Week 7, Classmate Response 2

This is a classmate response to Taylor's Improv/Imitation Entry 1 (Week 7).

This is an improv off the concept that Katie Chaple used, the concept of taking something in the news and using it as a triggering subject: I read an article today about some sort of video taken by an iPhone of the Mayan pyramid which showed a light beam coming from the top.

End of Days

A photo taken in seconds.
The quick click click captures
our end of days.
The stream of light emblazoned
in the memory of the iPhone 4.
Can the mesmerizing glitch symbolize our doom?

Now, photoshop dissects,
studies each pixel and the saturation sensor
wondering if their never failing software failed.
Meanwhile, the human race paces,
on the edge of their pyramids,
waiting to tumble off the edge
and watch ruins emerge from the lightbeams of Heaven.

That was a very emotive text, particularly the 2nd stanza, but also an overall good job.

"The quick click click captures" sounds very good when said out, but perhaps the second 'click' is unnecessary? It's even faster when that is removed, but I like the sound of it either way. "stream of light" sounds accessible, as if the two words were too intertwined already. Light should stay, for the sake of the poem's motive, and a more interesting word than stream put in its place. I enjoy the sound of the word "glitch", it's sharp, and works very well in-between the two slower words, like the middle-click of a slow metronome.

I like how common photoshop has become in our daily life that it's now not even capitalized, like velcro or post-it, good use of the word. "the saturation sensor" feels kind of extraneous, is it really necessary? you could mix it with 'pixel', like "each pixel's saturation" or something like that. I like the last line very much, it evokes a nice image, made me think of The Last of the Mohicans, don't know why.

Minor grammar hiccup when reading, shouldn't it be "on the edge of its pyramids."? I don't know for sure, I tend to write like that myself, but it jumped at me. Also, the two stanzas being different lengths confused me for a bit there, but that's just a personal preference for symmetry, not a criticism.

Anyhow, I like what you did with Katie Chaple's idea, well thought!

Week 7, Classmate Response 1

This is a classmate response to Osa's Free Entry 1, Week 7:

 "They Walk..."

Out the front doors of the raddison
On prueview haggardly
past the cookie cutter coffee spot
She ahead
He staring
at her spine
Quickly behind him
all around
They cross the street
Heads down
Fake frowns shirts
rumpled
Choices made
Beds remade
Staying ten feet apart
Into the first and third yellow
cab

That was a pleasure to read, very promising piece of writing. I liked the pacing and styling, quick and to the point. It seemed to start slow, with the first two lines, but then... "cookie cutter cofee spot" appears, fantastic, rolls right of the tongue, definitely a keeper.

The "She ahead / He staring" was the only part that really upset my eyes as I was scanning through--the lack of a verb interrupted me. I'd personally add the 's to the two lines, since it won't slow anything down... Although if you're intentionally going for a "punctiation free" piece, I guess that's not an option due to the apostrophe, and "she is ahead / he is staring" /would/ slow down the reading.

At the end, it seems to slow back down, as to give closure, with "Staying ten feet apart / Into the first and third yellow"... But then, the last line is "cab". That kind of jarrs me, as it feels like the piece is winding down, yet there's a one syllable word as the lone last line. Not necessarily bad, either, just odd.

The title doesn't feel like it adds much to the piece, but that's just a bit of an offhand comment, last-minute, nothing much important. I like the piece overall, good job.

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 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.