Fuck this amirite

this thing is dead.

[aliceswritingtips]

You get ideas from daydreaming. You get ideas from being bored. You get ideas all the time. The only difference between writers and other people is we notice when we’re doing it.

Neil Gaiman (via aliceswritingtips)

An amazing point--even if your pen isn’t touching paper, or your fingers aren’t tapping at a keyboard, your mind will always be with you (at least, I hope) and there you can place all your ideas, so you can come back to them later. Countless times I’ve played out different scenarios in my head, to the overarching plot of pieces to a small dialogue or action scene. Your brain is your best friend when it comes to idea storage.

[thewritershandbook]

[theapplesword-blog]

I never thought about this much, but this is definitely something to try, especially with poetry.

Awesome tip!

[theapplesword-blog]

My Automatic Love for the Sleeping Man (Short Fiction)

(A decidedly post-Modernist piece, meant to be more than the surface of the words imply. Not my favorite piece, but I can’t find some of my older material on this computer or any of my flash drives :x)

I’ve been in the chamber for a long time now. Chamber has become synonymous with home, as I have no other place of being, or reason to be for that matter. Doors do not exist anymore, except one with no handles, except on the outside where the speechless workers enter and observe. They write down notes on the papers on their metal clipboards, which are silver, like their suits, like the walls. I remember days of color, I remember days where gray was rare in nature. But now, it is natural. Gray like my skin, which sunlight has not graced for decades. There is a waste bucket, which is regularly replaced, and there is a bin of disinfectant wipes on the floor in the corner. The room is little more than a cube. The only other thing in the room is a cot--but it is occupied by a motionless figure, an old man who has made no movement since I came here. I’m not sure how, but he has been untouched by the effects of death. His face and flesh is intact, and the air has not been contaminated by the smells of decomposition. He sleeps, and I envy the opportunity to drop dead and still look alive. Since I’ve arrived, the only words I’ve heard have been mixed with the buzzwords of “virus” and “immortal” and “unalterable.” They must refer to the man--he has been untouched by the sands of time, though surely he is dead, or else all the science of man knows of the living could be put into question. He is immortal, technically--he will never wither like Ozymandias, reduced to rubble; entropy cannot alter him. I originally wondered why I was here--how dare I be in the same room as a god? I constantly think about holding this immortal’s hands, touching his blank face, changing something unchangeable. I never have…but, this is not the god’s home. It is my home. My monochromatic home, and I shall do as I please. I grab his hand in mine. It seems so full of color and I am so gray with age. I kiss his hands, hoping his glory will rub off on me, and I taste the addictive aromatic ambrosia which must radiate from him. But before I can enjoy myself, I hear a metal klang and feel a small stab at the base of my neck, and I’m tackled by what feels like a wall. Though my eyelids cover my sight, I hear squeaky wheels--once as the sound starts loud and leaves, and again as the sound returns, starting soft but gaining volume. “Thank God for cloning,” I hear--my eyelids are still shut, but my ears still hear, for however long I have until this consciousness dissipates, “I can’t imagine having to use actual carcasses--but these slabs of meat are a dime a dozen!” “Yeah,” A different voice said, breathing heavily, “and what a feast! This night alone it’s eaten one arm and both of his legs!” “The virus is spreading to the brain,” a third, elderly voice spoke softly. “Expect some mental failures, as we’ve seen slightly the past few weeks, like when it forgot how”-- There was no snap, like when the TV goes out. The static of my present existence just ended.

I’ve been in the chamber for a long time now. Chamber has become synonymous with home, as I have no other place of being, or reason to be for that matter. The gray walls are like my skin, and sunlight hasn’t dared to touch me for decades. There is only a cot with an old, sleepless-yet-eternally-asleep man who I worship--there is nothing else except fleeting memories and obscure present events which I cannot comprehend. Using my fingernail I pick out a pink piece of food from between my teeth--which is odd, since I don’t remember ever being fed. The man is motionless, and I remember slightly looking upon him, and remembering that I considered him above me. Why did the past version of myself look up to him? I couldn’t say, but I connected the words ‘god’ and ‘man’. Surely I can trust myself. After probably hours of basking in his presence, I decided to walk to the foot of his bed, and went to kiss his feet, a peasant to a king. The last episode I can recall of that consciousness is unhinging my jaw and voraciously eating, flesh and bone, all the way up to the man’s skull before the voices stopped me.

[theapplesword-blog]

Ambrose

“Ambrose,” a frail voice said, the noise of which riding the billowing red curtains of the room. “Ambrose?” it called again, as the young boy closed the window, struggling against the strong gust to close it completely.

“I’m here, Mother. Don’t worry.”

“Good. Come here.” The woman said, mouth breathing. He did, sitting in the small metal stool next to the head of the simplistic twin bed.

“Ambrose, you delightful little child,” She whispered from cracking lips, “I know you read storybooks all too often.”

“Yes, Mother.” Ambrose looked down at the floor.

“And that’s wonderful. I think a good imagination trumps any other upbringing. But Ambrose, I need you to listen to me, loud and clear.” She sat up slightly, sighing deeply.

“Yes?” The blonde boy didn’t know what to say.

She refused to move her neck towards the boy. “There is no such thing as destiny.” She breathed heavily, then decided to turn her head. “You are not the Chosen One, you have no prophecy.”

Ambrose tried to take the words in, but he was conflicted. That’s what every story involves--the special few saving the majority, and with so few words was he nearly crushed.

“I am not special. Your father was not special either. You inherited complete normalcy from both of us. We are not the last of our kind, we have no defined fates. The planets are not aligning, there are no abstract forces of good or evil, only a traditionally normal sense of entropy.”

The window was forced back open, and the curtains lively writhed in place, scaring Ambrose. The thin woman leaned in to her son, placing a hand on his head.

“That means anything and everything you do, you do because of your own capacity. You make those choices, not any vague destiny. Your journey, whether it involves finding treasure, finding love, or finding yourself in any way, shape, or form is waiting for you. Your story remains unwritten, Ambrose.”

She leaned further, and kissed the boy’s forehead.

She struggled a final breath, “Write it.”

Inspired by a webcomic by portsherry.com entitled “Origin Story”. The emotion that comes from the webcomic isn’t just based on the pictures, but heavily in the words and the rather one-sided dialogue that pulls the reader’s heart out of their chest, and asks, “Do you bleed?”

[unblockingwritersblock]

Writing Prompt #366: That's What They Said

“Why are you in my kitchen dressed as a hooker?”

“I - you know, it’s a long story.”

submitted by scruffydun

[theapplesword-blog]

Definitely a nice and funny prompt! Note: cussing, not for young kiddos.

The sun descended quietly among the cute little trees outside my yard, I glimpsed from the door of my car the sky turning from lighter and darker shades of blue to a pinkish violet, and I locked my sedan remotely as I stepped up the porch. Physically using my house key to enter, my hungry thoughts overwhelmed the forefront of my mind, so when I finally opened the door, I headed straight forward to get into my kitchen and find something hiding in those cabinets to eat, anything from potato chips to lunchmeat to anything I could get my hands on.

I tripped and landed knee-first into my floor. “Fuck!” I exclaimed, rapidly sitting up, trying to hold my leg from falling apart. There was a lump of black leather that looked something like a bag in the middle of my foyer.

“Is that a request, or a demand, my sweets?” a crooning smokey songbird voice covered my ears; I got up carefully, still in a bit of pain. The woman eating cold sliced ham from its package was a dainty twig adorned in black and indigo jingling bracelets, purple painted fingernails and eyeliner matching it, Her black headband read “PUNK” in pink letters.

“Eddy, boy-o, you finally came home!” Her vein-riddled brownish hands dug out another slice of ham and was handing it out. “Here, have some--”

“--Jess, hold on.”

“Eddy, come on. Eat, I know you’re hungry. You don’t waste your time with the machines at the company.” Jess waved the meat like a flag of truce, but I kept my eyes stabbed into hers. But cold ham was delicious. But wait. How’d she even get in? I changed the locks from two years ago. Three times, as a matter of fact. And why would she waste her time coming back?

“Jess, wait just a second--”

“--Eddy, for Christ’s sake! Have some goddamn ham!” To anyone else, they would be fearful of Jess’s tone. But I knew that she wasn’t angry or belligerent, she was just being adamant.

“Jess.” I breathed in, and exhaled briefly through my nose, “Why are you in my kitchen, dressed as a hooker?”

“I...” Jess tried to fit the ham into her mouth to avoid answering, but she dropped it accidentally. Our eyes diverged to the piece of pink meat as it flopped onto the hardwood. I hit her hard, I guess. “You know,” she eventually said, bringing her eyes back up to me, if only for a moment, “it’s a long story. Two years can completely change somebody.”

“Jess...” I tried to sound consoling, and really I was, but to be fair, I dropped this drama over two years prior. And I never expected to pick it up again, let alone what seemed like so soon. “Jess, I don’t know--”

“--You don’t know, Eddy. That’s about it. I know you didn’t want anything to do with me, but I just couldn’t accept it. I just wanted it to be like the old days, y’know? Before I even met you. Before you were even born, and I was a grown woman in my own right, with her life ahead of her.” She was facing me, a walking combination of distraught, agony, and a pummeling sense of determination. “Then I did everything you were told not to--smoke, drink, basically have fun of any kind! Then shit happened, I was down and out, and you came to my rescue, the young charmer who wanted to actually help me, a personal homeless shelter.”

“You didn’t,” I couldn’t muster the words, not nearly. I wanted to embrace Jess honestly and openly, but her actions were so unabashedly made with intent that I worried I would get knocked away.

“I did what the old me would do. And this was about...Oh, I’d say something like Day 2. At least, that was the smokey-drinkey me. The sex-it-up me wasn’t until a couple weeks afterwards, when smokey me and drinkey me needed money. I felt terrible after the first time, but the rush in my head stayed, while the grossness of it never left, I...I...” Jess had been vibrantly moving her arms and body, throwing away at least two more ham slices to the floor. “I was a hooker, Eddy. I was. I don’t want to be one anymore.” She choked her next breath.

“Jess,” I interrupted, “let’s try to take this easier.” Before she could say anything, I pulled in for a hug. “I have plenty of time to talk to you tonight and the next day, and the day after that. Jess, please, stay with me--your room is practically the same. I’m sorry I acted so rash that day. I shouldn’t have been so harsh on you Jess. I’m sorry.”

Jess was sniffling as she pulled away from me, and she couldn’t look me in the eyes. Throughout the whole charade, she still held the clear package of ham. I stole the last piece from her quickly, and bit into the now-room-temperature piece of meat, and let it hang from my teeth.

“This is pretty good.” I said through clenched teeth, gnawing, looking at Jess as she wiped her nose with her bare arm. I bit off a chunk. “Guess the saying’s true. ‘If you feed them, they will come.’“

“I suppose,” Jess said, snatching the piece from my hand. “Let’s talk,” she smirked at me, walking past me and to my right, plopping down in a chair in my living room, visibly chewing.

I picked up the gross ham off the floor, and went to throw it away.

“Eddy,”

“Yeah?” I stopped.

“Thanks.”

I laughed. “Anytime, Jess. Just don’t waste so much food.” I dumped the old ham in the trash bin.

-D. B. Livingston

This is definitely an awesome prompt for writers of Realistic Fiction. This kind of dialogue can be taken in so many ways. I took it a bit more literally than many writers would have taken it; it wasn’t an insult to the person in question, but rather a true inquiry of a big problem. A bit refreshing, especially after writing mostly just poetry lately. I would definitely recommend using this prompt as provided by unblockingwritersblock, given you are comfortable with its implications (which shouldn’t honestly be a big deal at all for mature writers).

[theapplesword-blog]

The Mimicry of Michelangelo

(My second post, just with a poem I wrote, kicking off this blog for real this time.)

Michelangelo Did not know Of the copycat That imitated David

The stone man Was rushed away To be replaced By the imitation, for show, But not with consent of Michelangelo. But only because he was dead. And the fake David’s head Points towards Rome, A crime only in metaphor.

Da Vinci painted Mona Lisa It has remained original--There is no replica. (Not counting parodies, Those are meant only to tease) But Leonardo could not anticipate That the canvas would be cherished As well as stolen.

But, it was returned, And the thieves did not remove it from Da Vinci’s hands. It was simply misplaced from its stand. (Though, that may be understated) And the theft itself awakened Lisa for all to see, Just as imitation Is the highest form of Flattery.

Michelangelo Did not know (But in his defense, Neither did Leonardo) Of their incoming influence On the modern gaze-- They raised Their brushes, Strained their hands, To keep up with inspirational demands And the screams of beauty Dying to be heard.

The Mimicry of Michelangelo, A felony only in fiction, Has reduced the turmoil of time That snips at other strings of destiny.

David has been born again, Though the marble was never touched by any Renaissance Man.

-D. B. Livingston

[npr]

How The U.S. Is Neglecting Its Smartest Kids

The authors of a new book argue that efforts to raise achievement for students at the bottom have come at the expense of the most gifted and talented.

[theapplesword-blog]

A very interesting npr.org article from last month I found via physiczteacher; it’s short but very, very relevant to education. Children need to be challenged appropriately and taken care of academically to fit their individual needs regarding their ability, but often schools, generally in abidance with No Child Left Behind have eyes only for the lower end of the spectrum to “clos[e] gaps from the bottom up.”

While typically the damage starts in younger grades, it escalates when the students reach middle and high school. They know if they show off any skills with academia, they’ll have more work to do, so, they may do the bare minimum, or otherwise simply not care because the school system they were brought up in didn’t accurately teach them at their level, or simply had no appropriate way to separate lower-achieving kids from those higher-achieving.

A good, light read on the topic that avoids being unnecessarily aggressive against the school system.

[theapplesword-blog]

First Post!

     Hello! This is D.B. of theapplesword. I am an 18 year old college student in the United States in the central state of Nebraska, and I love to write short and long fiction, poetry, journal entries, and occasionally creative non-fiction and memoir (though with marginal success). I also intend to achieve my degree in Secondary Education, with Endorsement in English/Language Arts. This means I’m going to school to teach kids English/Drama/Journalism/etc. anywhere from seventh grade to senior year of high school, and I intend to stick with the older end of the spectrum.

     Though I am in school, I will try to post often, either with my own writing, general journalistic blog posts, or maybe something related to Education or writing in general, either to provoke thought or to amuse.

      So, here goes nothing.