New Blog

So, I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm pretty self-conscious about this blog. I didn't have a good handle on what to do with it after I didn't need to update it for my internship. So, I started a new blog where I can just put the creative writing samples I want to display. I'll use this blog now for other things that I feel like writing about, and I think that's the best solution for my issues with this blog. None of the stuff on the new blog is "new" but I have updated some of the writing you've seen here. The new blog, if you're interested, is Writing Patches. http://writingpatches.blogspot.com/ Thank you for putting up with this.

Too Sad to Actually Be Fiction...

You shouldn't live your life in anger and, the younger you are (at least in my case), the easier it is to stand by that sentiment. But sometimes things happen. Sometimes, you develop grudges you never thought you were capable of holding. One day, you can't stay angry at somebody for more than four hours, and the next day you've had a grudge for over a year...things change--people wear on you.

Let's take what I just said, and apply it to an entire group of people. Let's call these people "The English Department". So, imagine The English Department holds no grudges. They are an easy-going, loving and accepting group of people. Maybe a few people get on their nerves, and maybe they have fights every once in a while, but none of that anger sticks. Then, let's say, one day, somebody comes along and burns down The English Department's home. This doesn't sit well with these loving people and they make some noise about it. They are ignored by the offender. So they make more noise. The dispute gets to the point where the offender has his pride hurt by The English Department and The English Department is officially holding a grudge. Now, what we have to imagine is the offender has a great deal of power over The English Department. The world is set.

In this world, a group of easy-going, loving and accepting people have been through a massacre and are trying to rebuild out of rubble. An evil dictator has put the police in charge of their organization to keep them in line. This group is not so easy-going anymore.

Sigh...I wish this was actually fiction, but I can't pretend it is. I can't use any names because I don't want anyone else to lose their job but, man alive, that scenario seems like it shouldn't be reality, right?

Asleep at All Hours

"Jake, come on, man, wake up."

At the base of a Maple tree sat Paul next to his sleeping friend, who was lying with his arms over his face and several bright red scratches glistening on his limbs. Occasionally, Paul would gently nudge Jake and ask him to wake up--Jake, however; did not, so Paul kept watch until morning.

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"Well, yeah, it's his dream to become a professional boxer, but. . .every time he's threatened he goes to sleep. I don't want to put down his dreams, you know. . .but he has to know it isn't gonna work out, right?"

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Jake's girlfriend was into canning. Apples, mostly. Really, she just liked canning apples. She also believed fully in Jake's dream of becoming a professional boxer.

"Why wouldn't he be able to do it? If a cripple can win a marathon, why can't he win a boxing match? I mean, I guess it would be hard if he couldn't stay awake, but he might get a K.O. on his first punch, right?! Then he'd win!"

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Paul and Jake had been for a walk in the woods when a crow attacked. The minute the crow's talons touched Jake's skin, he fell asleep as the crow continued to peck and scratch at him. After ten minutes, the crow most likely thought Jake to be dead and flew off, leaving Paul to take care of the sleeper. The night was cold and Paul considered leaving several times, but he didn't want to leave Jake, nor did he want to drag him home. So he waited, shivering in the dark beneath a Maple tree.

Formulation

Blogging has been on the annoying side for me since I started this one up. I haven't really understood the process. But I think I have an idea now. My posts have been all over the place, and I think the key to success in this format is having a general theme to the blog. So, this is my announcement of a theme! I'm going to try to update more often to keep myself writing and sane (this is all due to some great advice from my brother). From now on, my posts will be the ideas I get for starting stories that probably won't go anywhere far. Yeah! Let's do it!

I Wanna Talk to the Johns

Here at Waynesburg University, as any type of English major, we have to take a literary theory class. The big requirement for this class is to write a twenty-five page paper with theory as its basis. We were allowed to pick almost anything as our text so I chose the song "They'll Need a Crane" by They Might Be Giants because it actually has a lot going for it in the literary theory department. However, nobody on the internet realizes this so my project is getting hard to finish. I would desperately love to be able to e-mail the Johns directly and tell them about this project for quite a few reasons. The problem with this is that I don't think the Johns want to be contacted like that by their fans. It makes sense. Oh well.

Getting Back to It

I tried writing a new poem for the heck of it. Here it is.

Night Melting

Remembering real life

exists coincides with feeling

the lemony soreness

of my shoulders. Realizing

I never opened a door—one

with little turquoise

gems and gold paint

incorporated lavishly into the framework—

that led me to a stair-filled

world of demons, is exactly

the same as finding

a miniscule mound of gunk

piled in the corner of my eyes. I’m always

trading love-filled ship rides

for bright lights and bad breath.

Stuck

Sometimes you get stuck so you start looking at older stuff to see if that was any good. I don't know if this one is. I think it's okay, but I can't figure out what would make it better...

I dreamt about my grand—

father last night.

He trembled oddly

as he hugged me. I thought

perhaps it was because

of his age, but

he seemed no older

than I ever knew him.

He was still sturdy,

round and wearing

suspenders.

I’d call him Grandpa

Malcolm if I had another

who shared his title;

just like I had a Grandma

Marie and

Grandma June.

But there was never a reason

to do the same for him.

And when he died

I stopped talking

about him altogether.

Not that I spoke

of him much in his

life.

But I’m certain

there’s something bringing

him back. Because I

never knew him, never

received his sagely

advice, I must have

called for his hug

in some way.