ve discovered that I don’t need

Plaster to shield or wood for shelter

Fleshly masks or bindings of cloth

An eagle flies above me

Unbound and but not free

Forced to follow a path already taken many times before

I can taste the envy of these four walls

For the things that matter more than them

CW...? 9?

#6

I know nothing about list poems or prose which will probably become obvious when you read this...I tried.

Backyard Highway

The land is barren and for this reason, it exists only as an extension of an already forgotten world. Signs for the illiterate are stationed like useless guards. They say nothing because they remain unseen. Eyes behold them not nor do ears receive their warnings. Pathetic and forgotten-this land is not an example you should follow.

It is dusty here, so dusty. It enters your lungs, stings your eyes; it holds onto your clothes with its stupid fingers. It comes from the land but never strays too far. Always hovering, shielding its maker from all who come to see him. Dust covers the crooked signs that are scattered in meaningless places. You couldn’t read them if you wanted to. Annoying and stupid-be nothing like this place.

She’s taking a break, allowing herself to have a moment of rest before she must get to work again. Beautify. The word is simple but the act is tiring. She can’t sprout life when winter freezes her womb; when she pushes her children out, summer dries them up; and it is hard to focus on her job when man begins impaling her with his words. Yet, she is still here-like she has always been. Strong and resilient- you should feel honored if you become half of what she is.

CW 7 #1 positive-negative beat structure

You think you know me?
This was actully supposed to be posted this-but I posted it last week. =(

Nickoli bounced up on the tips of his feet in a failed attempt to keep warm. There was only one hour left before the ticket vendor opened and he had been waiting for 27 hours. He had his tent already pitched by the time the announcement for the ticket selling was broadcasted for the second time on the radio. A morning and night of grime, sleeping in the snow, and surviving off of kit-kat bars, one bottle of water and a $1.00 size bag of Funyuns was definitely worth it just to get tickets to the concert. He ignored the stares of those who passed by and the incredulous glances shot his way by many in the line behind him.

When the vendor finally opened he rushed to the booth, money already in hand. The last time he was this excited was when he finally stretched his gauged ears to 1 7/8. Six years of slow stretching torture. Then came the time when he finished his full sleeve tattoos, both arms. Getting these tickets beat both of those times combined.

Now that he had the tickets, Nickoli placed them in his book bag and began to pack up his belongings. He didn’t hear the skidding car; he was too lost in his own giddy world. He felt a force tackle him onto the ground, followed by a loud crash.

A car now sat on what used to be his sleeping area. Smoke was coming from the hood and everyone around could smell gas.

“No! Dude my bag! Shit!” yelled Nickoli as he pushed the body off of him.

Someone was helping the driver out of the car. Nickoli failed to notice the rushing of the rescuer. He felt a hand grab hold of him, and then another and another still.

“It’s going to explode, we have to run!”, someone shouted.

 People were screaming but all Nickoli could see was his one in a chance opportunity going up in smoke. He tried his best to overpower the ones who were trying to stop him but he spent more time practicing a guitar than lifting weights and they easily dragged him away as the car went up in flames. Nickoli was crushed, like end of the world, zombie apocalypse: Oh My God! My family has been eaten! - crushed.

Days went by and Nickoli was in a terrible mood all the time. He attended school in a daze snapping at anyone; he went to his job already upset, yelling at people when it took them too long to decide what piercing they wanted. Even when his birthday came, all he could think about was the dumbass driver who couldn’t drive for shit. The driver, who ruined it all, ruined his chance to see the best artist that ever lived, ruined his chance at true happiness, and ruined his entire life.

He didn’t smile when his pals yelled surprise for his surprise birthday party as he entered his apartment. Nor did he care as he opened their gifts. The only thing that pulled him out of his angry, sullen stupor was receiving a small, thin wrapped gift.

Nickoli’s friend, James spoke up. “I heard about what happened dude and I know how much you wanted these tickets, so…open it up.”

Nickoli could feel his heart speed up along with his breathing. He rolled the black sleeves of his Led Zepplin hoodie up in anticipation. He could almost feel himself tear up at the thought of getting a second chance. Not another minute was wasted as he ripped off the wrapping paper and stared at front row tickets to-

“Alice In Chains?” Nickoli looked up confused and his friend looked back at him, just as confused.

“Yes…I heard you bought tickets but lost them…I know how much you love these guys, so I pulled a couple of strings and got these. Though I’m not sure why you camped out on the East Side of the stadium when they were selling these down at the radio station…” His friend gave an anxious chuckle; he didn’t understand why Nickoli was not happy.

“Fu-Fuc-UGH SON OF-DAMN IT ALL!”

“Dude, what’s your problem!?”

“You think I stood in line for 27 hours to wait for Alice in Chains!?”

Everyone was staring now.

James didn’t know what to say so he simply muttered, “Yes, didn’t…you?

Nickoli was fuming. “No!”

“Then what-who.” asked James, completely at a loss.

“I wanted to see Liza Minnelli! Liza fucking Minnelli! GOD!”

CW...5..6?

Don't Think

I gently lift the spoon out of the hot soup

By habit I cool it with a gentle blow before I lift it to your lips

I press the square button on the frame of the bed to decline its angle

By habit I pull the covers to your chin

I flip the light switch, allowing the dark to settle into the room

By habit, I tell you to sleep well and that I love you

Was there ever a time that you wished I would just simply die?

I freeze at your question because it makes me uncomfortable

I don’t reply because my reassurances would be a lie

For the first time, I leave you alone in the dark cold room

…to ponder over that evil question

Closing your door, I realize that that question has been asked many times

In every tear you cried, in every trembling attempt of your hands to brush your own hair,

In everything that I do for you because you cannot do for yourself

Was there ever a time that I wished you would just simply die?

Yes, everyday but that thought reoccurs merely out of habit

Oblivious

Creative Writing 4 #3

You dream of living in sunlit hills, where mounds are covered in jade. The land breathes in deeply, then exhales, gently coaxing emerald hair to movement. There is a whispering noise of buzzing engines that sound closer to the ear than realistically possible. Your feet sink into the dark earth; the thick soil envelops your toes and you experience the uncomfortable sensation of trespassing. With curious hands you reach out -grasping for things that were never meant to be touched-and feel confusion when they pull away. Waist-high flowers are dressed in colorful apparel: pink frocks and red boas, blue skirts and yellow jackets. They mock you with their dance, showing you their hearts, only to cover them up again, denying you any contact.

You feel a feathery brush across your cheek and turn your head. Pollen swirls in front your eyes, laughs, then rushes away. A smile spreads across your face at their flirting and you give chase, even though it is futile. The wind encourages this pursuit with forceful hands pushing against your back. At one point you swear that you are flying as you hurry down a mount.

But suddenly the wind stops and the pollen fade from sight. You fall to the ground and look around you bewildered. You hear another kind of whisper now, one spoken with words.

“Murder”

“Murderer”
It becomes a chanting of many voices. The flowers are not dancing and the land holds its’ breath. Heat is an uncompromising courier of the high sun. You begin to wonder, when did it become so hot? Sweat runs its clammy fingers across your forehead. You are fearful now, fearful of what you have done, fearful of the consequences.

“Why”

“How could you”

Misunderstanding, it must be misunderstanding. You have done nothing wrong and you would never hurt someone…never….

You speak out against their accusations, “Life has always been valuable to me. I’m no murderer. I would never-”

You don’t finish your sentence because the whispers have turned into screams.

“YOU’VE NEVER CARED! YOU’VE NEVER NOTICED!”

You should have never come here. You face grows hot in anger, you can’t listen anymore. You will not. You run again. But this time, you’re being chased. Chased by shrieks and allegations, you run until you are gasping for air. You tear through the valley as if your very life depended on escaping, leaving your attacker behind.

When you reach the end of the valley, you collapse at the edge, desperately sucking in oxygen.

“You don’t even notice…murderer.” Something whispers in your ear, pained.

You sit up in terror. You are trembling. With anxious eyes you look behind you.

It lies on the ground, staring up at your face. Its arms have been torn off, strewn about its’ body. The leg is broken and cannot hold the body any longer. The petals, the beautiful petals are crushed. You let out a cry of horror and raise your eyes to looks across the hills.

It begins at the bottom of the hill and extends to where you are standing now. There is a path of carnage, decorated in torn flowers and broken blades of grass. In agony, they cleave to the ground, the Mother which gave them birth. She absorbs their tears, she listens to their cries. But she can do nothing for the children that you took away, except hold them in her arms until they breathe their last breath.