Tag Archives: writing

LITTLE SPARROW

Once upon a time, I set my sights upon a little known professional internship. The below link is the short, short script sample I wrote with a limited amount of words allowed to convey a full short story and based on a prompt about an infamous Captain.

Little Sparrow

 

Sleep tight for me, I’m gone.

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SMACKDOWN

It started out like any other day at The Greasy Burger. Jake, Dave, Ryan and Val stood around, chatting about being bored and what their weekend plans were, as they waited for lunch rush.

The main dining room was clean, bathrooms were pristine, all the condiments were filled, including a bin overflowing with packages of butter medallions. The soda fountain percolated with fresh carbonation canisters and the ice machine was filled to the brim. They were ready. Ready for battle.

As the first few hungry customers filtered in, Ryan leaned over to Val and whispered he hoped the lunch crowd would only take condiments they needed. He oversaw refilling them and witnessed customers leave piles of ketchup packets or butter on the table every…single…day. It infuriated Ryan because he would have to throw out unused packages merely because they had been removed from the bin. He thought it was a huge waste.

Kristi, the manager, stood gallantly off to the side, watching her strategically placed staff as they began to service more hungry patrons. Jake and Ryan took their stance at the cash registers while Dave and Val worked feverishly in the back fulfilling orders.

Within an hour, the crew was inundated and The Greasy Burger was filled to capacity. Kristi noticed they were busier than usual but her staff seemed amped and ready to go. Dave and Val were bouncing on the balls of their feet as if about to perform a tag-team wrestling match on WWE.

Beads of sweat dripped from Jake’s pulsating temples. Kristi spoke into her intercom, directing Dave to swap positions with Jake. Dave jumped up, smacked his hands together with over-enthusiastic excitement and tapped Jake on the shoulder, signaling he was ready to take over.

People stood shoulder-to-shoulder as the lines became longer and tighter. Customer complaints that began as a whisper intensified into a rumbling moan. A large man at the center yelled as he was nearly hit in the face by another man who was fervently waving a piece of paper around in the air. The paper-waving man hollered back. A woman behind him passively told him to “shut up,” while others began to push their way forward, shoving and shoulder checking one another like a mosh pit. When the paper-flailing man finally reached the front of Ryan’s line, his eyes scowled like a beast about to pounce on his prey. He slammed his receipt onto the counter.

Ryan leaned in to listen to the man’s complaint over the mob. The receipt wielding man’s accent was so thick, Ryan could barely make out his complaint about receiving a wrong order. He diligently reviewed the receipt and remembered entering it into the system. Ryan tried to explain he had given him exactly what he ordered, but the man’s rage boiled over as he shouted and pounded his fists on the counter, making it harder for Ryan to decipher the man’s words. Ryan’s chest heaved with each quickened explanation, his voice becoming louder as his impatience grew.

Kristi walked over to Ryan’s cash register to gauge the situation. Another customer began to shout about empty condiments. Ryan’s eyes twitched.  Jake bounced over like he was on a springy mat and tapped Ryan on the shoulder. Ryan clapped his hands together and swiped them out like a blackjack dealer walking away with clean hands and made his way to refill the condiments.

Across from the order counter, as he was filling condiments, Ryan heard Kristi shout for him to return to the register. She seemed angry.

“Do you want me on condiments or on the register?” he snipped at her.

Ryan quickly filled what condiments he could, then squeezed his way back through the crowd and stood next to Jake still working with the same disgruntled customer.

Ryan waved his hands in the air, “Look! I can’t understand what you’re saying!”

Before Kristi could intervene, Ryan reached into his apron pocket, grabbed a handful of packets he had left from refiling the condiment bin, tossed them at the man and said “Here! Have some butter!”

THE END

Sleep tight for me!

 


TRUTH AND PERFECT IMPERFECTIONS

DescartesIf you have followed my blog, you know where I stand on that elusive word truth. If not, well, it’s peppered throughout that I think truth is merely a matter of dates because we often equate it to subjective material, but that if something is actually true it should be constantly and consistently the same through time. It’s my understanding that Plato was the first to determine that truth should be constant–correct me if I’m wrong.

At any rate, the attached thought paper was crafted by the random misfirings of an undergraduate philosophy student who thought she was being witty (ahem…me, being a smart ass) attempting to produce a constructive mediation while studying Rene Descartes. I realize that my conclusion is reaching–it was not meant to be a formal argument or dissertation by any means–just thoughts about something I had read. In hindsight, I now wish I would have at least notated what I was reading more specifically.

Descarte Mediations-Truth & Perfect Imperfections

During that period of my journey I also spent a lot of time devoting lyrical content to those particular metaphysical thoughts swimming around in my head. Most of the early stuff with The Others is a trifecta of sorts, incorporating vampiric themes and philosophy with a metaphor weaved into the layers. The song that references the perfect imperfections can be found in The Letting.

Sleep tight for me. I’m gone.


THE MEAN

As I make my way through the journey of obtaining an MFA in creative writing, it’s strange that philosophers (especially Aristotle) continue to invade my life (you know, because I have that undergraduate in philosophy–though it makes me no expert by any means, no pun intended). Despite the fact that I recently had an awakening, if you will, about how much philosophy and creative thinking (i.e. art) go hand-in-hand (Practical Art), it still surprises me. The surprise is a good one because it further validates that I am on the right path.

At any rate, after having been recently subjected to an Aristotelian quote through one of my MFA courses, I went through one of my old term papers about The Mean. It is equally strange and interesting to go back through old writings because I wonder how I ever managed to persuade an A out of my professor.

As I reread, I don’t remember exactly which book that particular theory came from and now realize that I did a poor job of summarizing the content for someone who has never read the material. Clearly the paper was to one particular audience–the professor. And, because he is well-versed in the subject matter, his brain probably just filled in all the holes from a summary standpoint.

Regardless, The Mean is about obtaining an appropriate level of virtue and that one must be raised the right way in order to achieve that goal. The link below is an attempt to explain the elements Aristotle requires to be virtuous, the anomaly I believe I saw in his argument and the reason I believe it would not allow for people to think for themselves.

THE MEAN-Aristotle

Sleep tight for me, I’m gone.


Hint Fiction

Shadow man | by BusterBB001

Shadow man | by BusterBB001

First Thanksgiving

The table was lavishly decorated—worthy of a magazine cover, even. The turkey glistened golden brown, but I don’t understand why it was meowing.

 

 

Distorted Nightmares

The wrinkled farmer, his mouth disproportioned and agape, crouched at my beside. He was screaming, but no sound emerged. I wasn’t supposed to be there.

Military Experiment

As the room violently shook, the General whispered, “He knows.” Lights flicked into darkness. And then, a stabbing, white light erupted from the laboratory door.


CURSOR

The moon hung low in the blackness of midnight. Its brilliance shimmered across the turbulent waters below as the tide cascaded across jagged rocks. With each swish, a gentle breeze blew through the windows covered by floor-length, delicate lace curtains adorned with intricate scalloped edges. They waved rhythmically with the crashing tide, as if breathing.

Hunched over a dimly lit desk, in her cramped office, Alison rested her forehead in the palm of her hand, fingers entwined in her hair. With heavy, sleep-deprived, eyes she glanced out from under the brim of her glasses to peer through the slivered opening between curtain panels to glimpse the moon, but quickly returned her focus to the blinking cursor demanding her attention.

One of the panels flickered out-of-sync, drawing Alison’s attention to the window as a shiver ran down her spine. The dead silence that fell upon the room pierced Allison’s eardrums while she watched the curtains dip in slow exhale to form a frame around the silhouette of a woman in a distressed mourning gown.

Mesmerized, fear welled up, high into her esophagus, burning like flames bursting from hell as the oxygen was stripped from her lungs, rendering her breathless and unable to move or scream. The shadow lunged forward. With thinly pursed lips, her ashen-face scowled from under a tight, silver-streaked bun as her boney fingers clawed out Alison’s soul and poured it into the glowing monitor. Alison’s lifeless body slumped over her keyboard while the demanding cursor blinked to life.


MASTER OF FEAR AND SUSPENSE

simonandschuster.ca

simonandschuster.ca

I had to do a little research for a class that explores what it is to be a master in some particular craft or discipline. That craft for me is creative writing, but most importantly, storytelling.

That research had to be about someone who has reached success, in the classical sense of it (i.e. recognition, financial reward, reputation (the good, the bad and the ugly), access and options, etc.). I chose M. Night Shyamalan. Love him or hate him, click on the link below to find out why.

Master of Fear & Suspense

Sleep tight for me! I’m gone.

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