writing @ rustyspork [dot] net

Writing Exercise

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

crucial

He needed them to survive. The pain, the healing, he needed it all; he could not live without the burning inside his flesh. He was sitting again in the tiny waiting room, sunk deep into the black leather of the overstuffed couch. There was always a wait when he came in the evening, and so he found himself scanning the designs that wallpapered the room, although he knew them all already. In the top corner closest to the entrance was a sultry girl dressed like a devil, a skull with hearts for eyes, a nondescript tribal pattern and a massive fish, all in flamboyant colors to stand out against the skin. They were mostly all variations of four themes: girls, skulls, animals or unoriginal patterns. Japanese symbols were always popular, though for all he knew it was Korean or Chinese, and what claimed to stand for "strength" might actually mean "stupid American bastard." He assumed there must be some smart-assed artist out there who purposefully drew insults on any drunk frat boy stupid enough to tattoo himself with a language he couldn't read. A small group of Japanese kids might stand outside his shop, laughing as people exited with "coward," "idiot" or "homp" on their shoulders.

"Next -- oh hey, Paul." The balding tattoo artist with a hoop through his nose like a bull stuck his head into the waiting room. His sleeves were too crowded to see the individual designs, making his arms look vaguely like those of a wookee. "What'll it be today?"

Glancing at the walls again, he stood. "Anything but Japanese, Ricky. Surprise me."

Hours later, he exited the shop with a smile and a flaming toaster on his calf.

Sheri wrote at 12:35 AM

Writing Exercise

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

installation

"The installation was succcessful. It should be up and running within a few minutes." From behind her eyelids, she could see the sunlight that filled the room. She coculd see veins in the redness of her skin and a slowly-opening sliver of the world outside her head. Everything was white. If a nuclear holocaust had destroyed all life and the sky had been snowing ceaselessly, the world would not be this white. The world outside her eyelids was a bottomless pit of white, the purest abyss, whiter than Heaven. It was sterile. She closed her eyes on this cold white world and wrapped herself in the warmth of her eyelids.

"Wake up, 6269. It's time to wake up." A hand nudged her arm from offscreen. "Come on, 6269." The voice seemed to be talking to her, but her name was Lila. It became suddenly quiet. "Alright, push the button. We ought to test it out sooner or later."

In an instant she was sitting upright, rigid and wide-eyed, staring again at the engulfing white. A man stepped into her view and gave the abyss a border, kept it from swallowing her whole. "Well, 6269, you gave us a lot of trouble back there, but from now on, you're going to do what we say." From the pocket of his immaculate labcoat he pulled a hand-held device with a low button on it, rising subtley like a hardened bruise beneath the skin. His thumb stroked the mound and he pushed it. As she rocketed involuntarily to her feet, the man's white labcoat melded with the wall, making him seem no more than a disembodied head thrown back with laughter and a hand holding a small, black remote.

Sheri wrote at 1:21 AM

Writing Exercise

Sunday, February 05, 2006

pen

Her bag was endless. Arm buried deep in its gaping mouth, Sarah fumbled around as if a clumsy Mary Poppins. Instead of a beautiful tasseled lamp, she was searching for a pen which, due to its small size amidst the clutter of the bag, seemed less likely to be found. A million things engulfed her hand, keys jangling between fingers, tampons sliding past her wrist, a lonely earring hooping around her pinky. She touched metal: a ring, a quarter, tweezers. She jammed her finger on something sharp and howled.

"Ms. Jordan, may I proceed?" All graying hair and frown lines, she glared down at Sarah from behind narrow lenses. They were the kind an elderly female professor would be expected to wear, with a thin gold chain hanging around her neck. They magnified her eyes and her poorly-painted makeup to enormous size.

"Sorry, Dr. Mantel." Sheepishly, Sarah stuck one hand into her pocket, produced a pen as if by magic, and bent to take notes.

Sheri wrote at 11:45 PM

Writing Exercise

The "kingpin" exercise posted on Thursday will be worked up as a short short. Any suggestions for improvement would be much appreciated.

vile

It was filthy, a pile of waste that came to her knees. Lumped in a recessed doorway, it heaved ever so slightly with the even breath of the creature beneath. She could see, just below a fast food bag, grease long dried across smiling, printed faces, two closed eyes and a dark smudge of nose. She stopped to gawk, pulling her coat tight against the frigid breeze. This poor creature, down on his luck, how had he fallen so far? What had he once been? A lawyer, working pro-bono for those who could not afford a defense, until he had spent all his savings treating his homeless clients to lunch? Perhaps he had been a factory worker, unable to find a new job after his asbestos plant closed. Now here he was, freezing beneath a pile of rags while she, all silk and diamonds, high heels and mink coat, stopped on her way from the opera to her car and stared. Slouching the coat off her shoulders, she laid it heavily atop the pile and, arms bared to the breeze and the world, walked on in her dress.

Sheri wrote at 1:46 AM

Photography

Saturday, February 04, 2006

This is a plug for Becca's photography, which now has prints available to purchase.

No writing exercise for today, just a little too hectic and it's now almost 2 AM and that just feels like cheating. I may change my mind in the next hour, but then again, I might just go to sleep.

Sheri wrote at 1:43 AM

Writing Exercise

Thursday, February 02, 2006

I have been trying to keep up with doing writing exercises fairly regularly. This exercise involves randomly picking a word in the dictionary and using it to begin a freewrite.

tea

Steeping, seeping, it dangled over the edge of a white mug proclaiming in an adult-created child's hand, "#1 Uncle." She had picked it up at a yard sale for ten cents, even though she had no brothers or sisters. Unpainted fingernails drummed rat-a-tat-tat, tiny machine gun racket from her fingertips. Tea took forever to steep and she, being of little patience, began to sip far too soon. It tasted like hot water, which was not much different from how it usually tasted. She didn't even like tea. She drank it because it seemed the thing to do, and she liked coffee even less than she liked tea. The surface of the water stared back at her, all wild, wavy hair, dark eyebrows and tiny flecks of floating tea leaves from a hole in the bag. They made it look as if she had freckles, which she did. If she connected the dots, she could see a boat, a dog with its tongue out, a three-headed hippopotamus wearing a tutu -- the entire cloud-filled sky in her mug.

"Are you listening to me?" She looked up into a face gray and lined like an elephant's hide, glaring back at her indignantly.

"Yes, Mom, I'm listening."

I guess I'll also include one of my favorite exercises. This is from yesterday.

kingpin

Sammy ruled the playground. Every recess, he stood at the very top of the jungle gym, or at least on the second level -- the recess monitors kept yelling at him for standing on the roof. Still, it came to about the height of a standing adult, making him feel as if he were standing on their heads.

Sammy was a big kid; his mother liked to tell the other mothers at PTA meetings that he was "husky." He wasn't necessarily taller than any of the other second graders -- lanky Bobby Lawrence stood a whopping four feet tall and resembled the Jolly Green Giant's skinny, geeky, clumsy brother -- but everyone knew that Sammy would win any fight simply by sitting on his opponent. He wanted to be a football player.

From high above his sprawling kingdom of metal, plastic and woodchips, he watched the peons below. Michael Boyle and Hank Miller ran back and forth across the wobbly bridge of the wooden playground set, looking for all the world like two buccaneers raging against a wild sea. Alex Bianchi ate woodchips while Margaret Applewood swung forlornly far from the bustling streets of Sammyton. Ah, Margaret -- with her chocolate-brown hair and eyes the color of almonds, she was Sammy's first and only love. Once, at lunch, he had tried to sit next to her to eat and instead threw up in her lap. When she fled crying, he finished her lunch -- a jelly sandwich and vanilla pudding. He didn't even like vanilla pudding. In the cafeteria he was nothing, but surely here, in the land he towered over from on high, he might win her heart. Just as he made up his mind to woo young Margaret, a wrinkled face peered up at him from his shoelaces.

"Samuel Q. Mitchell, you come down from there right now. Recess is almost over."

Sheri wrote at 11:33 PM

Welcome

This is artblog. It is where I post writing, poetry, photography or pretty much anything creative. Most of the stuff will be mine, but if anyone wants to share some of their work, I might possibly expand it.

I will probably add a comments feature sooner or later. This page will flesh out within a few days. Thanks for stopping by.

Sheri wrote at 9:35 PM