Creative Burst - I Have a Photo of a Man

I have a photo of a man whose name I don't know. I came across it one day while I was in a used bookstore in Ann Arbor. The Dawn Treader. A nice place, comfortable, big. Lots of books. The fiction section takes up one half the store so one could spend the entire afternoon without having to go back to the same shelf and re-scan “in case you missed something”. It was in the “Am to At” shelf where I found a curious book lying spine down. It stuck out, not only because it was hardcover and an odd size—about three times as tall as wide—but also because the dust jacket was bright pink. I thought at first that it was a home made book, maybe something self-published, and I was about to skip over it when I noticed that in the center of the pages a thick piece of paper was sticking out just slightly. I took the book down and opened it up to the page that held the piece of paper expecting to find an old postcard written to a distant relative by some grandparent who hadn't heard from him in ages or from one lover to another who loved what they were seeing as they traveled, but couldn't stand to be away from the other for another day. But it was from neither of these two people. In fact, it wasn't a postcard at all. It was a photograph.

The photograph that has brought me down to this dark place. And now I'm trapped here, waiting, considering a world going on above me, without me. Trains, taxis, people walking about giving little regard to other places that exist beyond what can be seen between the front door to the car to the office and back home again. They have no idea that a man lives and walks among them who has the power to change lives, the power to tempt, to incarcerate. But I do, because I found the photo. And the one who finds the photo is the one who will find the owner of the half-smiling, bearded face.

Now I suspect that the only was to escape is to find his name. But how can I discover anything about him when I'm locked inside this prison, captive to my own desire to solve a mystery that I never wanted to pursue in the first place. A dare led me here, and a name is all I need to return to the place where I came from. But for now all I can do is close my eyes and picture the world going on without me.

Writing Prompt #8

Begin a new story where your main character has woken up one morning to discover he or she has a special ability. Write about what the ability is and what he or she does with it on the first day. Remember to focus as much on the character’s emotions as the plot.

Creative Burst - Character Sketch

Hugo Stratt

Bio
Hugo is a man of complexities and there is little to be revealed which isn’t apparent in the way he dresses. Like a jester. Like a morose jester. None of his quirks were so obvious, of course, when he first appeared on the street corner one late fall afternoon peddling dime-store trinkets out of a tattered briefcase. Then he wore the clothes of a common man, one who could blend with the crowd in a moment’s notice. It was the death of his mother that brought him to dress like he does.

His profession
Five years as a street vendor. Prior to that unknown

One eccentricity
Hugo tries to furtively pick his nose, but it is never so subtle that someone doesn’t see it happen every time

Four qualities
He’s obese, he’s gregarious, he’s talkative, he’s mysterious

Three important recent events
He appeared on the street corner the day after the solar eclipse
He didn’t show up on the day the black-robed man came to town
After his mother died, he met with the town constable in private

Two habitual actions
He talks like a pirate
He carries around a penny which he throws into the sewer every morning before setting up his goods to sell

Writing Prompt #7

Describe a person, real or fictional, by comparing the person implicitly to one of the fifty states. (An implicit comparison omits mention of the thing used in comparison.) For example, you might compare your father to Nevada because he takes risks or gambles and he has a dry sense of humor. Use your description as the basis for a story or scene.

Creative Burst: My Obituary

The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated, but if I’m wrong please forward the following to the Bay City Times:

Lover of discount diary and expired ales and lagers, Bay City resident Tim Kenyon expired recently in a manner yet to be determined by the team of doctors scouring his remains for any sign that there was something wrong with him in the first place. Originally fermented and bottled in the Live Free or Die state (that’s New Hampshire to all non-native New Englanders), Tim relocated to the four corners of the U.S. to places as far away as San Francisco, CA and Reno, Nevada to eventually settle on the shores of the Saginaw River where he free floats on a daily basis with the scores of fish who can’t seem to find it in themselves to submerge into the murky depths. Tim prided himself on his ability to play with words even though the scoreboard being maintained by his agent has reveals he is fighting a losing battle. When not writing, he loved to stand in front of people and pretend he knew stuff he believed they wanted to know. Sometimes one or two of them would even smile or have something to say back to him. That always made him feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Tim is survived by his spouse, JodiAnn, a wordsmith/teacher/poet/mother-of-his-babies, son, Estlin, who is a four-year-old currently being possessed by the mind and spirit of a twelve-year old, and daughter, Lucy, who can’t not smile even in the case of diaper rash. What a treat, he used to say.

Tim plans to be cremated and have his ashes thrown into the industrial-sized fan running the air conditioning unit at the Bay City Wal-Mart, a move which he claims to be his way of sticking to the "man" from beyond the grave. A memorial service is planned immediately following at the cheese slicer in the deli. Donations for any ensuing clean-up or civil law suits can be sent directly to Tim’s student loan officer.

Creative Burst - My Life Story in Three Incidents Involving Hair

So let me tell you first that I had a lot more hair when I was younger. I mean a lot more. I let it grow out quite a bit when I was in high school. Maybe too much, but nevertheless, it was going to get long if it was the last thing I did. I had sported shorter hair for some time in my early high school years. The dorky bowl-cut specialty that my mom would do for me simply because it was cheaper (and this was long before the Flo-bee so you can imagine). So when I was done with the shorter hair I decided that I was going to see how long it would get. Alas, my mullet was born. The hair naturally parted down the middle and the back curled up into cute little locks which I would tend to with a brush and hair dryer in hopes that I could get them straight, or to at least curl under.

Well this grooming and growing went on for about two years, from the age of seventeen to nineteen. When I was nineteen I was faced with the need to “get a real job” since the life of working at many different stores in the mall wasn't going to cut it anymore, especially with my mother. So I applied to the grocery store down the street as a clerk. I figured, my father did it for years and the store pays well, in fact better than I've ever made at any point in my life, so why not?

I was sitting across from the store manager as he was scrutinizing my application. He was a square-headed, rotund guy with a bad mustache. A bit awkward, but foreboding nonetheless. We discussed my past experience which included helping my father at the store he used to work at which ironically enough was in the exact same space as the current store where I was applying. We discussed the salary which was acceptable to me. Then he leaned to one side, took a look at the curls hanging down off the back of my head and said, you'll have to cut your hair. Oh, no problem, I replied almost immediately.

What a surprise that I would give in so easily to a part of me that I treasured so much. I could I just willy-nilly say that I'd cut my hair. I had spent a lot of time growing it as long as it was. So I decided that I would cut it just enough to get by. So a little came off. The little that came off kept the natives happy. And I was happy.

Within six months I was faced with the need to address my hair again, this time again for a new job. I was back at the mall where I had spent many days and nights peddling merchandise and services like foam core-mounted posters and ski equipment. But this time I was charged with protecting it all as a mall security officer. I aspired to be a cop and what better place to start, to get my feet wet, than in mall security? But as the interview day approached I realized once again (preemptive this time) that my hair was going to be an issue. I could not sport such a mullet and be taken seriously as a mall security officer. So I got another trim, but to compensate for losing more of my hair—it was now off my shoulders completely—I dyed it jet black. Thus earning the nickname “Ponch” after my first couple weeks on the job.

Writing Prompt #6

According to officials at Graceland, Elvis still receives about 100 Valentines Day cards every year. Begin a scene where one of the senders is standing in line at the drug store with this year’s card in hand.

Writing Prompt #5

Imagine a driver accidentally bumps into a boy on a bike in a parking lot. The boy is knocked down, but not hurt beyond having a scraped knee. The driver feels awful and decides to drive the boy home. Write a scene which begins with the parents opening to front door. (Make the scene heavy in dialogue. Reveal nothing about the driver or the incident through exposition. All emotions and characteristics should come out through the dialogue.)

Creative Burst - What's Going on in this Girl's Mind?

Picture. Pencil. This is not where I want to be today. I have spent so much time trying to leave this place in my head. This dark place where the demons always seem to find me.

Run inside. Hide from the one who is after me. I see that there are many ways to go but not all of them will lead me to the place that is safe. Hide. Run.

Run. Running clown. Funny most of the time when I look at them under a certain light but the sun brings out the reality.

Reality. This is the place I want to run from. This is the place I want to hide in. This is what has hurt me. This is the place that has kept me from finding myself and how I got hurt.

Hurt. Stub my tow. Sliver in my finger. Cut on my arm. Broken bones. Brain hemorrhage. I am now she and that is the way it has to be. She. She is me. I am She.

She. Can't begin to imagine how to navigate life without falling through the blue complexity of sky and work and babies crying on every street corner. In castles surrounded by moats of blood and chocolate pudding. Go swimming with the sharks to discover beauty.

Beauty. A myth. Not reality as we see the world. Uncover what keeps us here on this place down to the diamond roughness of our cannibalistic ways of looking at the opposite sex. We want to consume and eat each other from the outside in. All that will be left are clowns and castles. Pictures on three by five cards of a life that doesn't mirror a reality shared by the rest of the world. Skewed by a sense of dignity when that is the last emotion anyone should be marking on a list of must-haves. Others on the list are gluttony, lust, pride, sloth, envy, wrath, and greed. How does an emotion like dignity get mixed up with a crowd like that? Something is not right with the world.

World. Her world is all she can see when she closes her eyes in the dark. The pencil shapes she tries to sketch in the blackness of her room when the sun goes down is all she can use to keep herself tied to her small, little, insignificant world. The one that she leans against, the one that she longs for when she cries at night. In the dark.

Dark. The opposite of gloomy at the best of times for this little girl. She is haunted my memories of darkness and gloom and the characteristics shared by their intersecting set of features. Those being roughness and hair and scales that are only meant to be rubbed one way but no matter how hard she tries her fingers work against the grain. Now there is blood.

Blood. Blood everywhere. Pouring from the cuts and wounds coloring the gray graphite pencil drawing with a crimson stain that brings with it only fear of how she will ever get the image right again in her mind without the tarnish of blood.