Short (really short) Fiction

Look at me, doing another writing exercise so soon. I wonder how long this will last.

Battery

A man walks down the street, phone in hand. He walks five steps, then checks his phone. He walks seven steps, then checks his phone. He walks fifteen steps, the phrase "do not check the phone" on repeat in his head, before he can't take it anymore and checks the small, shining screen. His hopes and dreams lie in that seemingly innocuous device. One beep, one bar of that catchy song, could determine his future.

He continues walking, his wrist flicking and head tilting like some kind of twitchy dance, a dance that everyone around him knows and understands and mocks anyway. Look at that, they say. That piece of plastic and metal is like an extra appendage. I bet he couldn't put it down if you paid him. These people ignore the irony of their own bits of plastic and metal residing in purses and jeans pockets, accessible in a second if necessary.

The man continues his walk, heart pounding and hands sweating. He checks the phone once again, then transfers it to the other hnad. He walks. Tells himself he won't check the phone again. But he does.

The phone buzzes in his hand. That catchy tune starts up and the man's heart pounds nearly out of his chest. He fumbles the phone, finally managing to hit the correct button. He puts the phone to his ear, calls out a hello, when the battery dies.

An Attempt at Being Creative

I used to be a creative writer. I used to have notebooks full of my stories. I would take those notebooks and a contingent of pens with me wherever I went. I wanted to write a novel. Then I got into high school, and I got busy. Busier than I had ever been. I got into choir and drama and suddenly writing wasn't as important anymore. Then I went to college and the only time I wrote anything creatively was when it was required for a class.

But I want to change that. I want to write again. I've wanted to for a long time, but I just haven't gotten around to it. In all honesty, I'm not sure how much time I'll actually devote to it this time around, but I want to give it a shot. So I'm going to start doing some writing exercises, and I welcome any and all criticism.

I got this prompt from oneword.com, which gives one word (hence the name) and gives 60 seconds to just write whatever comes to mind. So here goes.

Bookshelf

It was bowing. I could see it—pulled down by the weight of the words, the pages, the binding. Books on top of books shoved behind books, a maze of ideas and concepts. New people and familiar places. Worlds I entered as a guest and exited as a true friend. This was my life, chronicled and complied and organized by author name. Some sections are frayed, the stitches pulling apart from the strain of opening and closing time after time. Other sections are pristine, lacking dents and folds and scrapes. Lacking character. Lacking love. Yet they sit there still—taking up precious shelf space simply by virtue of their being books. Books. That's what it's all about. My kaleidescope of interests staring me in the face day in and day out. I hold entire universes on those shelves. Universes that make up my own universe. My own world. My own home.

Being Thankful: Day Two

Today I'm thankful that I have an artistic brain. That's not to say that I'm particularly creative or that I am able to produce great literature or moving pieces of music. In fact, I would say that I can't do those things. I don't feel incredibly talented at creating art. However, my brain is wired to appreciate great art, whether it be painting, photography, literature, or film, and I'm grateful for that. I love well thought out ideas that are executed to perfection. I love dissecting films and books to find the driving force behind the story, behind the characters.

Tonight I watched Inception for the second time, and the brilliance of the story blows me away. The simple idea that transforms itself into complex plot and dynamic characters. The genius mind that recognized the idea as being worth pursuing. The visionaries who translated the paper version to vivid images.

This is what I want to do with my life: I want to create art. But until I can get to a point where I know how to do it effectively, I'm incredibly grateful that I can look at the art that others have created and see the beauty in it. Without art, life would be dull and colorless, and that wouldn't be much of a life at all.

I get lost in the beauty of everything I see,

the world ain't half as bad as they paint it to be.

If all the sons, all the daughters, would stop to take it in,

then hopefully the hate subsides and the love can begin.

-"Come Home" by OneRepublic

My Creative Juices Dried Up

I've noticed that I have a lot of friends who do hobby or semi-professional photography. I also noticed that a lot of my friends are super creative and funny writers, even just on Facebook. I also have a lot of friends who are really good at other visual arts.

I am good at none of these.

My creative juices have hit a major drought, apparently.

I miss writing. But I don't have any ideas to write about.

I also think photography is cool. I've wanted to learn to take cool photos for a really long time. But I don't know the first thing about photography, and I don't have Photoshop (though I do want CS5 really really really bad—maybe I'll get it soon, if a student friend of mine will let me use their educational discount).

I hate it when I have the urge to do something creative but have no inspiration and nothing to do. It makes me sad.

Being a Kid Again

I found out about this book from a friend's Facebook profile. She had posted a picture of her copy of Wreck This Journal. She had done so many different things to this book, and I was completely intrigued, so I looked it up. And then I had to buy it. This seriously was the most fun I've ever had with a journal. Definitely a well-spent $13.


The cover. The doodling is all me. Not that exciting, I know.


Title page. Again, doodling by me.


Burning was fun. Even though I had to stomp on it to quench the flames.


Ooooh, pretty colors.
This was the first thing I did to the journal. It was very liberating for an anal-retentive bookkeeper like me.

"Collect the stamps off of all your mail."

This damage was done with a pumice stone. It was pretty effective.

Scribbling on the edges.

I dabbed this paint on more than dripped it, but the effect was similar.

I carry this book with me everywhere now, just in case I find something else fun to put in it/on it. I feel like I'm ten again, and it's incredibly fun.

The Parable of the Caulk

For the past few weeks at work, my co-workers and I have been busy re-caulking all the bathrooms in all the buildings of Heritage Halls. This isn't as easy as it might seem. In fact, it's the thing that I hate doing most at my job. I despise caulking. It's worse than lights, tub clogs, sink clogs, even toilet clogs. Why? Well, if caulk gets moldy and black, it cannot merely be caulked over, or the mold will simply work its way through the new layer. So in order to truly fix the bad caulk, you have to dig it out--which is a bloody pain in the arse. It requires an assortment of tools: screwdrivers, putty knives, chisels, razor blades . . . anything that will aid in ripping up the black caulk. And it never comes off easily or cleanly. I apologize to the custodial crew who had to clean up after our caulking storm hit.

Well, as I was doing this mind-numbing work for hours on end, I started applying this to my life and repentance. (I know, it's sad. It's proof that I was replacing so much caulk that I started thinking about it way more than is normal.) Surprisingly enough, the application is rather poignant to me.

We, as mere humans, are not perfect. Therefore, we will sin. It's just the way it goes; we can't get around it. When we sin, it's like our caulk is getting moldy. It is our responsibility to dig that nasty caulk out as soon as possible to keep the mold from spreading. And yes, it's hard. We're going to have to hack and scrape and cut that caulk to get it out, probably scraping and bruising ourselves in the process. But if we don't attack that spot quickly, before we know it that mold will have spread to the rest of the caulk and it will require much, much more time and energy to replace it.

We also can't just cover it up with a new bead of caulk, hiding the damage that has been done. The caulk will look pretty for a little while, but a new bead doesn't fix the problem, it only delays the inevitable. Eventually the disgusting grossness will eat through the new layer and show itself anew.

Bottom line, no matter how much you hate recaulking (and how disgusting it can be), it is a necessary evil. Repentance is the only way to get rid of the sin; otherwise it will just get blacker and blacker and more difficult to remove.

Atonement

This is my proudest moment as a poet. I'm not a poet, so the fact that I wrote a decent sonnet is something for me to be proud of. Don't judge me too harshly, please.

The pain envelopes my pierced soul, a shroud
that puts all joy beyond my reach and makes
me tremble, cold, beneath the darkening cloud
of sin that hangs within me. Satan takes
my hand; he wants to claim me as his own.
Yet I resist, for in my heart I know
that I am not yet lost, not yet alone.
Oh Savior, hear my plea, to thee I go!
And then, a light shines brightly in my mind;
the mist is gone, my eyes see clearly now.
My Lord, my God, Redeemer of mankind,
has saved me, though unworthy, from my wo.
The tongue, inadequate, cannot express
the joy that comes through Him who felt the press.