(2) Free Writes 3/31/11 and (2) to Make Up Last Week.

I'm in a hurry, but I got no where to be. My tattered jeans scrape unforgiving cement while by duffle bag bounces on my back. It thumps to the rythm of my solitairy footsteps. I'm alone now, now that we're over. I can talk to nobody about it, because everytime I admit it aloud it gets worse. My keys jangle in my pocket. they go to nothing but make me feel like I actually have somewhere to go. I feel like I have more than the hobo walking next to me. But I bet he is a screw up, just like me. But hey--I have a duffle bag and a ring of keys. Things are looking up.
I've never had much, but I did have her. Her skin was soft and white,compared against mine. People talked...but ain't that why we do the junk we do? So people will talk? And we were serious as two kids could ever be. I  pretend now while I'm walkin' that I'm about to go meet her. I imagine that we're about to be reunited after a long days work from me and with her sparkely from hours of household chores. Lookin' like June Cleaver maybe. I imagine that she molds her thin lips to mine...murmers hello.
The mush on the street seeps into my shoes and makes my feet wet. I curse, and hurry, looking for a place to be. She ain't part of me anymore. I hate the crap about "two soulds becoming one" but I think it might have happened to me, cause I'm missing something. Missing her, and jacket, and an old baseball cap.
We talked a lot. We faught a lot. about her parents. They called me a thug. I'd fight that with all my guts back in those days. Right now, I'd have to agree with them. It really ain't that I'm a bad person...well maybe it is that. Maybe we're all bad people.
I was driving home from her parents. Just now I step in some indistinguishable crud on the street. I keep on walking so no one will see. But yeah, I was real mad at her when I shouldn't have been...she couldn't help that they hated me. I was driving too fast for sure...but I saw it coming. I saw the car. She called me a bastard, and idiot, some stuff I won't repeast cause I'm still trying to forget. I realize now she was just griping...being a woman and all. That car was coming fast around that curve. My fingers twitched. I jerked hard. My old baseball cap flew off her head and into the floorboard.

It didn't work. I'm still alive.

-This is creepy and weird..I don't know why I keep writing creepy and weird but it happens a lot these days. Anyway, I just want to say that the whole purppose of this piece is to illustrate what I believe about all people being born with immoral or "bad" tendencies. Anger builds, people explode. These emotions and actions have to be addressed. This is my representation of a situation where it isn't.


A few of the versions that I actually liked from Wednesday's exercise about the weather.

1. Original:

The shadowless day. Hynotized the world into a prolinged slumber, Slows the day and its quest. Like the elderly, everyone moves through the water infused air. Their hair grows while their eyes droop and they splash their rubber soled feet down the path.

2. Scholarly:

The day is lacking of sunlight, causing a devoid of shadows. This transfixes the earth, resulting in a prolonged slumber. The day moves at a slower pace, similar to an elderly person. Movement is delayed as the populace meanders through the water infused air. Strands of hair expand with the added moisture. Downcast eyes, indicators of a sleepless evening, as the people in gollashes traverse along.

3. Romantic

The shadowless dawn. Hypnotizes the world into a restless and lonely slumber. The day moves alarmingly slow...akeen to my hearts beating. My body harmonizes with it's thud as I stroll along the ruthless day. My locks become infused with the ungodly moisture. Dark circles around my eyes cast a shadowy ugliness across my face. My feet squeak with each step. Oh the tragic day.

4. 12 year old

It was gross outside. It was really dark so you couldn't see your shadows. It makes everyone move slowly because the weather makes them really tired. They walk around like old people. The girls hair get poofy and  it looks really funny. They walk by in annoying rainboots.

5. Bigfoot

Bigfoot made the weather icky. Bigfoot made the skt cry. Bigfoot not mean to make the sky cry. Now Bigfoot get wet. Bigfoot not like to get wet. Make Bigfoot fur pokey.


A poem I wrote a couple weeks ago--

Cryptic and descrete,
tell me, but don't say it.
Yet, do not hide
your emotions from my eyes.
Tell me, but don't
use your words.
They won't hold the flame,
it's inside glass.
I can see through it.
Write it on a napkin,
read it to me later.
It's better when you can't describe,
your words too weak for the weight.


In class a while back--it's embarrassing.

Loft language. Laced hose laying gently along her lengthy legs. The lady is a lioness on the prowl for a lad with a longing to be loved. Someone to tangle in her lusterous locks that lilies of the vally previosly adorned. No longer is she gallant. Lovely in all respects. Polite, Prim, and lovingly languid. The lengthy evenings led her against their evolving length. Gentlemen with long walking canes left her with a leftover feeling. Longing to be loved legitimate. A man, lacking a wallet with a knowledge of a lady.

Classmate Response 3/31/11

Slowly she walks by watching all the people.  Her head is held high but she twirls her hair and looks ever so down everytime she is near any one person.  Eighty degrees outside and she covers her skin in baggy jeans and an oversized sweatshirt.  She hides her eyes and most of her face behind big dark sunglasses, and scuries just a little bit faster through the crowd.  Obviously she is sad, as she makes her way to the library unnoticably, to go sit in silence, alone, and bury her head into her books in order to avoid her truth.


I assume this was written in class the day that we were watching the people walk by. I like a lot about it, but there are a few things I would change.

Like: Descriptions-I really like the images of someone literally "covering their skin in baggy jeans and an oversized shirt" in 80 degree weather. And then the over sized sunglasses are like icing on the cake. Really, really good...it reads so well.

What I would consider editing/changing: "Head held high" does not fit this time of person that is described later. Also the word "she" is used a lot. It would be great to have some variety there. Also, if it's "obvious that she is sad" I would like to know why, and a little more background information...be creative! Make up something totally crazy tragic that this person is trying to forget or hide from! If that's too cliche. try writing something opposite. Maybe she is under cover for something. It kind of sounds like it from her description. The possibilities are endless...and the decription you have of the girl is really great! Keep working on it and I think that something totally awesome can be born.

Junkyard Quotes 3/31/11

All from the book of Proverbs. (New Living Translation)

To learn you must love discipline; it is stupid to hate correction.
Proverbs 12:1

Guard your heart above all else, for it determines the course of your life.
Proverbs 4:23

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a dream fulfilled is the tree of life.
Proverbs 13:12

Just as the rich rule the poor, so the borrower is servant to the lender.
Proverbs 22:7

Rumors are dainty morsles that sink deep into one's heart.
Proverbs 26:22

Classmate Response 3/26/11

Charlene stood looking out the window, holding back the blinds. She wore a calico dress and her was in a bun. The day was warm and sunny like July. She had 4 American flags around her house. She had one on the flag stand, a flag pole in the yard, and two hanging off of opposite sides of the porch. Her husband sat down in front of the TV. He was reading the paper and was not paying attention to the box.

“What time is he s’posed to be coming, John?”

“S’posed to be here about four.”

“What time is it?”

He looked at his watch.

“3:52.”

“Oh. He’ll be here any minute.”

“Should be.”

He went back to reading the paper.

In the kitchen was feast of food. A smoked ham and macaroni and cheese. Mashed potatoes and green beans. Two pies were in the oven and biscuits sat on top of the stove on a plate underneath a napkin. 

“You think he’ll be hungry?”

“Prolly.”

“I made all of his favorite. I bet he’s starving for some home cooking.”

“I know I am.”

“Aw shush.”

“Just sayin’.”

There were pictures on the mantle. A candle of prayer glowed next to a picture of a muscular boy with a crew cut and a smile. Next to that was the black and white picture of less muscular man in uniform with a crew cut. Next to that was the picture of a little boy with a white plaster cast on his right arm. The boy smiled and had a backpack on his back as he stepped onto a yellow school bus.

Charlene saw the boys circling their bikes in the road. The Swanson girl was brushing her doll’s hair on the porch. A bus came up and stopped in front of the house.

“He’s here! He’s here!”

She ran to the mirror and checked herself. John heaved himself off of the chair and was behind her.

“Aw don’t fuss. He’s your son. Not your date.”

“I just wanna look good for our soldier boy.”

They stood holding hands in front of the closed door. They heard the offbeat sound on the steps. The heard the creeks of the porch. They heard it stop in front of the door. They held their hands tighter. He knocked. John said:

“Come on in.”

He was having trouble with the door handle. John unlocked from Charlene. He opened the door with a smile on his face. It quickly fell. He blocked the outside with his body.

“Who is it John?”

John didn’t answer.

“Is that our soldier boy?”

John said after a few seconds:

“Go into the kitchen, Charlene.”

“What?”

“Go to the kitchen. I’ll call you in a second.”

“What are you talking about, John? I wanna see my son.”

“Charlene, please.”

“No, John. Let me see my son.”

John sank his head and moved out of the doorway. Charlene saw her son. His left arm was made of metal as was his leg. She could say nothing, nor could John. Their soldier boy stood at the doorway.

This is one of my favorites of Lucas’ short stories. The beginning is great; I love the setting of the warm July day, the four American flags, the mother in a calico dress—it was fantastic, screaming “patriotic.”

Lucas talks about liking to write dialogue in class, and the way he does it in this piece is amazing. I love how is so beautifully descriptive, and yet that doesn’t get in the way of his spurts of dialogue. Lucas has a distinct writing style that I can really appreciate. The way his characters converse seems genuine, not scripted. I could really take lessons from some of his pieces.

I like the mother’s name, Charlene, but I wasn’t as thrilled with “John.” I felt that Charlene was more unique that the average “John.” Also, when I heard “military” and the name “John,” I immediately thought of the movie/book “Dear John.” I am 100% positive that Lucas does not want to be compared with Nicholas Sparks, so in the next draft of this I might change the dad’s name if I weren’t extremely attached to it.

Other than the one minor detail, I loved this! The ending was a punch very emotional. Maybe it could be a little longer?  :)

Junkyard Quotes 3/26/11

These are just some of my favorite quotes:


Our Creator would have never made such lovel days and given us the deep hearts to enjoy them, above and beyond all though, unless we were meant to be immortal.
-Nathanial Hawthorne

The fullness of our heart is expressed in our eyes, in our touch, in what we write, in what we say, in the way we talk, the way we recieve, the way we need.
-Mother Teresa

To love by freely giving is its own reward. To be possessed by love and to in turn give love away is to find the secret to abundant life.
-Gloria Gaither

When we do the best we can, we never know what miracle is wrought in our life, or in the life of another.
-Helen Keller

Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy.
-Anne Frank

Reading Response 3/23/11

A Good Man is Hard to Find:

I really enjoyed reading this short story in Engl 1102; however, I liked it even more when I read it the second time for this class. It's one of those stories that has so many details that it takes more than one reading to take them all in. This time when I read it, I noticed that O'Connor gave a very visual description of what each character was wearing. I thought it was interesting that the Misfit did not have on a shirt...maybe like he was misssing something that the rest of society seemed to have--something that is "ordinary" or "normal" was impossible for him to attain. He apologizes to the Grandmother for it, and then agrees to take one of Baily's shirts. As he puts it on, the grandmother "couldn't name what the shirt reminded her of," but then moments later exclaims, "Why you're one of my babies! You're one of my own children." I think this simple act of putting on Baily's shirt shirt made the Grandmother really able to see the Misfit as more like a person that she could relate to. This is an amazing use of a physical sign that has deeper meaning. There are countless other symbolic meanings in this short story, and that is one of the reasons that I enjoyed it so much.

Reading Responses 3/20/11

1/3 1/3 1/3

This story was interesting. I love how decriptive it is written. One line that really stodd out to me was, "I was standing in from of my shack, eating an apple, and staring at a black ragged toothache sky that was about to rain." There are plenty of other lines that I could pull too that are equally as beautiful descriptively. I was really liking the story until I got to the end. I didn't understand the last line, "Howdi ther rins said Maybell blushed like a flouare whole we were all sitting there in that rainy trailor, pounding at the gates of American Literature." I'm confused as to how I was reading part of the story the man was writing, and then thrown back into the typewritters prospective...at least I think that's what happened there. However, I believe the enitre story is about how American Literature is sometimes written by people who can't even write, edited by people who can't edited...ect.

Steering the Craft

Chapter 1. Playing with the sound of my writing comes more naturally when I'm writing prose as opposed to poetry. For some reason, poem scared me when I started this class. But now I find myself trying to convert some of my prose into poems. Ursula K. Le Guin says, "We think of poetry as getting to be gorgeous and prose as having to be plain." I haven't ever thought that, really. I thought poetry was boring. Now I see that both can be "gorgeous."

Chapter 2. I love my punctuation. I love it too much to let it go. When doing the exercise in class, I actually came up with a decent idea for a short story. The problem is, I didn't have time to finish it and I basically forgot the ending. So the 3/4's that I have written is now just word vomit in its most extreme form. I'm wary of tackling it now because none of it really makes sense now. I'll keep my commas, thank you.