Writing Workshop

I attended a writing workshop at the Burning Tale recently and had a great time.  We did some exercises and then listened to mysterious poetry in the dark of the night.

Here are a few fun pieces that I wrote during the workshop.  I hope you enjoy them! 🙂

Short, Short Story

The egg rolls were twitching and screaming as they were lowered into the sizzling pan of oil.  They wanted to remain uncooked and uneaten, forever smelling like dough.  But alas, they have turned into a crispy, golden brown, no longer twitching, but still.

Haiku

Lusting for egg rolls
while writing ’bout memories
in a studio.

When the Times are Tough, You Write About It

I decided to write a poem in my physical journal today and realized that I haven’t written in it since April 2012.  While flipping through the pages, I found this interesting piece that I wrote back in October 2010.  It was written in a time when things were very stressful and hectic at work, when many people were asking for my assistance.  I have to say, sometimes I crack myself up.  I think Analogy #2 is my favorite one.

An analogy of my sanity, or lack thereof…

Analogy 1:

It’s like being able to see ghosts and other supernatural things, while other people can’t.  No one understands you and you’re the only one that can vanquish the evil.  While you’re at it, all these little ghosts cry to you “help me, help me, help me,” – one after another, day after day, night after night.  They haunt you in your dreams, until you scream in fright.  You cower in the corner and scream “STOP!” then whimper, “please, leave me alone.”

Analogy 2:

It’s like being a successful therapist, really.  Everybody comes to you with their problems. You solve their issues, tell them how to remedy the pain, tell them to wait a few days and it’ll be fixed.  Then you go back and follow up on all of them.  It’s OK at first, even satisfying to be able to help people, but then your patients multiply.  Before you know it, you have a colony of patients pounding at your door.  They’re pounding and pounding, “I have a problem, I have a problem…” they say.  Louder and louder, until your brain can’t take it and explodes into mush and you scream, “I have problems too!”  The therapist, obviously needs, a therapist.

Analogy 3:

Remember playing “Smack the Alligator” at Chuck E. Cheese’s or Dave & Buster’s?  Basically, there’s like 6 alligators that pop out of the hole, one after another, and you have to smack them with a hammer before they disappear.  The more of them you smack, the higher your score and the more tickets you get.  Well, it’s like that.  At first you’re doing really well, getting the mojo down, but then you notice more and more alligators pop up.  You frantically scramble to hit all of them, but then realize that the moment you hit one, two more appear, the moment you hit two, four more appear.  Your head is spinning.  You’re twirling around and getting completely dizzy.  The machine is burning up, about to explode, buzzing and buzzing, and time is running out.  Your score is in the negative, so finally you throw up your hammers and say “I give up.”

Funny that after 3 months of not writing, this is what I’m inspired to write about 🙂  I’m so glad that I’m taking vacation in two days, or I think I might have a mental breakdown, lol.

A Poem for Your Thoughts: Experiment 1: Stress

I’d like to try something new, like collaborative poetry and call it “A Poem for Your Thoughts.” 

This is how it works:

  1. I come up with a theme or idea
  2. I pose some questions to get your thoughts on it
  3. You respond with your thoughts in the comments section
  4. At the end of the week, I compile everyone’s thoughts into a poem

This is completely experimental, so I don’t know how it’ll go and how many people would respond.  I will also be posting this on my Facebook pages.

I previously did something similar in my poem 30 Days of Beard which was a lot of fun.

This week’s experiment would be about STRESS

  1. If stress was tangible, would it be a person, animal, plant or object?
  2. Would stress be male or female?
  3. How would you describe stress’ personality, looks or actions?
  4. How would you interact with stress?

Your answers can be realistic, silly or sarcastic.  Be creative, have fun with it!  I’ll post back in a week! 🙂

Here’s a collage using Google images to give you some inspiration.

stressed

You Are Mine

Since Halloween just ended, I thought it was a good opportunity to post my other darkish flash fiction piece that I wrote in 2005 before moving back into the realm of poetry.

You Are Mine

Laylona bolted out of her bed as she heard a roar of thunder followed by a terrible screech. From the corner of her eye, she saw a black figure race into the darkness. Darn that stupid cat, always so cowardly, Laylona thought. Nevertheless, she grabbed her coat and went after her beloved Sir William. After all, it was the only thing her mother had left behind.

A tear started to fall from Laylona’s eyes as memories of her mother flooded back to her. She could still remember the day her mother had come running, holding two ice cream cones in her hands. Yet Laylona never tasted that Rocky Road because her mother never made it across the street. A red mustang, going 80 mph, had slammed into her, spraying blood all over the gray cement. Laylona had suffered from depression ever since that day, but luckily, she had found an escape, a way to avoid the pain.

At that moment, Laylona noticed a dark shadow dart across the bramble weeds and disappear behind the open doors of a huge mansion. She couldn’t help but hesitate at the entrance, wondering if this was the legendary haunted house talked about among the townspeople. There was no time to decide as the rain started pouring. Laylona gently touched the wooden door, which groaned in return.

“Anybody home?” she squeaked. The sound of rats scurrying across the floor was the only response. As Laylona took two steps into the house, a gust of wind whipped past her, and the door slammed shut. The house was then filled with an eerie silence, a kind of anticipation, like a mummy ready to be reborn.

Lightning continued to flash outside and Laylona was able to piece together the interior of the house. In the center of the room the once glamorous 15th century furniture was covered in cobwebs and the cream colored rug on the floor was stained with rat urine. Aligning one side of the wall was an elegant cabinet of wine glasses, no longer shiny, but worn with age. Laylona gasped in amazement, but her glimpse of the house was over when the lightning stopped, engulfing her in darkness.

Then, as if by magic, a light appeared before her eyes. Laylona saw a woman with dark flowing hair dressed in a white gown. It was her mother and in her arms was Sir William.

“Here,” whispered her mother, extending her hands to offer the cat to her daughter. When Laylona took hold of Sir William, her mother disappeared.

“Mom?” she called into the darkness, but there was no answer. All of a sudden, she felt a searing pain in her arm and found herself staring into the devilish countenance of the cat. A set of burning red eyes, accompanied with sharp, piercing fangs, pored into her very soul.

evil-cat“YOU WILL NOT LEAVE THIS HOUSE!” croaked an inhuman voice.

Laylona felt her heart beating ferociously as she tried ridding herself of the cat, but her struggle was to no avail. Stifling a cry, Laylona reached into her pockets for her savior. Throughout the hard times, these LSD pills had given her the courage to go on, but this time it wouldn’t work. This time around, they were the cause of her suffering.

Hard as she tried, she could not escape. Hideous laughter filled her ears.

“YOU ARE MINE!”

Nothing in Particular

This was originally a flash fiction assignment that I had in class, in which I utilized the same idea from a poem that I had written.  It’s supposed to be weird and ambiguous, so I hope you enjoy it!

Nothing in Particular

Rain falls in a diagonal motion, wetting ground, watering plants, falling into puddles, making ripples in the pond. Outside, little boys in blue raincoats are chasing paper ships down the waterway. The elderly Mrs. Chan dressed in white, burns paper houses in a black cauldron for her dead husband. It has been a long night. The crow watches a raindrop slip off the golden leaf and disappear with a “plop.”

A moment of silence, and then the rain pounds harder, like translucent daggers hammered into doors. The crow flies off into the night, passed the children, passed the wooden house, passed the naked slithering worms, into the cemetery with Gothic gates where people are engaged in a ritual dance. Singing, shouting, dancing around and around, arms in the air, with the beating of drums. Crosses, crosses everywhere, there are angels too, all over the tombstones. R.I.P.

The crow flies off, passed the lovers skinny-dipping in the lake with moonlight glistening on their skin, passed the restless, thrashing waves, passed the fallen tree, occasionally dodging the wire-like thunderbolts, only to land on the sill of a barred window at the insane asylum. With his dark little pupils, he watches, waiting, anticipating … the scream!

The woman has her back to him. Her long black hair falls down her thin nightgown in a tangled mess, until the tips touch the floor. She stares at the granite wall, as if mesmerized. She counts: 1, 2, 3, until she reaches 13, and turns around. She is pale with sunken eyes and high cheekbones. There are cracks in her red lips. Upon seeing the crow, she screams and screams and SCREAMS!

Her voice drowns out the “drip, drip, drip” of the leaking faucet in the corner of the room. Her face is contorted in pain. Her eyes reflect the flickering light of the candle that sits on the nightstand. The crow does not flinch, but simply stares back.

The screaming stops as the woman brings her index fingers to her lips and kisses it.

“Shh …,” she whispers, “breathe in, breathe out.” Her chest rises and falls, rises and falls. All over the world, awake or asleep, people are breathing a harmonious song of nature. She spreads out her arms, as if to fly, and twirls around in circles at a steady pace.

“This is our moment, a special moment in time,” she whispers. She throws back her head and cackles, jumps up, and lands sprawled on the floor. She slowly bites her finger until a trickle of blood appears.

“Shh…,” she whispers, gently putting down her bleeding finger on the cold cement. She writes in the flickering candlelight with the crow perched on the windowsill and the moon shining behind. There are no stars tonight, and she is no van Gogh. When her writing stops, she blows out the candle and the crow flies off. What does she write? Nothing, nothing in particular.

Mental Institution
– image taken from Google

A Dream Within A Dream

You find yourself wondering
if what had happened,
happened in a dream,
but you can’t remember,
because it’s surreal, yet real,
until you realize
that you’re still dreaming,
and what had happened
happened in a dream
within a dream.

It’s like a weird inception
of the subconscious.
When you awake,
you are baffled, confused,
puzzled…
what does it mean?

Did the event that happened
really happen?
Or did it really happen
in a dream?

Or did it happen in a dream
within a dream?

 

Dream

 

A Jumble of Words

A jumble of words
in my mind
that don’t come together
in a rhyme.

Searching and searching
for that single theme,
struggling and struggling
for a rhyme scheme.

Looking and looking
for the meaning,
but the structure and style
seem to beguile me.

Trying hard
to sort it out,
nevertheless,
I still don’t know
what it’s about.

Metaphors and similes,
recordings of reality,
imagintation and fantasy,
emotions and expressions
of my creativity.

Just words on paper,
how hard could it be?
As you can read,
not very hard, indeed.