This was really difficult, in my opinion. This exercise definitely helped with bringing new concepts to this old piece. I would never have written some of these words had I not been challenged to do so. This strategy can help writers think outside of the box (there’s a cliche, lol) when trying to create interesting dynamics with their writings. This kind of reminds me of those mad lib sheets I would do as a kid!! 

The Old Man Across the Street

Charles is a 70 year old veteran of the Vietnam war. Charles have lived on the same street since he has came back from the war and has lost his spouse Jennifer about 3 years ago. Charles gets up about at six o’clock every morning and is there waiting patiently for his newspaper. As soon as Charles gets his newspaper he sits down on his old wooden bench on his porch. Charles generally takes his time reading his paper until the children run past going to school. The kids generally cut through Charles yard and oh boy does that make Charles mad. If you were not awake you would be suddenly awoken by a loud yell saying, “You whippersnappers get off my lawn or you will know what will happen to you!” Every Saturday you can see Charles heading off to the cemetery with white flowers in his hands to put on his wife Jennifer’s grave. Generally Charles does not come home on Saturdays until the sun started to set. On Sundays Charles attends church and if he does not see you heading to church all you can hear from him is, “Back in my day ya whippersnappers would be forced to go to church with your parents.” Charles was also known for his angry “Huffs” whenever you did something he did not like.

On rainy days you can see Charles staring out his window for hours on end. Some have thought he just enjoys to watch the rain or the people in the rain and then there are some people who believe that Charles is reliving the memories of when he was in the war because of the stern and serious expression on his face. There has even been times in the middle of the night you could see Charles staring out his window. (ooooh spooky)

Every two or three weeks Charles daughter Gwen comes to visit although before the passing of Jennifer she would only show up roughly every three months. This is probably one of the few days you see Charles smile and when kids run through his yard he goes to yell but stops short. Gwen generally takes Charles out for walks in the morning because she says, “staying cooped up for to long can make a person stir crazy.” So if you do not see Charles sitting on his old bench sitting on his porch then you know Gwen has come to visit.

Sometimes Charles tries to strike up a conversations with the neighbors but stops short because he thinks who would want to talk to a old grumpy man like me. There have been times when the neighbors have tried to talk to Charles but was met with hostility. You can tell Charles does regret that because as the neighbors walk away you can see a hint of sadness and loneliness in his eyes. For poor Charles only if there was a more stubborn neighbor then maybe he would be able to talk to someone other than his daughter when she shows up. 

Try This 7.11

Where are we? - On a bed, drifting to a bed of roses, in a valley full of flowers

When are we? - Not explicitly stated

Who are they? - Not specified, just some external force that is causing the character to be in a trance

How do things look? - beautiful, colorful, lush

What period, time of year, day or night is it? - The period is not stated; time of year can be assumed spring or summer, as there are flowers, but again, this is not explicitly stated; day or night is not stated either but can be assumed it is night, as she is awoken 

What’s the weather? - Not explicitly stated 

What’s happening? - The character is entranced by an unknown force to go to a valley full of flowers; she then herself becomes a flower, forever. 

This was difficult, as this is a flash fiction piece and these answers are often intentionally left out; however, I was able to answer most of these! 

Transformation Prompt

She woke up to the smell of roses. She had heard of them, yet she wasn’t scared. She allowed herself to be lifted out of bed and drifted, tranced by their sickly-sweet perfume. It was as though she had no control over herself. She floated out of her house and all the way to the valley just out of town, leaving every nagging warning behind her. Down in the valley, she saw the other victims, the beautiful flowers of pinks, greens, blues— the lost children. She knew this was where she was meant to be; their new mother. As she settled down into the grass, her body changed, water streaming through her veins instead of blood, and she soon forgot everything she once knew, forever entombed in the beautiful garden.

https://youtu.be/2xSpGxAMGKs

https://youtu.be/6fGWExNVKg4

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/86412886574742101/

I decided to try to find some information about the type of music she was listening to and what her mother’s phonograph looks like. I feel like having this background information could change the entire tone of the story and perhaps help me add more detail. The two songs I chose are chilling, yet beautiful. 

Mother’s Record

She stood with her black face some six inches from the moist window-pane and wondered when on earth it would ever stop raining. It was bad enough that she was stuck there, but the rain just made the entire situation less manageable. At least she had her candles and piano music to keep her somewhat sane. She was alone, and she was just fine with that. No one could get to her in the storm anyway. She pulled herself away from the window illuminated with lightning and the pitter-patter of drops, echoing her uneasy mind. The drumming on the glass was calming to her. She lit a candle and began to set her place for dinner when she heard a sharp rat, rat, rat coming from upstairs. She chuckled. Her imagination always had been overactive in situations such as this. She finished her dinner and set off to put a record on her mother’s old phonograph. She would truly miss her mother; it was a shame those events turned out the way they did. As she settled down for the evening, listening to the sharp rain against the window, she finally felt content. She was alone. Besides, in this storm, no one would ever find out where she was or what she had done.  

I am turning a previous Tumblr post into an instruction pamphlet. 

How To Get Over the Loss of Your Late Spouse

Step One: Learn How to Garden

- This is essential to forgetting about your spouse; simply put all of that wasted love and care into little plant buddies!

Step Two: Acquire a Pet or Two

- Now that you have learned how to keep plants alive, move onto pets! They are great for company and will even offer some love.

Step Three: Ignore Loneliness by Acquiring New Hobbies

- These can be as eccentric as you want, like baking, exercising, rug beating, painting rocks, power-washing surfaces of your home. You can do whatever you want!

Step Four: Don’t Forget About Them When You’re Alone

- Make new friends, by all means, but never forget about your best friend.

Try This 4.7 - Eccentric Angie

Angie was a widow. For the past 10 years Angie spent her days gardening and taking care of her three dogs, who no doubt kept her company in her loss. She was an architect, her three story house stacked with memories of her late husband and their passion for the house she would eventually inhabit alone. When Angie got lonely, she would acquire a new hobby to occupy her time; painting elongated faces on rocks that sat outside her home, taking it upon herself to power-wash the exterior of her cupcake house, up to the cherry on top of the icing roof, or simply exercising with her pups. 

When the neighbors moved in, they were not prepared for Angie’s late night rug-beating, hammering the icicles off both the rug and her broken heart, so permeated with the chill of loss. But, to her neighbors, Angie was the apricity of winter, always surprising them with some new eccentricity, the least of which included going on 3 a.m. runs in the dead of winter with her dogs. To top it all off, Angie was an excellent baker, constantly wielding new recipes for her neighbors to try. 

However, even though Angie appeared to be the epitome of the color yellow, her nights were filled with blues, greys, murky greens. This is why she would spend hours, neighbors willing, talking about nothings, because the nothings were better than the somethings she dealt with through the tinted windows of her cupcake house. 

The Worst Creature

Praise

Disgust

What’s the difference

The arrogance

it carries everywhere

Destroying everything

it touches

The oceans,

The land,

The sky even

Dead.

His fault

Dead. Man.

I decided to do blackout poetry for my jazz-hands! I know it’s hard to read, so just read it from left to right to get the poem I was trying to create. 😊

Here is the poem anyway:

the feeling

was cold,

the truth

a fire.

roaring,

the cold

burned.

he was sorry.

the man knew

it was time.

the fire

followed him,

his face white

under the snow.

I really love blackout poetry, or erasure poetry, so I wanted to find some examples of this! One thing I really like about this is that you’re taking a work of art from someone else, and turning it into your own work of art. I really like the one that even acknowledges that it is blackout poetry. I love the idea of taking ideas and turning them into completely new ideas. Plus it looks really cool!

Micro-Manifesto

While reading, a few forms of creative writing stuck out to me: 

*Cross Genre - I think this is a really cool concept that can lead to inspiration, new ideas, etc.

*Digital Literature - Living in a technological age, this is really cool. It seems that more people have technology at their fingertips, so why not use it for literature? The idea of using digital means to create literature that includes other forms such as music or photos sounds like something I may want to do. 

*Blogs and Social Media - Blogs are huge in today’s society; people write blogs about their life that can offer insight, entertainment, and more. 

Transformation Prompt

She woke up to the smell of roses. She had heard of them, yet she wasn’t scared. She allowed herself to be lifted out of bed and drifted, tranced by their sickly-sweet perfume. It was as though she had no control over herself. She floated out of her house and all the way to the valley just out of town, leaving every nagging warning behind her. Down in the valley, she saw the other victims, the beautiful flowers of pinks, greens, blues— the lost children. She knew this was where she was meant to be; their new mother. As she settled down into the grass, her body changed, water streaming through her veins instead of blood, and she soon forgot everything she once knew, forever entombed in the beautiful garden.

This flash fiction piece is loaded. When I first read it, I did not quite understand it at first, and I think this works for it. I had to look up the term M4MW, and the search result actually rendered me silent as understanding fell on me of what the story was about. I also think this story can be relatable; feeling stuck in a relationship is a common feeling. The ending is immense; the realization and relatability is just so well done here. The feeling of betrayal, hurt, and knowing you still will not be able to leave is so hard to come to terms with, which is why I think this story has such a big impact.  

Mother’s Record

She stood with her black face some six inches from the moist window-pane and wondered when on earth it would ever stop raining. It was bad enough that she was stuck there, but the rain just made the entire situation less manageable. At least she had her candles and piano music to keep her somewhat sane. She was alone, and she was just fine with that. No one could get to her in the storm anyway. She pulled herself away from the window illuminated with lightning and the pitter-patter of drops, echoing her uneasy mind. The drumming on the glass was calming to her. She lit a candle and began to set her place for dinner when she heard a sharp rat, rat, rat coming from upstairs. She chuckled. Her imagination always had been overactive in situations such as this. She finished her dinner and set off to put a record on her mother’s old phonograph. She would truly miss her mother; it was a shame those events turned out the way they did. As she settled down for the evening, listening to the sharp rain against the window, she finally felt content. She was alone. Besides, in this storm, no one would ever find out where she was or what she had done.  

Try Mirror

I couldn’t find the exact translation of the poem online, so I am attaching a photo of the poem from which I drew inspiration. :)

*****************************************************************************************************

My age is like a rising sun

often healed by gradual moons;

scarce droughts have completed their break weakly

that abundant fruit rots in my home now.

Not yet has the spring of reality come,

and I can’t bury and hide and bury again

if I am to forfeit the trickling water

arising from ponds the size of palaces.

I have nightmares of old dregs, but none can ask

if this flourishing brook of mine denies

the realistic deprivation on which it ceases

Time abstains the extinct pleasure,

and the visible ally that restores our heart

starves from the warmth we gain, and withers!

Pain stems from you,

The feel of the stream surrounding your body,

You close your eyes,

The uproar of thoughts are smothering,

Stifling, suffocating, above you,

You’re silent in suffering as the water surrounds,

Your mind succumbs as you can take no more,

Your body is shivering with the promise of strain as you give up,

From the never-ending struggle for feeling,

You go under

Volcanic Eruption (Poem)

Fire rains from the sky,

The scent of ash filling my nose,

I cover my eyes,

The sounds of screams are deafening,

Swirling, twirling, all around me,

I’m frozen in place as the fire roars,

My skin prickles as I can hear no more, 

My mouth is filled with the taste of dread as I look up,

With the closing in flash of light,

I give up

I love these wildflowers, but it seems like they didn’t last that long though. 

Instagram

Poem #2 - Commonality of You

Smile, Rebecca

You’ve been uprooted 

from your town of paper.

Looking at the uncommon clouds, 

you cry,

“Take me with you!” —

they appeal to you.

No, you tell me. 

Not the clouds, but you.

Take me with you, you say,

Hurricane child, take me with you

To your glass castle in the sky. 

Poem #1 - Apricity

The winter sun rose unevenly

illuminating my face with apricity

in the cold air.

The mint glaze forms on the windows,

Taste the scorch

while the tea stain spreads

beyond my control.

The smell of promise far away,

The warbling winter echoing

as it wavers over the horizon.

A Day in the Life (Hermit Crab Essay)

To do list:

8am – Take Zoloft

8:30am – Breakfast with Al

8:45am – Clean Al’s litter box

9:00am – Shower

9:15am – Get dressed (wear new dress!)

9:25am – Makeup and hair

9:40am – Call White Willow’s office about Wilbur’s chipped vase

9:50am – Call Memory Flowers – ask about weather resistant lilies

10:00am – Meet with Wilbur (tell him Al misses him!)

10:30am - Tend to Wilbur’s flower bed - add orchids

1:00pm – Take heart medicine

3:00pm – Visit Sue, Betty, Charles, Barbara, and Arthur (leave them flowers)

7:30pm – Dinner with Al

8:00pm – Take pain medication

9:15pm – Bedtime