The Final Gift

The Writers' Guild holds a monthly contest where members can submit their writing based on a given theme; after which they are reviewed by 3 peer judges. Afterwords, the winner and runner up will both have their work published and featured on the official UBC Writiers' Guild site. For my 2nd submission, I was fortunate enough to be runner up of the January 2018 contest; the theme of which was "hope." Based on the classic myth of Pandora's Box, I had initially wanted to play around with the idea of hope being an ambiguous gift, with Athena arguing for its potential for good and Hermes arguing the opposite. I remember working feverishly on this piece (while in class!) to meet the deadline, but alas I had to cut it short due to the time constraints and the contest's word count limit. I'm still very pleased with the outcome, but someday I'd like to expand the ending to what I originally had in mind.

https://ubcwritersguild.wordpress.com/2018/02/07/january-contest-hope-runner-up/#more-58

Quill in My Hand

 I had the privilege of sharing this piece with my writing group during a dinner/reading party. The main theme I wanted to address was an obstacle I think many writers have trouble overcoming, myself included. A lot of times we feel like there's a story or message inside of us that we want to get out, but we're so fearful of an imperfect delivery that we never begin to put words on the page at all. I usually prefer writing fiction than poetry, but felt that the latter was a better medium for this occasion. Imperfect as it was, my group seemed to have enjoyed it, I hope you do as well.

A thousand half-ideas, through my mind they race.

The parchment lays bare, an empty canvas staring at my face.

Quill in my hand, I ready myself.

Dip it in ink, then on to the page.

Steady now, slowly move your hand.

The words must be perfect, you understand.

But the quill hovers in place,

Refusing to fill in the empty space.

From its tip the ink begins to fall,

Dripping down and staining the canvas wall.

A dark puddle soon forms,

Unsightly, unpleasant, imperfect.

I toss out the ruined page and prepare another,

This time there will be no mistakes.

 

Quill in my hand, I ready myself.

Dip it in ink, then on to the page.

Steady now, slowly move your hand.

The words need to be perfect, you have to understand.

But the hand still freezes and the puddle still forms.

The process is repeated several more times,

Each no more successful than the last.

And with every attempt the quill seemed to grow in weight

Making it harder and harder to hold it straight.

Oh, quill in my hand, why have you forsaken me?

Quill in my hand, when did you get so heavy?

At last I set it down to rest.

 

Finger on my hand, I steady myself.

Dip it in ink, then on to the page.

Steady now, just move your hand.

The words are messy, crude, unrefined.

The words are on the page, and they are mine.

Sarah

Seems like I have a habit of forgetting to write down my prompts at the time. Whatever it was, I think the writing turned out pretty nice, like a little horror story prologue (I'm a sucker for horror movies)

This is so stupid thought Toby.

Sure, he was the one who hit the ball through the window, but why couldn’t they just ring the doorbell and ask for it back? He could even apologize. But then again, they were just teenagers, aren’t teenagers supposed to do dumb things like this?

“Stupid” he repeated under his breath.

Having successfully climbed the fence, he now found himself in the neighbor’s backyard. Save the moon, there was little else that illuminated his surroundings.

“Agh goddamnit, didn’t even think of bringing a flashlight! Stupid! Stupid!”

It took him much longer than he would have liked, but he finally found the broken window. He tried to peer inside, but it was too dark to see anything. Fortunately, the hole was large and close enough to the lock that he could reach in and open it. After a minute of cautious fumbling, he heard a click.

“There we go.”

Very slowly, he swung open the window and eased himself inside the house. Blinking a few times, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark before resuming his search.

“Come on, where is it? It couldn’t have rolled that far…”

He tried to picture the trajectory in his mind and, after 23 steps, he found the ball resting at the bottom of the stairs.

“Yes!”

He quickly bent down and retrieved it, holding it tight as if it might try to escape.

Okay he thought. Now I just gotta get of here and-

“What are you doing here?”

“Arghomygod!!” Toby half-screamed. Looking up, he found himself face to face with a little girl.

Whew, it was just the neighbor’s creepy adopted daughter.

“Hey there…” Toby started. He tried to think of some excuse for him being there, but his mind came up blank. So instead, he changed tactics.

“Hi, my name’s Toby. What’s yours?”

The little girl stared at him with pretentious black, dead eyes.

“I have many names. But you can call me Sarah.”

That’s a weird response he thought, but decided to let it slide.

“Okay then…Nice to meet you Sarah.”

The Monochrome Man

I forgot what the prompt for this was, but the concept is simple enough: A man who used to live vivaciously, full of joy and laughter, until some unknown tragedy struck and stole all the color from his life. Another unfinished piece, but I hope you enjoy it in all its shortness.

On the hill lives the Monochrome Man,

The one who sees the world a different way,

In black and white and shades of gray.

His complexion matches his vision,

A dull affair with not a shade of color,

Some would even say he looked a bit sour.

Every day he would go into town,

To tend to his shop, the only paint store around.

He never spoke unless spoken to,

and limited his responses to a word or two.

He went about his day like a man broken and bent,

A dark cloud loomed above him wherever he went.

Children feared him,

Grown ups avoided him.

He ate, slept, and spent his days alone.

But he wasn’t always like that, you see.

The older folks remember a time

When he was a man smiling, happy and carefree.

Rainy Day

Prompt: choose 6 adjectives to describe yourself, then write a character based on the antonyms of those adjectives; these were mine:

1.  Shy
2. Introverted
3. Short-tempered
4. Imaginative
5. Indecisive
6. Philosophical

Antonyms

1. Outgoing
2. Extroverted
3. Patient
4. Pedestrian
5. Confident
6. Analytical

I should’ve known from the sky this morning that it was going to rain today, hence the umbrella. What I didn’t anticipate was the ridiculous downpour that it had turned into by mid-afternoon. It is now precisely 5:30pm and the rain shows no signs of stopping. Luckily I’m a patient man, and have nowhere else to rush off to for the remainder of the day. “That’s fine, keep raining. I can do this all day.” I told the rainclouds as I looked up with a half smile on my face.

“Hey don’t jinx it idiot! Are you trying to piss off the sky?”

That’s my best friend Harry. He’s a little more…superstitious than I am. In fact, he and I are quite the opposite in a number of ways. But when you’ve been friends with a guy for 20 years, you learn to embrace the differences.

Indecisive Dave

I can't remember what the prompt was for this piece, but I do remember that I based it on one of my many personal flaws; and magnified to a comically ridiculous level.

Indecisive Dave, that’s what his friends calls him. In fact, that’s what everyone calls him, just not to his face, but he knew anyway. He hated the nickname, but he had given up on trying to defend himself; and frankly, it really was a fitting one for him. Ever since he was a little boy, Dave had been tiptoeing between life’s choices, whether they be potentially life-changing or so insignificant that it would be a waste to spend even a single second thinking about them. Because of this, his friends and family have learned to tailor their time with him into a strictly structured routine. But even so, the most mundane of choices challenged Indecisive Dave. Going into the same restaurant, presented with the same menu, it would still take Dave an ungodly amount of time to decide on what to eat.

Dusty Windows

Prompt: 4 words from a random word generator. Ocean, doorway, march, yellow. Couldn't quite fit all of them into the piece, but 3 out of 4 ain't bad.

Yellow sunlight filters through dusty windows,

Soft and warm to the touch, almost inviting.

Yet I remain in my sanctuary, my prison, my bed.

Eyes still closed, my mind imagines what lies beyond those windows,

My only doorway to the outside world.

A vast expanse of ocean, perhaps,

Its waves crashing and retreating in an endless dance.

Or maybe it is a forest that awaits,

Filled with the quiet chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves.

But I hear no chirps, no rustle, no crashing waves.

Of course, I knew perfectly well what is out there, all along.

Nothing.

There is nothing.

Were I to open my eyes now and stare out those tempting, taunting windows,

I would find only the void staring back.