Storytime... (KISS)

...the twisted little way I have of writing...

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Writers hints...

things to keep in mind and questions to ask yourself:

Ask yourself what the main point of the story is

Reader interest
Memorable item
Focus on a person
Descriptive approach (scenery, smells, etc.)
Mystery approach (teasing surprise leading to the point)
Build on a quote
Contrast then and now
Narrative storytelling

Class... ain't it fun?!

In class open book assignment:

Do on Pg 147 questions:
On pg 43 at the bottom of the page
there is a story - read it,
re-arrange the facts to turn this
"Research" paper into a news story;
give it a feature-like lead.

Seasonal story to do list:

Seasonal Story: Due Friday (tomorrow!)

Most popular costume or mask for halloween 2006

Go to:
wal-mart -
Walmart's top selling costumes and halloween stuff:
Boy's Mystic Forces Red Power Ranger Costume
Girl's Prestige Cinderella Costume
Boy's Deluxe Superman Returns Muscle Chest Costume
Boy's Panther Shadow Ninja Costume by Disguise
Girl's Deluxe Tinkerbell Costume
Boy's Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Costume, Leonardo
Girl's & Toddler's Deluxe Jocelyn Barbie
Girl's Charm School Witch Costume
Girl's Deluxe Snow White Costume
Boy's Neighborhood Klownz: Slap Happy
Men's Cartman Costume
Men's Napoleon Dynamite Costume
Men's Clark Kent Superman Costume
Women's Midnite Priestess Costume
Women's Rag Doll Costume
Men's Animal House Toga Costume
Women's Orange Butterfly Costume
Infant's Winnie the Pooh Costume
Toddler's Deluxe 'Cars' Tow Mater Toddler Costume from Disney Pixar

Premiere - (804) 355-3887, 3339 W. Cary St, Richmond
Spencers - (804) 261-5940
Spirit - (804) 262-4477
Party City - (804) 262-0400, 9930 Brook Rd.
- maybe call morris costumes

Talk to:

you will find it necesary
to distinguish between
teens and children
as they are bound to
have two completely different
viewpoints in this.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

An Edit of a Poem...

It was originally called "Can You See Me Now?" but no one gets it so I'm dumbing it down and I'm changing the name.

TV Lives:

Voices like pillars white-hard and static. White-snow.
Blinking I glance a moment of laughter, pain, clown-face,
Scream of horror; Violins singing their eerie secrets,
The memory of the sound lingering, fading, haunting
Tink, thud, plop, a stone traveling down the gorges
Red-rocked hell the well, dark oblivion. Motionless, weightless,
Sightless. Soundless rippling pattern. Watch disturbance spread.
Soft flakes of ice floating, settling upon one another
Perverse dance of self-preservation. Melding with others.
Encase yourself in a protective shield of flesh,
Cannibalistic in nature; Feed on the failings of others.
Protect me, be my shield, die for me for I am no better than you.
Locked inside the tombe watching the suffering of others
On the white-snow screen of life, fading. Wasting life,
Learning nothing, Snow behind glass. Imagined messages from God.
I've been standing here too long. Staring at this garbage.
A cast-aside TV. Black heap of box, glass, and buttons.
Shining on in the eyes of too many others.
Walk along further towards the sea-shore, the forest, the war.
Life is in a book somewhere.

Thursday, October 19, 2006


Do this, but don't; Do that but never
Be engaging, properly;
Don't be flat... In an expectable way;
Address the issues, Don't forget,
Consult the rules
They say avoid, They minimize
They say: Forget it.
And I lie.
Saying I do.
Claiming knowledge of what I was doing
and I spice, I flavour,
I exclaim and engage
And forgetting all rules...
Save one.
I respect.
I don't demean.
Taking offense is offensive,
And I lack the gut,
To discourage.

Sunday, October 15, 2006

Debate and Forensics piece: Poetry

Michael Kimball author of two novels—The Way the Family Got Away, and How Much of Us There Was, has also written this: Excerpts from the Suicide Letters of Jonathon Bender

Dear Dad,
Why did you teach me the child’s prayer that was about me dying in my sleep before I woke up? I have always wondered if that was why I so often dreamed that I was dying. Did you know that I was often tired because I had to keep waking myself up from those dreams?

Dear Santa,
Thank you for bringing my friend Tommy to play with me even though nobody else could see him. But I wish that he hadn’t run away from home and never come back. I’m sure that it must have been better to grow up without a mom and a dad, but I liked playing hide-and-go-seek with him since nobody else but me could find him.

Dear Mr. Ryan,
I’m sorry that I didn’t submit an insect collection for my final project in biology class and that you had to flunk me for it. But I wasn’t going to catch insects and then put them inside jars to suffocate them with alcohol fumes. That just made me think about how my dad smelled when he came into the house after he had been out drinking and how all of us would scatter when he tried to swat at us.

Dear Sara,
I’m sorry that I ran over the squirrel with my car when we were driving to the restaurant. I thought that it was going to stay on the other side of the road. I didn’t think that it would double back on itself.

Dear Courtney Betenbough,
I’m sorry that I was so mean to you and that I called you names like “fat girl” and that I made “mooing” noises at you when you walked by me in the hallway at school. You probably won’t believe this, but I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I was doing it because you reminded me of my dad and I wanted to hurt his feelings. 1991

Dear Mom,
I’m sorry that I didn’t go back to Michigan for Dad’s funeral even though you thought that I should have. But he didn’t know where I lived when he died and I didn’t want his ghost to follow me home to Illinois. I didn’t want to be haunted by him.

Dear Dad,
I’m sorry that I embarrassed you because I struck out each time that I came up to bat that first summer that I played little league baseball. I really was trying to get a hit.

Dear Dad,
I’m sorry that I got the lawn all muddy and sloppy by running through the sprinklers that you had put out in the front yard. I know that you were watering the lawn so that the grass would grow. But I was so skinny and short then, and I thought that the water might help me to grow too.

Dear Sara,
I’m sorry that I didn’t chase after my lucky hat after the wind blew it off of my head. I know that I should have at least tried to run after it, but it seemed so dirty after it rolled on the ground that I didn’t think that I could ever put it on my head again. Besides, I think that it was listening to what I was thinking.

Dear Dad,
Thank you for leaving all of your magazines with the naked women in them underneath your bed where they were easy for me to find. Did you ever look at them yourself or did you just buy them for me? Were you worried that I didn’t like girls?

Dear Sara,
I’m sorry that I wouldn’t open the windows in our apartment. I know how hot it was that summer that we lived together. But I was afraid that somebody would climb up the fire escape and break in on us. There was already too much that was missing from us.

Dear Dad,
Sometimes when I fart, the smell of it reminds me of you and the way that you used to sit on the toilet in the bathroom with the bathroom door always open. 1997

Dear Dad,
Thank you for giving me the stuffed dog for Christmas, though I still don’t know why I couldn’t have a living one. I know that you didn’t think that I would feed it and clean up after it, but I would have. I thought that if I took good care of the stuffed dog that you were going to get me a real one for next Christmas.

Dear Sara,
I’m sorry that I stopped coming to bed at night and started sleeping on the couch with the television on. The station going off of the air and all of that static that came on after that blurred how I felt.

Dear Dad,
I’m sorry that I usually went up to my bedroom when you came home from work. I thought that if you didn’t see me then you wouldn’t be angry with me.

Dear Dr. Adler,
I’m sorry that I stopped taking the medication that you prescribed for me. It gave me headaches and made me thirsty, but I stopped taking it because I didn’t think that I needed it anymore. I thought that I was thinking okay again.

Dear Dad,
I’m sorry that nobody could hear you when you were choking to death on a chicken bone and that you could not get yourself up off of the floor to try to give yourself the Heimlich maneuver. You must have felt very scared and alone.

Dear Dad,
I’m sorry that you died from eating too much or too fast or the wrong thing or however that chicken bone got stuck in your throat. Sometimes it makes me afraid to eat anything when I am alone.

Other times I can’t stop eating when I feel lonely, even if I don’t think that the food will choke me and kill me too. •

And for a change in pace along the same thread from an author who’s a bit more obscure, Here’s more in the suicide letters collection, another Dear Santa, this one from:
_David Park:

Dear Santa

I tried to be real good this year
Thought if I did you’d take away Dad’s beer
But you didn’t so I guess I’m all out of luck
He beats me harder and calls me a stupid fuck
Dad threw a punch but somehow I swerved
Then he kicked between my legs said it’s what “I deserved”
He hit me again so now I’m bleeding above my eye
“You little Bastard don’t you dare fucking cry”
He stares at me and sees me bleeding on the floor
“Get down on your knees and clean it you son of a whore”
Mom left him Santa, and that made him sad
That’s why he drinks so much and that makes him bad
I do love him though even though he hurts me so
Maybe it was my fault that Mom had to go
He says he loves me and that he’s sorry he acts strange
And that he hates himself and that he cannot change
He hugs me close his eyes filled with tears
And tells me that me hating him is the biggest of his fears
But the next day he has a beer can in his hand
And he becomes the monster with violence on demand
Dear Santa I’m sorry if I wasn’t good enough
I try so hard to be good but sometimes it’s tough
But I promise this year from good I won’t stray
If next year you promise just to take me away

Thursday, October 12, 2006

A Bum, A WorkHorse, A Life...

The Musing:

He stood there
By the side of the road,
Walking to his no-where
And for a moment I cared.
I watched him
Wanted to know where he was going,
Why he was there,
If he had a home.
I could not weep for him
If he did not.
I could not care about him
He did not.
I watched him day by day.
I learned his ways,
And in my mind,
I took on his plight.
I took on his woe.
I took the only thing he had;
His knowledge
Of his Life
I cared not.
And walking away
He was dead to me.

Sorta a first edit:

Walking, trotting, pausing
No pride in your equestrian stance
Solid, grounded, cautious and tired
Slow stepping. Solid stepping. Down.
Hold heavy the load you no longer bear.
Shades of straps and bags and long gone jobs
Of some fall
Into some hole
Onto some injured joint
Unto some fate
And I recall your tremulous eyes
Your bums grime tears
Blackened paste on unsteady brow
Tell your story
Tell me your pain
Let me know how it feels to fail
How it is to live scorned
How you survive
Teach me survival
I'll learn from you the worst
And turning
I'll walk away
Never to remember you again.

a second edit:

I watch you standing there;
Walking proud and tall
Have you no home to visit?
No job to do?
Is your work done?
Memories not recalled.
You pitiful, merciful, dirty, bum.
Walk with me a moment
Showing great worlds of pain
Throbbing pulsing anguished temples.
Your dirty face, the grime of years.
I turn my head. Shamed.
Learn me, help me understand.
Give to me your knowledge
You have nothing else to give.
Then let me walk away.
I am not your prodegy
I weep for you... someday.
And slowly walk away.

And a thrid edit:

Your image proud and tall,
Has no home to visit,
No job to do,
No harbour safe,
Work undone eternally waiting.
Memories not recalled.
Pitiful, merciful, dirty,
A bum. A workhorse for slaughter.
Walking side by side a moment,
On weary ankles buckling,
Great worlds of pain,
Every grimacing step.
Throbbing, pulsing, anguished temples.
A dirty face; the grime of years.
Unwashed, unloved, uncaring, uncared-for.
I turn my head. Shamed.
And lead still on.
Teach; Tell your story.
Having nothing else to give;
Give of all you know.
Give this hard life, and tell well.
Tell to no prodegy,
Strounger backs; attentive,
Grasping this abandoned departure.
Weeping for you... someone, somewhere, someday.
Not here. Not now.
Slowly walking away.
Gone forever since long ago.

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Time Wasting

Imply with me a moment;
That days gone by are still there,
That meat packing industry is humane,
That plant life has no sensation;
Though they may.
Assume that the sky is falling,
That firy hail is raining down,
Near dead volcano's that aren't,
With wishful thinking,
And determined minds,
Think the earth, for a moment,
Is round.
And no one lies.
Suppose you still love me,
And assume I still care,
Is there hope for tomorrow;
In well-wishing.
Or is reality decaying with time?

Among the gloom

Longing birdsong flitter twit.
A happy tone with solemn wit
Must you fly through mind through gloom
Sleepy clouds hung low and crow
At screen-door grating, with corn hung high
Visions of lives one cannot know
Sing a basely song, sing loud your sigh
Hear the Heron crawl to water's edge and die
No; there's no July in this darkness
There's no hope in waiting
There is a sweet bird in memories gone
Flutter, flit, perch and sing
And despite the rain
Keeps singing.

Still Serving...

Va. Historical Society and Urban Explorers: Listen Up! 88 Years Still Serving The Farm!
He's what you'd call a barn cat. Not well trained when it comes to the litter, survives off of the occasional mouse and otherwise earns his keep being kind to those who stop by or are passing through. Willy is the cat's name and his made-to-last-like-a-barn home is no barn at all. The Ashland Feed store is what you historical buffs and urban explorers would call a step back in time.
Looking at its cinder-block enclosed front porch the place is unassuming and seems small. Step in though and find yourself in the truth-be-told cobblers dream! What I mean to say is that this building packs well over 5000 sq feet of store and storage in beyond that 12 by 12 antique porch.
What's more, you get the smell and the feeling of down-home comfort and good ol' traditional values when you walk into the place. The owner, Danny, doesn't just own it; he works this humble store and has been working it now since before he owned it.
A true story of stock boy gone to college becomes owner is this son of a preacher-man's tale and he never has too little time to sit down and tell you all about it. As a matter of fact, he prides himself on his store's philosophy and policy. Friendly service is what they'll give you there; plenty of it, and as was the tradition when the barn called Ashland Feed opened for business in 1918 it still is the case today.
Danny loves to talk you through anything you could need for a farm or garden, finding the right product and the right price is what I found him doing every time I tried to interview him for this article. We'll always carry your purchase to you car if you need it. We sell a lot of heavy stuff here and that's part of our service." He said.
Walking around the store it was hard to notice everything on sale from the inflatable chicken, empty egg cartons, Bear-trap style rat-traps and poison, to feed, seed, salt-licks, medicated cow rubs and goat-skin gloves, trash-can's equestrian -- Everything and so on. It was hard to notice it all because I kept staring at the floor and the ceiling and the structural integrity of this beautiful building.
Its tin roof on antique fire-ravaged beams and recent repairs that kept in tradition with the original construction of the building - all of it was beautiful. You don't, you just don't find a building like this standing anymore.
Ashland is a town that is itself a step back in time. And Ashland Feed is one of only three stores still remaining that are still the same store it was when it was constructed and opened. "It is hard to get a loan with a worthless old building like this for collateral" Danny said when he spoke with me about how business is slow and how it's hard to get the money for repairs.
The floors are worn down between knots and the tin roof is rusting through in places. And I suppose this is my plea to all of you who know better. This building is an antique with a heritage and a tradition. It is a landmark and should be in the historical registry. It is, after all, almost one hundred years old!
Ashland Feed needs to be saved and federal funding for restoration is "something I really can't say I know much about." said Danny when I asked him if he's considered it. He wants to keep his building as well as he can but the weather and time are doing their thing and Danny is fighting well enough.
With loyal clientele and the best old time service a person could ask for, Danny can cater to any need his customers may have and will. Meanwhile he needs help from those who know better than he in legal government matters. The cat can't take care of all the rats coming from the Ironhorse across the street, so he keeps his rat poison on the bottom shelf while telling us Willy's "probably off napping somewhere."
We all need a little help, even the mouser, public relations extraordinaire, who was himself a Hanover Humane society rescue so many years ago. No longer piddling on the floor he fills a traditional role in this historical building with a tradition of service and a far overlooked heritage of pure, out-dated, beautiful history.

Monday, October 09, 2006

Keeping Memories

Every kiss of yours is in a drawer by the dresser
Showering down every morning, every day.
Tears from devils on the windowpane
Your free and loving days like silk
Threadbare praise and strenuous eye
The final days have solemn felt
Scraping love from off the ground.
Thick, wet gobs of blood-red mud.
And like the snow, cold wet and gone
Heartfelt love it melts away.
And nevermore I feel your pain
Keeping it hidden...
In a drawer by the dresser.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

So I was told it wasn't traditional enough... Edited

Suspect in Bank Robbery in Hospital After Being Shot

Chucktown, NC. – Police in Chucktown were alarmed when an undercover officer from the next county over called their station to report an attempted robbery. When they got to their local Union One bank, the scene of the crime, they found their suspect had been shot in the chest twice and was in critical condition. An ambulance had taken him to the local Mercy Hospital.
The undercover officer, officer DoGood, and the rest of his force reported that the man was observed concealing an illegal weapon in a flower delivery box. When he was then observed with the weapon pacing and smoking in the parking lot of the Union One bank they realized his plan to rob the bank. It was at this time their Officer identified himself to the man and approached him.
“I guess the guy knew him or something .” said an onlooker about the scene. Mr. Witness also said that it was at that point the suspect “dropped his box of flowers and pulled out a shotgun” trying hurriedly to load it. “I guess he was going to shoot the guy right there in the parking lot.” He said of the less than ordinary scene “I didn’t think that this was actually what I was seeing, I thought it was like a movie set or something.”
Until he saw the blood. When officer DoGood saw the suspect brandish his weapon he drew his own shoulder holstered pistol; and shot the man in the chest; two times. As the suspect fell to the ground bleeding officer DoGood, who had recently been on probation for drug charges, called his own police force to report the scene and it was not until fourty-five minutes later that the local authorities with jurisdiction were contacted.
Officer DoGood, a twenty-five year veteran of the force was relieved to finally catch his man, he said he had been following the suspect for weeks after having questioned him as a suspect in another case. Authorities said that marijuana was involved, and in a small town like this; a little trouble like that is all you need to be treated with a heavy hand.
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