Jul 18, 2017

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Pineapples [Prose] Creative Writing 101 – Journal 4

Pineapples [Prose] Creative Writing 101 – Journal 4

Grade: A

Comments: “wonderfully sure tone and voice throughout– witty, and uses repetition to great effect” and “vivid and really captures the feeling of early memories, how vivid they are, and how our present perspective colors them when we look back”



When I think of that house, I think I’m four. When I think of the next house, I think I’m seven. I don’t think of the first house, there’s nothing to think of.

When I’m four, there’s patched and peeling pineapple wallpaper in the kitchen. One of the doll dresses my older brother gave me for my birthday matched that wallpaper. In that kitchen there’s a large table. It’s old and wooden, probably oak, and it hurt me once. While gliding over across the floor like a graceful ballerina I stub my big toe under the leg, blood ruining my pink ballerina tights. The toenail falls off. I managed to injure that same toe in the exact same way under a friend’s refrigerator in a different kitchen 10 years later.

In my pineapple kitchen on my old oak table I learn to play solitaire. I play by myself as is appropriate. I slap the cards one at a time in a row, over and over, “Slap. Slap. Slap”, on-top of that lacquered surface. The dusty metal radio sits next to me, broken antenna dangling and pointing away from my face. A musical jingle plays out. 10 years later I know that jingle belongs to NPR. I don’t know that when I think I’m four. Behind the big table is a long counter. It’s high, too high for me, it probably would be perfect for Julia Child, but I don’t think that then. That orange laminated counter holds a large beautiful ham. The orange Julia Child sized counter is not too tall for our black and tan hound Finder to leap on top of. I think I’m four and my mother takes Finder to the pound. She says later that it’s not because of the ham. I think it’s because of the ham.

The black and white tiled floor holds a sea of mouse traps, one for every tile. I peer in from the hallway door and know that to enter the kitchen would mean destruction. When there aren’t mouse traps there’s open 2-liter bottles of Cola under the sink. I don’t look under there when I’m four; I don’t like to see the mouse corpses floating in several inches of water.

I’m four and I’m standing on the black and white tile, watching my mother make dinner on top of the orange counter in front of a yellow and green pineapple backdrop. I’m telling her about my best friend Lindy. Lindy lives in a barn. Lindy’s family died in a fire. I’m going to go run away to China with Lindy. I don’t. I think I’m four and my best friend is imaginary.

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Jul 6, 2017

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Garbology [Prose] Creative Writing 101 – Journal 3

With an exasperated grunt the crumpled piece of paper flew to join its compatriots in the waste bin next to the old oak desk. It rested as temporary king of the hill on top of others of its kind with different amounts of the first draft hidden on their insides. Among its peers was a large bottom-shelf plastic vodka bottle, empty, and taking up much of the space. Along with the bottle were the largest shards of a shattered glass tumbler; the smaller pieces resting feet away inside the bag of a hand vacuum that was a very practical holiday gift ten years ago.

The crumpled ball managed to save its spot at the top of the pile as it rebounded the approach of another piece of paper viciously tossed its way. Though, the force of this interaction jostled the bin’s delicate balance, sending minute shockwaves through its contents and knocking an old brown banana peel to the floor which had previously been clinging to the lip. Two empty blue ballpoint pens also slid further down the inside of the bin inching closer to the sticky gum-littered base. Their tips stopped short resting on the shredded squares of various receipts dating from the last three months and one expired coupon for a 50% off massage at a local spa; another practical gift this time gone unused. Last, but most numerous in the bin were the cigarette cartons, American Spirit, yellow, that filled in the spaces between vodka bottle, crumpled paper, and the base.

Another balled up piece of A4 flew at the bin and unseated the ball at the top. Knocked over the side it rolled for only a second before coming to rest against the dusty eggshell white baseboard unlikely to move again for months.

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Jun 30, 2017

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Crash [Prose] Creative Writing 101 – Journal 2

Grade: A

Comments: “Wow, this is great! The use of second-person POV and present tense creates such immediacy, really throwing the reader into the experience. “

You shake and shudder one hundred times faster than the racing heartbeat currently throbbing in your ears.

Your right foot is pressing the pedal of the brake into the floor as if to try to fuse them as one.

There’s screaming coming from somewhere; is that you screaming?

Your eyes which had previously been blinking and darting around searching for stability, focus, first on your hands and their white knuckle grip on the steering wheel and then to the spider’s-web a foot in front of your face.

No, that’s not you screaming, but you start to scream now joining in the noise, not quite achieve a horror movie scream, but more of a panicked monotone “ahhh!”.

You release your grip and hesitantly reach up and realize that that’s not a spider’s-web dangling dangerously close to you, but actually the cracked and caved piece of laminated glass that used to be your windshield.

You somehow have the presence of mind to shift the stick into park, you even manage to turn the key to off. You’re starting to catch up to time; what the hell had happened?

Turning your head you see a figure on the ground to the left, moving and wailing, the source of the screams that are not your own. You recognize that it’s a young girl. The other, you think there were two? The other you can’t see.

You look around wildly for your phone and pull it out of the folded up sun visor above your head and with more steadiness than you actually feel you swipe across the unlock screen and open the call app.

Suddenly there’s someone at your side talking to you. What are they saying?

You press the pads of your fingers into the glass of the screen and three numbers that every child knows.

“9”, the woman is talking to you still.

“1”, she’s asking you a question.

“1”, you nod shakily assuming she’s asking if you’re alright. You might not actually be but you nod anyway.

The phone at your ear is dialing and you hear the other line ringing.

You try to climb out of the car through the door the questioning woman had opened, something stops you. Still holding the phone to your ear, still listening to the sound of the ringing, you unclip your seatbelt.

The nice woman, you decide, helps you out of the car still trying to talk to you. Looking around you see the two figures, one to the left, still screaming and now surrounded by tall dark haired man and young blond jogger, and one a couple yards in front of your car, motionless and being attended to by short haired woman in business suit and old woman with blankets.

Where did they come from? Why did they hit you? They didn’t hit you, you hit them of course, but how?

Your mind starts firing faster now, going through the last several minutes. You were driving, slowly, carefully, it was a school zone and the sun was in your eyes, your apple cider and croissant from Starbucks untouched waiting until the ease of the freeway.

But then, something happened, a thunk and a crash, and here you were.

The nice woman is rubbing your back still talking, she’s probably asking what happened. All you can do is horsely yell “why aren’t they answering!”, the call to 911 still ringing in your ear. Looking around you see the traffic of the two lane road stopped in either direction, the people from the cars closest are out and watching, or trying to help. Some neighbors, like the old woman with blankets, are running to and from their homes for supplies.
The nice woman puts her hand over yours and tells you that emergency vehicles are already on their way, you can stop calling. She helps you sit and slump against the side of your car which now has a dented hood, bumper, and shattered windshield – all stained with blood.

You call your, boyfriend? (Is that what he is to you?) You were leaving his house, this isn’t even your neighborhood, you had just kissed him good morning and good-bye. Why isn’t he answering?!

You call your work, it’s early, there won’t be anyone answering the phones yet, that’s supposed to be you this morning.

You dial your boss’s extension and leave a message, “I’ve been in an accident, I won’t be able to come to work”.

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Jun 27, 2017

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Oliver [Poem] Creative Writing 101 – Journal 1

Oliver [Poem] Creative Writing 101 – Journal 1

Grade: A

Comments:Wonderful! It’s very hard to write poems about pets without it coming across as too sentimental or cliche, but you manage it well here. …”


My little toaster strudel

My blueberry muffin

My perfectly toasted

My golden god

My little stinker

My love,  my heart

The ray of sun

Holding our house together

Where is my Nobel Prize

For I have discovered

A perpetual energy machine

You’ve learned a lot

From your friends in the park

Mostly how to bark

In my face

While I’m sleeping

While I’m working

“Walk” you shout

I explain with patience

We just took a walk

When you sleep

I kiss you

I do not shout

The technical term

I smooch you

Velvet lips

Satin ears

Silken tum-tum

Even when you dream

You shout

Little shouts

Through closed velvet lips

It builds up

Truth bursts out

Sometimes I shout


I love you

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Apr 13, 2015

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A Drive By Update

I can’t believe it’s been so long since I last posted!

Actually, I can believe it, but I still feel bad.

Since November: I haven’t shaved my legs are or my armpits – which has been really nice.

I’ve started vlogging semi regularly, though there isn’t much of that yet.

I’ve been streaming and recording games with Adam which has been a lot of fun.

And I started (and am almost done with now) the spring semester which includes Calculus 2, Physics 40, and Chemistry 1A

math1B physics40 chem1a

I’m having a tough time of things, but don’t really have the time or energy or words to really verbalize it.

So, this will just a a short drive by kind of update.

<3 <3 <3

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