Week 6, Junkyard Quote 3

"[A]t their word of command many millions of brainless, besotted beasts would stretch forth their noisome talons from the slums of a thousand cities"
- H.P. Lovecraft, from The Street (short story)

For the past year, or so, I've been slowly reading through Lovecraft's complete works (it's quite the daunting task, specially when combined with the other antologies and collections it has to contend for time with). This story, one of his early ones, is a non-horror story (quite uncommon), heavily tinted by nationalism, xenophobia, and nostalgia. I liked many of the scenes conjured in the story, of stout houses and stalwart men, but the line above was specially eye-catching.

Week 6, Junkyard Quote 2

"Yet even in this pastoral land
the green is mixed with battle cries
and phantom groans. A handsome spring
it was. But, my sweet God, to me
the flowers stank of sulphur and
their blooms were flecked with human blood."
A. Hudgins, from After the Lost War.

Been rereading After the Lost War, since it fell from my shelf yesterday, and I hadn't opened it in 3 years or so. Some passages like the one above feel very vivid, and a pleasure to read.

Week 6, Junkyard Quote 1

"Fluid sugar draws bees, fluid filth draws flies, and fluid situations attract the chaotic."
- FANTASYSMITH (pseudonym), from The Dragon #30 (Oct. 1979)

I love how "fluid filth draws flies" sounds and feels.

Week 6, Free Entry 1

During Mr. Vagnini's introduction, at the start of last Thursday's class, something he said about Italian ideas jumping over to English in interesting ways made me jot down a few lines on situations like that given between the languages I know and English.

Although poems are not my strength, I decided to give it a shot at one. This is my current draft:

Given a hug without scars,
west of Ithaca,
where killing shines
like amber mead.

A cotillion of snakes
shed from a myriad gorgons
is chasing its prey,
a breeze of mugged arms.

Standing atop the barren cliff
where a prince lost his sight,
the blue sawteeth race
and the flying cats cry.

Week 5, Classmate Response 2

This is a classmate response to Morgan's Free Entry, Wk 5.

This is a small sample of the short story i have been working on about the in memory of stickers on the back of cars. It doesn't have a title yet, but i wanted to get peps input on it. Here it is:

I have learned a lot about Sally Beckerson these past 20 minutes. She was born June 18th 1986. Her favorite color was pink-all shades of it from baby power pink to sonic boom neon pink. She was a dog lover-ASPCA was written across her boobs. Her hair was dyed an off shade of blond, paired with glasses that tried to scream sexy little librarian and an overly cheesy smile. She is a young 20 year old.
Damn, this is creepy! I try to look away from Sally, but I can’t she is literally staring at me only a few feet in front of me. If I look away, it isn’t good for anyone around me.

SO, I just on looking at her and I feel like a slinky stalker as I do it. I don’t want to seem too rude so I try to think up something to say to that awkward smile.

“What dog breed do you like?”

“Labs, I had one when I was younger, they are the best dogs.”

“Sweetness, I had a lab a few years ago too. She was like a huge fat cow.”

Silence.

Awkward.

Sometimes silence isn’t golden, that damn movie screen lies. From the very silent stares from the huge next to me, he thinks I’m talking on my cell phone, so I laugh to fill the void.

I am the maker of pure awkwardness.

Sally is still there just cheesin’ away, like she has no care in the world, which is honestly true.

“I like your glasses; they have a cute librarian vibe.”

“Thanks that was the look I was going for. I’m a huge book nerd.”

“Same, though Harry Potter is my weakness.”

“Holy Moses, same here!”

Talking about Harry Potter is probably the most amazing thing on this planet besides Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream. I go on a rampage about how Snape is the most outstanding character in all of novel history, and how I cried like a person in a Hallmark commercial at the end of Deathly Hallows Part 2. As I ramble away, Sally is smiling at me like she understands everything I am saying to her, but I know she is faking it just to be nice. That bitch.

Now I feel like a bitch for calling the smiling Sally a bitch for just staring at me. I am starting to hate this girl. She needs to stop being so damn happy. 

Interesting piece, I like the character's inner voice very much, although I felt like the piece needed a more physical background (I am left wondering, where did this happen?).

Some parts feel like they could use some reworking, like:
"Sometimes silence isn’t golden, that damn movie screen lies. From the very silent stares from the huge next to me, he thinks I’m talking on my cell phone, so I laugh to fill the void."
The first line is quite good (maybe change the 'that' to 'those'?), however the 2nd line honestly confused me--I get the gist of what's happening, but the way it's written doesn't make a very clear image.

There's also some spots where I feel some commas being added, or phrases being rearanged, might improve the overall tone (the 2nd paragraph, for example).

Overall, I like where it's going, and would love to read the whole thing, please keep us updated.

Week 5, Classmate Response 1

This was a response to April's Improv 2, Week 5.

 From Instructions, by Neil Gaiman, which can be found here. Neil Gaiman is one of my favorite contemporary authors. I love the mysticism in this piece, so I'm Improving it in my own way...

Instructions

Go out from the house, child, taking 127 paces South.
If you don't know where South is, that's okay.
Just spin around until you are dizzy. Then turn right.
Shut your eyes tight and count to ten. Open them. You should see
a skinny dirt path you never noticed before. Take it.

If you see an old crooked man with saucer ears,
small, square teeth and an eye patch -
Don't look away. Instead, look into his one good eye
and smile.
He may just give you the gift of a well-told story.

Go past the barren tree that twists like a unicorn's horn
but remember, as you pass, to say a prayer.

Take a bowl and place it on your head
and take a towel too. You can wrap it around yourself
or sit on it and have a picnic, if you wish.

Pay the Great Blue Moose a visit and give him clam chowder
if you have any. Pass the farm with six red chickens
and ring the bell at the edge of the gate. If you see the farmer,
tip your bowl-hat and say "How do you do?"

When you come to the edge of the forest, stop.
Bend down and grab a fistfull of grass. Blow it out of your hand
and sing "Yasha'el Maelin Katurna!" and pick up a rock.
This will protect you from the wicked things that eat children.

Do not be afraid when it gets dark. Listen to the purple nightingale,
who sings for you alone. Step carefully along the path and
watch out for creatures littler than you. When you get tired,
call out for the thee-eyed squirrel. His name is Daniel.
He will let you sleep in his treehouse if you use kind words.

In the morning, you will find yourself in your bed, cuddled up
with your favorite pillow and blanket.
Things will look the same. But you will be different.
Under your pillow you will find your magic rock.
Carry it with you
always.

Firstly, thanks for linking to that writing by Gaiman, he's an author I greatly enjoy--hadn't stumbled accross this piece yet, and I liked it a lot.

Your piece was very vivid, and was a breeze to read. I enjoyed some of the imagery, slightly absurd yet believable.

Some wording could use work, like "old crooked man." I can't think of a better phrasing right this instant, but old and crooked feel too overlapping, like one implies the other, although not completely.

One thing I could see changed would be the stanza about the grass and the wicked things--perhaps it should mirror the next stanza, about Daniel the squirrel, a bit more? You could give the wicked things a name, perhaps a smell.

Overall, it's a good draft, and with a few tweaks could be even greater! Thanks for sharing.

Week 5, Junkyard Quote 4

"no dude, i swear that is how nails normally grow when you don’t chew them out like a freaky autocannibalistic chipmunk."

E. Davenport, on Tumblr, in response to healthy (white) nail growth.

"Freaky autocannibalistic chipmunk" caught my attention, I like it.

Week 5, Junkyard Quote 3

She was beautiful, but she was beautiful in the way a forest fire was beautiful: something to be admired from a distance, not up close.

T. Pratchett, Good Omens

Week 5, Junkyard Quote 2

N: Why don't we turn prisons into platypus factories?

ME: What.

N: If a man eats a duck and then is dipped into a vat of toxic waste, he is turned into a platypus, you see. This has been established already. Which bring up the question, why don't we turn prisons into platypus factories?

Conversation between my roomate, N., and me. I should just start writing down everything he says. Do note that this is the entire conversation, minus me shaking my head at the end and writing it down.

Week 5, Reading Response 1

Nails

are held in the mouth
of a gun and splinter pines
or stab flashing, metal superior
in its point. They get hit
or pounded to hold up
collector plates or families.
Our house's nails recognize
one another in their sharpness,
know the weight they carry—
they will outlast us,
and the timbers above us,
those little pikes cleaving
one to another as you
sleep on your side,
and I lie awake in our bed
while what is between us
gathers, galvanizes
into something I can strike.

(Nails, a poem from "Pretty Little Rooms", by Katie Chaple)

The imagery in this poem is very vivid, which is what caught my attention as I was reading the first few lines of all the poems in the book; you can almost hear the creak of a house's foundation as you read it. I like the transition between settings, and how they're all images of town life (a wooden house, church, family, ...).

The use of strong verbs (stab, hit, pound, cleave, strike) reinforce the feeling of... frustration, I would say, that overall the poem gives me. The poem doesn't shy away from multi-syllabic words but, like we see over and over again, they are used very carefully so as to not mellow down the poem too much. I want to get that balance down, as I still tend to favour latinate words a bit too much (after all, they're my main vocabulary, coming from a romance-speaking household).

The poem clearly shows the triggering subject/generated object dynamic, and exemplifies a very proper use of it, with the hammering of nails leading to relationship tension. I like how the poem is a discourse at the main voice's partner, with numerous "our" and "us", which left me feeling almost like an intruder in some private blurb I was not meant to read.

Week 5, Junkyard Quote 1

MR. SHLUBB: Your unflagging rigidity in regard to this matter we now discuss bespeaks caution beyond all measure of reasonableness, Mr. Klump. I seek only the most light-hearted and momentary of digressions--the briefest indulgment in automative pleasure.

MR. KLUMP: And for cheap thrills of such short-lived durability, Mr. Shlubb, you would risk engenderating ill will on the part of our employers--said ill will to be of such proportion that it would likely manifest itself in punitive actions of such seriousness that we would suffer anatomical transfiguration most permanent and painful incharacter. This is not to be countenanced!

(From Frank Miller's "That Yellow Bastard", assume there is a [sic] after every other word)

 Intentional parody on how someone would talk with what is described as "delusions of eloquence."

Week 5, Calisthenics

Calisthenics on the Potential Pitfalls of Tone exercise we did in class.

* She yearned for escape, for oblivion, for release from her despair.
Today, Glenda was wearing a new set of padded leather cuffs, sewing her frail body to the hard-mattressed bed. Her eyes were unfocused, like her mind, both having a romance with the window opposite of her. She had given up on trying to overdose with laxatives, aspirines, and expired medication, but she retained her faith in gravity.

Week 4, Junkyard Quote 1

"My  house is creaking and the trees are waving around like drunkards."
 E. Davenport, via Tumblr.

Week 3, Classmate Response 1

In response to Drika's "Free Entry Week 3", as follows:

I started off writing about my experience making cooter soup when I made a realization. I realized that the reason I found cooter soup so interesting in the first place was because of my deeply rooted Southern heritage. In particular my mother and the deep southern roots that run through her blood. Then I took it a little farther and began thinking that if The South ran through her blood then it ran just as strong through mine maybe even stronger. With my family living in the low country of Georgia, and the bayou's of Louisiana, my blood is as southern as it can get. My mother has always been a prevalent figure in my life and through the years people have always told me that I am the mirror image of her. It wasn't until recently that I realized that it was true, the more I age, the more I become more like her. It shows in my mannerisms, my passions, and my attitude towards life. It is because of these revelations that I wrote the following poem. 

The Image of My Mother

I am the image of my mother.

A woman built

from the rubble of oppression.

A woman shaped

 by the erosion of tough times.

A woman who’s edges were smoothed

by the finesse of love.

I am my mother’s image.

I liked this poem's imagery, specially how "rubble of oppression" sounded and felt. Perhaps you could expand a bit more on her experience in life, a few more lines on hardship, or perhaps one more on good things to balance it out (two negative images, such as rubble and erosion, and two positive ones, love and... ?).

I think "by the finesse of love" could use some more vivid imagery, instead of such an explicit statement--was it a child's love? Then perhaps their tiny, warm hand grasping hers. A husband's? His arms around her. A family's? Their smiles on a sunday evening's dinner.

Just some ideas, although I like the poem a lot where it is.

Week 3, Junkyard Quote 2

"I brush my teeth with milk sometimes so that my teeth can get vitamins, but they still hurt a lot."
Christian Jester, via Facebook.

Week 3, Calisthenics 1

This is a replay of the 2nd prompt to Tuesday the 31st's exercise on improving a given text. I wasn't happy with what I wrote at the time, so I gave it another shot.

"We held hands and let the breeze dance in the air, while the ocean waves tickled our feet."
Recraft: Martha's hand was arthritic and clammy. I held it, and watched her henna-coloured wig play pretend with the wind. One misshapen foot had left the wooden wheelchair, and was resting on the wet black sand. She hadn't noticed.

Week 3, Junkyard Quote 1

"Two cookies and a cow... (mumble mumble) I'm not a flying bird."
- My sleeping roommate, just now.

He does this sometimes, it's a source of amusement on late study nights.