Tim's Creative Writing Blog

2006-03-20T09:07:00.000-08:00

"supple evil:gentle death"

aggressive approach
firm ground
taunting
rigid
dark and sultry
eerie surroundings
school ma'rm quo
singing evil
stomping the wide wooden planks
hard souls
evacuated chairs
surrounded
circulating evil
twirling fabric
rouge
ballestras
uniform
statuesque defendent
contrasting skin
siren song
period pieces
stage lighting
soft knives edge
supple evil
gentle death
wagon wheel spinning
splintered.

2006-03-20T09:01:00.000-08:00

"Something that is True"
or
"When will my Coverage Begin?"

If this is the last sound I make-
Physician's office-visit,
co-pay,
thunder of clogs-
I must say something that is true;
of information and support for health,
emotional.
Mi vida, my life, I loved,
La vida, my wife, I hated.
When will my coverage begin?
The roof dripped through the open spaces
onto that cock you kept chained to the stove,
whether declared or undeclared war;
or act of war.
My life is chained to my neck.
I am chained to the stove.
Membership in the reserves is not deemed
entry into the armed forces.
You fold my flag.

2006-03-10T07:21:00.000-08:00

Scene

Algernon bustled through the doorway, clearing his throat as he fussed with his last button. The heavy wool of his coat sagged in the shoulders as he wrestled with the hard brass buttons up it's front. Once clasped, the overcoat fit perfectly, tighly breaking over his shoulders at a ninety degree angle. The fall-line that ran down his front, starting with the subdued canvas bow-tie, through his buttons to his belt buckle, was pencil straight and just as sharp. He cleared his voice again and bellowed down the long hallway, the sound ricocheting and cracking off the wooden beams and hard floor. "Margaret!" he roared again.

Garbology

The rain fell hard upon the half-saturated trash heap. The top-most sachel had fallen from its precarious perch when Wendell clumsily tossed it on top. Out on the cobblestone there now lie a pork-chop bone almost chewed through, and several half-eaten ears of yellow corn. Still in the bag but in plain sight were a bunch of maroon silk scraps from the mistresses sewing project of late for her niece. There could also be seen an old silver serving tray with one broken handle: the rain upon the reflective face harmonizing with the dull wooden shingles over head. The manor grounds were littered with buck shot due to a favorite game of Algernon's in the early drunken hours; shooting at anything that moves on his property.

"You call that music!?", Maggie heard the yell coming from the top of the stairs. The dinner party had bored them all thoroughly enough during the meal, but Algernon was no longer able to contain his agitated state when their young nephew William began hammering on the dulcimer. Grabbing the high edges of her hooped-skirt, Maggie shuffled out of the study and into the foyer
"Oh go to bed Alg!" she craned her neck as she shushed into the lofted marble ceiling of the stairway. "You are absolutely insufferable, grrraahh!" she half sighed half shouted her defeat.

Continued Line

"You are absolutely insufferable! God-damnit Ruthie, make a fucking decision!" I realized the vloume of my voice as I shouted, and quickly changed my tone to save any further trouble. "We have been trying to decide where to do this for almost an hour, and you don't like anything I say!" I said somewhat more calmly.
"That's not true!" she shot back, a typical response; no explanation, just defensiveness.
"Oh yeah?! I offered Mama Lucia's, The Cactus, Maxfields, Phoebe's and McDonalds! And what have you said to each and everyone?!!" I paused only lond enough for dramatic effect, certainly not long enough for a response. "You've said NO! You've shot them all down!" I was at least acting like this was all in good fun, because to most people it was probably not worth getting worked-up over. But not for me! Not with her! This happens every night.
"Again! That's not true!!" she spat suddenly from behind the changing screen. "I said yes to Maxfield's!"
"Yeah of course, the most expensive one!"

Authority Figure/Child/Lover
"Please sir, may I have some more?" Not expecting this enquiry, Algernon shifted suddenly in his high-backed chair. His face still away from the young child, he jolted as-if awoken by a bee sting. "I know that my mistress has warned me not to disturb you, but I must protest on behalf of the dogs sir. They haven't enough to eat, and what they have is always our refuse. Can't you see it to give me the extra rations so as to keep them well?" There was a long silence at this, and William wondered if his master were even awake and listening. He slowly tried to cock his head just enough to see around Algernon's broad ears and decipher whether he was even any longer alive. William's curiosity quickly turned to fear as the silence continued to spread over the one-sided conversation.

2006-03-10T07:17:00.000-08:00

Love sticks to the
heart a cloak
tighly wraps with
crinkled lumps pressing.

Tarnished Tackle
Furry Collar

2006-03-10T07:10:00.000-08:00

This is a poem we wrote as a class; each student only seeing the previous line as inspiration.

The dark brown
rabbit is
the sun is shining
Now I'm hot
The mouse can't talk
I am he as you are he as you are me
Who is who
I'm not sure what to do
I don't have a clue!
Cautiously careful and crazily courageuos
Fighting like a tiger
Flipping through everything
trying to find the sports channel
And I don't mean the body of water
She was the size of a small island
She couldn't find a seat
So she sat on the floor
And said, "do you want some of this right here?"
Oh YA
That's the way I like it
uh huh uh huh...
She agreed without listening
She thought she was right
yet men are always right
Girls/women think they are incorrect
But now we all know the truth.

2006-02-13T07:07:00.000-08:00

I just finished writing a paper on Henry James, and I've become intrigued with the connection between psychology and literature. The Turn of the Screw delves into the mind of one singular character, and has the ability to make us question our own sanity/heroism/lives. This leads me to ask; Does writing have an inate responsibility to make readers ask questions? Can a writer simply produce aesthetic work, or must it always serve a purpose?

I'm really excited to mess with my readers mind with the next piece I write.