offreadin's blog

Melanie flicked off the TV and went back to munching her cereal. The newsman's report sounded like it always did. Somebody's upset with the US and threatening nuclear attack, x number of murders occurred yesterday, somebody vaguely famous died. She sighed and shoved the last bite of cereal in her mouth. She dumped her bowl in the sink and headed to the bathroom.
She brushed her teeth, spit out the sugary mint paste and wiped her mouth. She scrutinized her face in the mirror and flopped her hair around. She had been meaning to try a new hair style but. . . Her eye caught a cute hair clip in the drawer. She brushed her hair and pulled it into a ponytail. She finished it with her hair clip. There. It was at least different. She smiled at herself in the mirror
She grabbed her book bag on the way out the door.
"Have a good day honey! Love ya!" Her mother called after her.
She grunted back something unintelligible which was taken to mean "I love you, too" and left.

So, for summer homework I'm supposed to write a satire of my own time in two pages. I'm barely getting warmed up in two pages, ao any comments would be appreciated. BTW Gustav Flaubert is one of the guys we had to read for Summer HW

Cassandra rolled out of bed and, in one swift motion, stopped the alarm, picked up her cell phone and flicked it open.
"1 New Text Message" flashed on her screen. Eagerly, she opened it up.
From SccrLvr17:
OMG Im out of toothpaste
Cassandra quickly fired back a reply. She spent the first ten minutes of her morning sending a message to everyone in her address book. She peeked at the frost growing on her window pain and snapped a photo with her phone's camera. She sent it to SccrLvr17 with the message: Rn't they prty?
"HONEY! Hurry up! You're going to be late for school!" Her mother's voice marched up the stairs.

"Mom, What if I took off my tracker bracelet?" Elaen asked as she scratched at the hair's bredth line that she knew was where the bracelet opened.
"You'd get lost, honey" Her mother replied as she passed vegatables under the refrigerator's food ID, "And worse."
"But what did they do before tracker bracelets?"
"What do you mean?" She paused, celery halfway under the scanner. It beeped "Incomplete scan" and she pushed the celery the rest of the way under.
"People didn't always have tracker bracelets, Mom. They couldn't have"
Her mother's eyes glazed over. "Tracker bracelets are so wonderful They keep track of how many calories we consume. They get us where we need to go. They work as IDs and constantly check us for diseases."

Soy
I am
I am
that simple, indisputable fact
means I can sit like a vegetable
in front of my computer
for hours trying to write an essay
that won't be written for a while now

eres
you are
you are
you, dear teacher, are an

I'm thinking I'll leave that space blank
fill it in
at your own discretion

es
he/she/it is
he/she/it is
masculine/ feminine/ neuter
or
you are
but formally
like Mr. President
or Mrs.
or your boss
except when they give you overtime
and all you really want to do
is go home and sleep
then
they can become a tú

somos
we are
We are
Why?
My fifth grade textbook
said our purpose for existence
was to continue on our species

comforting.

soís
y'all are
Funny how Spanish class makes everybody
speak in a
funny
affected
Southern accent

son
they/ y'all are
they/y'all are

Oh dang! I can't find my notebook. Ergghhh.. . Oh, duh here it is, on top of the computer desk, where my parents put stuff that I don't take care of. Do you think they're sending me a message? NAWWWW...
Anywhat, on to the poem!

Sometimes it seems that my thoughts go so deep
and I tread water
try to breathe
try to stay afloat
try to not be swamped by an incoming wave
while the world plays in the shallows
They happily splash in the water
cordoned off by bright orange buoys
Silly world
Won't you lend me you water wings
Just for a day
So I won't drown?

I owe you a debt
that I'm unable to repay
and that bugs me
because
I hate being
in debt; indebted
to anyone
but I think
you're the one person I'm okay with owing
because you always show up
at the right time
in the perfect place.
it's not that I object to you
I object to your shining armor
and white steed
and perfect poise
while I trip and fall.
I hate it when
I twirl my crown around my finger
just to drop it
and you pick it up
and gallantly return it

It's not that I hate
being rescued
It's that I hate
needing to be rescued.

Girl:
I'm sorry you caught me in my
"Saturday Finery"
Sweaty Mickey Mouse T-shirt
My brother's old, holey, shorts
And my purple dyed shoes

But the way you looked at me
I felt like I was wearing
Gucci
Dior
or
Prada

Boy:
I caught you early Saturday
and you looked embarassed
by what you were wearing
I don't know why
You look as gorgeous as you always do.

I'm supposed to be studying, that died...
So I'm kind of proud of this since it rhymes.

Que hombre, que hombre, que hombre es
Que viste? es un chiste?
Que le gusta cada vez

Es guapo, es rico?
Es medio, alto o bajo?
Como se gana la vida?
Que trabajo?

Y, la cita, que pasó?
donde estar?
oh, Lo siento amiguita.
Hay mucho pez en el mar.

Translation
What man, what man, what man is this
That you saw, Is it a joke?
That you like each time [you see him]

Is he handsome, is he rich?
Is he medium, tall or short?
How does he make his living?
What job?

And the date, what happened?
Where?
Oh I'm sorry, friend.
There are many fish in the sea.

There's definitely something lost in translation. I know the third to last line should be ser instead of estar, and conjugated. I'll think about fixing it later.

There are somethings that you just can’t tell anyone.
Like
----- -- -- ---------
Or,
------ --- -- - ------ --- --- -----
I can’t tell people that -- ------- -- -- --- -------
And that -- --- -- -------- ---- -- ---- --.
And people ----- -- ----- -- ---- --.
There’s no easy way to bring it up.
So I don’t.

Sometimes I scream
so loud
and too much
that my voice breaks
and
cracks.

But I'm fighting to be heard
The words can rip from my throat
I just need to know that someone hears
Even if they don't answer

I think
However
that my shouts just get lost in the white noise
become the rolling muffle
that sweeps over a crowd when everyone is trying to speak
but no can hear
and
Maybe
I need to learn to whisper

All my thoughts are forming a Conga Line in my head and I need to get them out or I will go off my surfboard. So's here's a second poem from offreadin's bag of tricks.

I tapped your shoulder
And I enjoyed watching your muscles tense
through your thin shirt
Because through the cloth
our skin collided
and vibrated
Our eyes met

Is it my fingers are too cold
Or just your skin is too warm?

Sorry, if this offends anyone. But this is kind of how I feel, so y'all get to hear about it.

I hate emo poetry
because
life always sucks

Even when
You get straight "A"s
You aced a test
You get asked out
You have a good day
Your clothes fit right
Still
You can't get past your prejudice that
Life sucks

I sit here
and knit
with the fluffy white yarn
that I tangled as a little kid,
and cut pieces
and I regret
turning that skein of yarn
into its present state
as a tangled mess.
But I persevere
because each stitch
is one less stitch I have to do
and one stitch closer
to
a completed project.

You seemed
perfect
godly
Your handsome face
surrounded
by your
halo
of
hair.

And then
I watched you
belch
and
pick a wedgie
in front of my locker.
You
seemed
more
human
and fallible
And less like
the gorgeous demigod
I imagined you to be

Maybe my next crush
will be a little more
divine.

I travel on the Carousel
As it begins its journey round
And I watch as it covers
And recovers the same old, same old ground.

Its fluid motion turns and turns
And to its predestined path it stays
And glorious steeds never gallop off
And remained with eyes glazed.

I would wish to be the oriole
That hops on and for a turn it stays
But again hops quickly off
Spreads its wings and flies away.

To continue on its own path
To whirl and loop into the sky
Where its path is not ordained by another
Where it's free to simply fly.

A quick smile
and
a quick compliment
Thanks! You just made my day!
Well, you just made mine.

El Pais de las ilusiones
Te reciban
y
te rechazan

tiene los trabajos
que pagaré más
pero son solamente
por la gente rica

Este pais
con mucha comida
pero gente
no come
y no puede come.

Este pais
recibirá
tú
y
tus suenos
pero
necesitarás trabajar
para un medio de sus sueños

el resto
es
suerte.

The first four lines are from national geographic. As usual, the translation.

The country of illusions
It recieves you
and
rejects you

It has the jobs
that will [ay more
but they are only
for the rich

This country
with a lot of food
but people don't eat
and can't eat

This country will revieve you
and
your dreams
but you will need to work
for a half of your dreams
the rest
is
luck.

There he lies
head on desk
against his book
his face is pressed
and clearly he is out
for the noise emitting
from his snout
is snores
at the bores.

We giggle
at his prowess
jealously
we confess
to be able to
sleep
and not to hear
a peep
of the comments passed around
from the notes on the ground

And so he sleeps
in the midst of the class
as the teacher drones on
gosh he's such an . . . wonderful teacher.
And we attempt to take notes
and listen ot the quotes
above the sonore
of the snore.

Here's my attempt a sonnet. It's written in iambic tetrameter. Why? I don't know. I guess I'm creating my own form, the "offreadin' the pompous windbag form". It's based off the Petrarchan sonnet if anyone cares.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
The man ideal how shall be formed?
The sun's great rays deep on the sea
Shall mold the lava forming thee.
Or, in a dark and dreary storm
A lightening bolt, how hot and warm
Shall spark the clay that sets you free
And molds thy form perfect to me
And from the humble earth transform.
But thy perfection shall not stay,
It, too, shall fade in withered age
The memories of days gone past
Thy perfect form shall fall away
But yet, I shall your fears assuage
And remain faithful to the last.

Soo... Line five, should I use "how hot" or "afizz"? I'm debating between the two. And do the last two lines fit with the rest of the poem? Any other ideas?

It still needs a title!!! The other three parts I will link to in a comment so be looking, or check out my blog for the other parts.
She led me to a blindingly white hall filled with Corinthian columns. What is it with these people and making things look like Greece? Greece as they knew it has been dead for a couple thousand years. At the end of the hall, there was a plaza with a gorgeous fountain where the other muses from the Muse's Club were swimming. I took in a deep breath and was assailed by what seemed to be the scent of the sweetest pastry twining with exotic flowers that overwhelmed my nostrils. I pulled the neck of my toga up over my nose.
"Does it always smell like this?" I asked.
Cherry looked at me funny. "Like what?"
I guess I was just so accustomed to the occasional whiff of gym shorts from a teenagers room that I couldn't deal with all these nice scents. It just didn't seem right. I kept a finger under my nose most of the afternoon. I tried to remove it, but the odors would attack my senses and take a stranglehold on my brain. It gave me a killer headache. I guess it was just one more thing I had to get used to.
I spent the day playing with the other muses, trying to learn their names. Stella, Eratos, Sythmus, eventually all the names just ran together in my head. When evening came I was just ready to go to sleep.
"Sleep? Now?" Cherry looked at me incredulously. I had had a long day, and I was about ready to rip Cherry's cutesy little smile off her face. Instead, I allowed her to drag me off to another place. This one was decorated with a giant mirror-ball hanging from the ceiling and decorated in the style of the 1970s.
"This is our hottest nightspot," Cherry said, '70s music started blaring from speakers.
"You're kidding, right?"
She crinkled her brow. "No, isn't this hip?"

For you Greenie!!

I slipped
and
f
e
l
l
and realized
the skin on my knee
was no longer there.
And then I thought
I haven't done that since fifth grade
when I rode too fast
and thought too little
about the giant snowbank looming ahead
So the gash on my knee doesn't hurt
but I miss being able to put
princess band-aids on boo-boos.
Now anything's
a
scrape
cut
gash
but most definately
not
a boo-boo.

My stomach tightens
clenches
The butterflies
in there
turned to lead
and
died.
The lunch
that was supposed to be delicious
stops on the way down
and threatens
to take
a de__ur.
____to
It clambers at my throat
and I will fight to keep it
d
o
w
n
My palm rubs
rubs at my stomach
because it's not
supposed to feel this way.
I know
what I'm doing
is the
right
thing
but then
why
does it feel
so
wrong?

Part three of, I don't know how many, but it's eight pages and this gets me to about page four, so stay tuned!!
Links to part one and two, I hope
Http://www.youngwritersproject.org/node/13114
Http://www.youngwritersproject.org/node/13207

"You know you could just get me an alarm clock" I said.
"Come with me," he said as he dragged me out of bed and down the hall.
"I haven't done anything," I sleepily protested.
He shoved me in front of him and through a door marked "Muse's Council." Uh-oh, I thought, I must be in a lot of trouble. I hurriedly straightened my toga, as I stumbled through the double doors. A jury of the Nine Muses sat behind a wooden half-wall. They looked perfectly Grecian with their togas and lyres. Nine pairs of eyes focused on me as I stood in the center of the room. It felt like The butterflies which had been fluttering through my stomach only moments before, had all keeled over and died.
"Hello," Calliope greeted me. Her voice sounded like the most gorgeous song.
"Uh, hello O divine and wonderful ones," I figured a little sweet talking couldn't hurt me.
"Seraphim, we are happy to announce your acceptance into the Muse's Club," Calliope said. A pair of fat babies in diapers with trumpets tan-tarahed.
Oh, dang, I thought, I'm still asleep. I yawned and realized they were looking at me expectantly. I quickly pinched myself. Oh, crackerjacks, I wasn't dreaming. Then a thought hit me like a sack of wet potatoes.
"For who?" I asked. Had my assignment's English paper really been that good?
"For Walt Whitman." Oh, that made a little more sense. That application had had some time to clear the pipes. But, still...
"You're kidding, right? The guy who couldn't even use proper grammar? That guy!?!?"
"Um-hmmm"
"DUDE!"
"Excuse me?" They stared at me.

So.. part one is in my blog, I'll try to hyperlink the parts in part three, but meanwhile, here's part 2.
Comments? I need a title and some good criticism.
"Nature... Nature" I intoned. "All these pompous dead guys write about nature." She looked inspired and started to scribble quickly. I looked over her shoulder. It actually looked good. I might actually have a shot with this girl. She switched over to the computer and started to type it up. I listened to the computer hum as she click-clacked her way through her piece. I pulled out my grammar guide as she was proofreading. "Period here, and here. That's a run-on sentence." I continued, rapidly flipping through my grammar guide. "That's a fragment. Whoops, that word's spelled wrong. No, not that one, that one." I jabbed the screen with my finger. Magically, she heard my every word and fixed the problems. "Slow down, slow down, I'm not sure if that's the correct form." She didn't slow down. Grammar fixing was always a little hectic. "Use the grammar check." She continued skimming the piece. "USE THE GRAMMAR CHECK!" Gosh, I love computers. She clicked edit, proofing tools, and clicked on check grammar. "Thank you." She hummed to herself as the computer checked her piece. I scanned it looking for last minute errors. "Oh, don't use 'it', teachers hate it when you use that undefined 'it'. That's it, use a concrete noun. That's a slang word, you can't use that." I indicated the offending bit of wording. The list of little things to check went on and on.
It was late that night when she finally hit "submit" and powered down. I wended my way back into the clouds and fell asleep.
Ramses voice bellowed in my ear much too early the next morning.

I'm sorry
I don't respond well
to
Hey You!
-.-

Here's my story for creative writing class. I'm going to try to post it as a serial, or else I don't think anyone could handle it (including me...) PLEASE post feedback (the good, the bad, the ugly...) and I need help with the title. Suggestions, por favor? gracias and merci!!

"Sera... Sera ... SERAPHIM!" Ramses voice bellowed in my ear.
"Just a few more minutes of sleep," I mumbled.
"Your assignment needs you!"
"She can wait," I buried my head under my pillow. My half-conscious brain registered that as a bad idea a couple seconds too late.
"WAIT!?!? Do you think Michelangelo's muse slept in? Do you think DaVinci's muse rested? Or Shakespeare? Or Chaucer's?" He rattled off more names to my prostate back. Frankly, I wasn't awake enough to care.
"How do you think you're going to get into the Muse's Club?" That got my attention. I'm a pretty decent muse. I mean I'm pretty darn good. Except, I get stuck with the worst assignments. The last guy couldn't even put two words together to form a sentence. Seriously. Subject, verb, period. But no... He just couldn't do it. Needless to say, he became an accountant, and I got reassigned. After the first thousand years, I wonder why I try. My mind revolved back to the single shining reason, the Muses' Club. The Muses' Club has so many perks like endless days of sitting by pools, sipping ambrosia, and being waited on by divinely hot guys. It's not bad at all. Of course, to get in, you have to inspire someone really good. Herman Melville's muse got delayed a couple of years, but when Moby Dick started to show up in English textbooks, her application was on the fast track to the Muse's Club. While I had been happily musing about the Muse's Club, Ramses's mouth had been moving nonstop. To get him to shut up, I oozed out of bed and shoved him out of my door, mouth still flapping.