Creative Writing

Posted August 30, 2012 in Uncategorized / 1 Comment

So, as I told you guys I’m taking a creative writing class this semester at College, and I promised I would share the stuff I wrote in class.  So, here is the first couple of this from my first two classes so far!

The Honeymoon
What happens when the honeymoon ends?
And you’re left standing face to face
With the man you thought you once loved?
And you realize he looks nothing like
The handsome prince riding up in his suit of armor?
His horse, with the shiny white coat,
Turns into a grey donkey with a coarse mane.
The roses he carried proudly to you
Fade away into weeds, grass and thorns.
The perfect words he once said to you
Sound like a different language you can’t understand.
The soft hand that held yous, never letting go,
Turns rough as it comes down to strike your face.
The soft lips he once kissed you passionately with
Contain the words he bellows as you cower in the corner.
The arms in which you used to feel safe
Now cause panic and fear to rise up in your chest.
You realize nothing is the same,
And nothing will ever be right again,
Now that the honeymoon is over.

Untitled Quick Prompt
He turned the key in the lock and opened the door.  To this horror, he saw his brand new iPad laying in a pile of Doritos crumbs on the floor.
“Daddy’s home,” he heard his 5-year-old son, Cody, call from the next room.  His 16-year-old daughter, Erica, bushed past him, walking out of the room he had just heard his son’s voice from.
“Ya, Daddy’s home.  Now I can stop playing Mom.  Hello, Steve, hope you had a nice day.”
He watched her walk upstairs to her room; her sanctuary as she called it.  Just 3 years ago she had been the one celebrating his return, bounding into his lap  as soon as he sat down.  She had never been a Mama’s girl.  Maybe that’s what drove her away.
When Jill left 2 years ago, Erica had to become the “Woman of the House”.  Steve worked all day and never was able to do the things his wife had done: cooking, cleaning, taking care of the kids.
Maybe one day he would figure it out.

This is the start of a short story, but I don’t know where to take it from here:
Her lips were ruby red, like a plump cherry, ready to be bitten open.  They were the only part of her body that had not yet been touched by death.  Her face, a pale blank slate and cold as ice, once a beautiful pallet of colors: tan perfect complexion, rosy red cheeks, bright blue eyes.  Oh, her eyes.  You could get lost in those eyes.  Caribbean blue, like a perfect sea.  Boys flocked to her, begging for a chance.  But they never had one.  Only one boy ever did.  He was only gone a few days before we lost her too.  They say it was quick.  That she felt nothing.  But we all know what she felt.  It wasn’t nothing.  It was the heartache of a cursed, forbidden love.  There was never a chance,.  They knew they could never be together in life.  Disgusting, wrong, unnatural, illegal.  That’s how they described their love.  But what they felt was happiness, enjoyment, love, a bright beacon in the darkness of their lives.  Left to themselves in a loveless home, watching father figure after father figure walk in and out of their lives.

My journal entry for the week: imagery with the scene: “singing horribly in the car to the radio”
“One day my Prince will come,” Susie sand at the top of her lungs.  It was a warm sunny day, and I was stuck driving my sister to dance practice.  My car had broken down, so I drove Uncle Jeff’s old Bronco to the studio.  The cracked leather seat stuck to my uncovered things, while the monster itself smelled like Old McDonald’s and Beer.  Susie’s perfume, some flowery concoction that smelled like something our Grandmother would wear, only partially masked the smell.
“My first kiss when a little like this!”  I winced as Susie sang horribly off key, sounding like a howler monkey giving birth.  My sister was young and innocent, not knowing yet of criticism.  Being only 6, she wore her bright pink tutu, not worrying about what other people thought of her.  That was evident from her singing.  I never got mad at her for singing in the car.  I found it refreshing for not everything to be perfect.

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