Horrible Writing

I found a writing contest recently where the goal is to write badly. This is actually a trick many creatives use to spark their creative thought. Being so obsessed with writing good often distracts us from being able to write at all. So, if you concentrate on writing badly then have a laugh at your terrible writing, you can recenter yourself and write well without stressing yourself. (Side note: it would be extremely amusing if my dancer friends and I spent the first 10 minutes of every night dancing as terribly as we could, but I digress) Below are four entries for the terrible writing contest that I have already submitted. And the link is below. Everyone try to write one. Or do whatever you stress over, do it bad. Write a terrible song. Dance as horribly as possible and record yourself. Tell a terrible joke. Draw a terrible picture. Bake the worst dessert you can think of. Trust me, it’s way more fun trying to be bad than trying so hard to be good all of the time.

I stared at the awkward teenage girl attempting to flirt with me and tried to make sense of what she was saying but I couldn’t focus for the protruding pimple on her left cheek seemed to be spreading before my eyes across her face from west to east, similar to the way the first emperor of china, Qin Shi Huang, united all of China in the third century BC, perhaps he should have taken lessons from her zit in longevity of life.
A frustrated granny smith apple faced the mirror and turned around, frowning at the huge bite that the human had taken out of it’s side without any concern for the audition it was about to try out for; there was simply no way the apple could beat the pear, banana and pineapple for the envied position of a logo for a huge company. (Get it? Someone please tell me they get it.)
Hanging plants don’t make much sense if you really think about them and yet on that day where all of the air smelled of lavender scented trash bags (a scent that hovers somewhere between lavender and trash seeping into plastic) and cat litter, it was the hanging petunias that would save my life.
Silvia, an undercover FBI agent, at a local restaurant, handed the bacon back to the cooks requesting that they make the bacon crispier, according to the customer, the bacon was limper than her husbands private parts, (only she didn’t say private parts), and this was very unlucky for the customer making the complaint as any food that was whined rudely over at THIS restaurant, mysteriously and magically fell dead, but only Silvia had been able to make the grim connection.

The link for the contest is posted below.

https://www.bulwer-lytton.com/submit

I’m going through your things today

Sam looked up from her notepad. The bus was slowing. And it was her stop. She’d been so engrossed with writing her latest short story that she had lost track of where they were in her neighborhood. She had to make a quick decision. Her stepmom’s car was in the driveway.

If she stuffed her notepad in her backpack; she ran the risk of her stepmom finding the notebook and throwing it away. Like she had with several other short stories. She was not a fan of Sam’s writing.

Normally, Sam would have given her notebook to her best friend to hold onto until the next morning and she would just keep writing at school the next day. However, it was Friday and she was in a frenzy of writing that she had to get down on paper or she would forget all of it. So, she came up with another idea. She’d leave her notebook behind the trash can, run inside, and then offer to take the trash out, retrieving her notebook and going back inside without her stepmom ever suspecting.

The bus’s brakes screeched to a halt. Sam gathered her things and rushed out, calling out a goodbye to her friend and set her plan into action. As she walked into the door, her stepmom sat on the couch watching tv. Without even looking up or saying hi, she motioned for Sam to come over to her. “I’m going through your things today.” Her stepmom, Karen, said. Sam handed the woman her backpack. The woman dug through, shifting books and pencils around, finding nothing and then handed the backpack back. “Go do your homework.” She said. Sam nodded and ran to her room.

A couple minutes later, she took a deep breath and shouted from the kitchen. “I’m going to take the trash out!” Her stepmom didn’t say anything. So, Sam ran outside with a half full bag of trash in her hand. The notebook was still there. Now she just had to get it back inside. She stuffed the notebook up her shirt and a little down her jeans to hold it in place, praying that it only barely showed against her underweight stomach and ran back inside.

Sam slowed her pace when passing the living room and then bolted quietly through the kitchen and down the hallway to her room. Her hand clasped the doorknob. “SAM!” Her stepmom called. The couch made a rustling as she got up and then the clickity clackity of Karen’s shoes echoed through the house. Sam had seconds before her stepmom rounded the corner. She couldn’t just throw the notebook into her room. That would risk her stepmom entering the room and finding the notebook laying on the floor in plain sight. She had to hide it somewhere. Sam turned around and took the last two steps to the bathroom. Out of sight she stuffed the notebook between two towels folded on the counter and then reached for her toothbrush acting as though she was about to squeeze some toothpaste onto the brush.

Karen poked her head into the bathroom. She glared at her and the toothbrush. “Didn’t you just take the trash out?” She asked. Sam nodded attempting to control her wide-eyed guilt. “Are you not going to wash your hands before doing that?” Karen questioned. Sam tried to hide her grin. “Oh sorry. I’ll do it now.” and sat down her toothbrush and bowed, turning the water on. “I don’t know why you don’t think of these things. You’re so nasty. This is why you end up sick all of the time!” Her stepmom yelled. Sam ignored her and washed her hands. When she finished, she rinsed them and turned off the water. “That wasn’t long enough, Sam! Wash them again.” She crowed. Sam sighed. Turned the water back on and began washing again. She glanced at her stepmom standing in the doorway, folding her arms ready to yell again. She was inches from her notebook. If she moved the towels or put her hand on them at all, the notebook’s location would be discovered.

“Don’t give me that look!” Karen shouted. Sam muttered an apology and continued to wash her hands for what felt like hours. When she’d finished, she reached for the toothbrush. “You don’t need to wash your teeth right now, Sam! Wait until after you eat!” She demanded. Sam sat the toothbrush back down. Another rule changed, since she’d been yelled at last week to brush her teeth everyday after school. “This is why your teeth are so yellow!” Her stepmother nagged. Cornered in the bathroom, Sam needed to find a way to redirect her stepmom’s attention, or she would find the notebook with her latest story. She had an idea.

“I got my report card today.” Sam said. Her stepmom’s eyebrows frowned and her fists balled. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier when I was going through your bag!?” Sam shrugged and squeezed by her, leading Karen to her room. “I forgot.” She said.

Safely in her room, Sam’s stepmom glared down at her report card studying the grades. She pulled out her history book as if she planned on studying for her history test tomorrow and placed it on her desk. Karen pointed at the report card. “Your English grade went down!” She yelled. She stared at the grade. “To a 94…” Sam said. “Still you can do better!” Karen said, tossing the grades onto her desk and leaving the room, slamming the door behind her. Sam paused. Listening to her footsteps. Her stepmoms shoes bounced off her heel with each step, through the hallway, past the bathroom, then louder on the tile and quieted as she settled back on the couch.

Sam quietly squeezed the door open, checked to make sure the coast was clear and retrieved the notebook, hiding it safely in her room to be written in over the weekend.

CLOSED

I was driving through the small town of Eufaula, OK a couple of years ago and I saw an old building on the side of the road. It looked like it had been a small house or business. It’s walls were so soaked with moisture and rot that the whole building was a deep dark brown and were caving in on themselves. But rotted houses and buildings are not unique in Oklahoma as the population has remained stagnant for decades due to little opportunity. What caught my eye was that on the front door of this decaying building was a brand-new black sign in red letters that proclaimed the building was CLOSED. My head snapped back in surprise.

Obviously that building was CLOSED. Who in their right mind would enter that building had the sign said OPEN? It wasn’t even really a structure and more like a rotten pile of wood that vaguely resembled a building. Like a spaceship in the clouds. Or Jesus on toast. It took me a few minutes to ponder this and what possible explanation someone might have for the sign on that building and by the time I realized that I needed to get a picture; I was already a couple miles away and didn’t want to turn around. I could stop on the way back, I told myself. But on the way back, I searched for the building and could not find it. Maybe I’d gotten the town it was in wrong, so I searched every town along highway 69 and I still didn’t find it. To this day, every time I make the drive between Missouri and Dallas, I search along the highway for this building and I have yet to find even the building without the sign. I would be satisfied with a pile of rotten wood with the sign sitting on top but highway 69 would offer no such satisfaction. But the image remains stuck in my brain, like a long lost story I will never understan

I didn’t ask for this.

I didn’t ask for this. To wake up everyday with this burden. I’m not supposed to complain. I’m supposed to be grateful for my role. I’m worshipped for what I bring. So much life and respect. But I don’t want it. I don’t even like the morning or noon or afternoon. I’ll never get to float in darkness of night. Instead I burn bright and hot, destroying everything that comes near me. But you can’t get to far away either or the cold will kill you. Always within my sight but no one can look me in the eyes. When I rise, you turn away and when I fall, you smile. I never wanted this. Circled by those that are intimidated and in awe of my power and yet, I feel so alone. I want to disappear. I want to be forgotten.

I want to be like the moon. The nights’ light and the days’ shadow. I want to quietly pull on the waves while families play. The moon reminds me that she is only a reflection of me but I don’t care. I want to see the night. I hate the day. I bring rushed goodbyes and tired eyes because I often come to early. I hate what I bring. I don’t understand why it must be me. Why can’t I be smaller and closer? I want to be landed on and embraced. I want to be loved not feared. I hate who I am.

-The Sun

Helen and the Melons

Another one of my goofy writing exercises. It inspired a story I’m working on but the story has changed so it is unlikely I will use this scene. Therefore, this is short story is just for fun. Thank you for reading!

“Hello Ma’am, My name is Mr. Robinson and I am at your house today to inform you that you are The Chosen One.” The tall man in black said. Helen put her hand on her chest. “But I can’t be the chosen one, I’m an 82 year old woman.” She said.

The tall man lowered his sunglasses. “We are just as surprised about it as you are but nevertheless, you are in fact the chosen one. And the world is now relying on you to save it.” He said. Helen leaned against the wall. Her hands shaking.

“Who is it dear?” Bob called from his maroon rocking chair that he never left. The tall man stepped into the doorway. “I am with the IRA sir and your wife is the chosen one.” Mr. Robinson said. “Chosen? Chosen for what?” Bob asked. “They hadn’t said yet.” Helen answered. “Ma’am, may I come in to explain the situation. We do not have much time.” The man said. Helen nodded and opened the doorway. “Of course, of course. Just take your shoes off. Would you like some tea?” She asked, walking to the kitchen with the man following. “Um no thank you.” He said, pulling his black shoes off and setting them against the wall. “Are you sure? I have way to much of it. The neighbor keeps bringing me tea and then I can’t drink all of it.” Helen said.

The man with the IRA, International Relationships with Aliens, sat at the small dining room table with its’ tablecloth covered in yellow flowers. “Okay, tea does sound nice.” He said. Helen smiled and poured him a cup of tea and then handed it to him before sitting down at the table across from him. “Oh do you want some strawberries, I have way to many of those as well.” She said standing. “No, no, I’m okay with the tea thank you. I need to explain to you how you’re the chosen one.” He said. “Oh yes, this chosen one business.” She sat back down.

“Helen, who is that?” Bob called from his chair. The guest looked at Bob. “As I said, I’m from the IRA. Your wife is the chosen one.” He said. Helen waved her hand in the air near the IRA agents’ face. “Oh don’t mind him. He’s senile. I love him but he’s senile.” She said. He turned back to the old lady. “Okay. Um, as I was saying. You are the chosen one. Currently we have a situation. We sent your grandson on a mission to save the planet from sure destruction from the future but he was changed into a four year old and is now demanding his grandmother and will not work with anyone until you bring him some cantaloupe and some honeydew melon, I believe is what he requested.” The man explained. Helen gasped. “Oh dear! But I don’t have any honeydew melon or cantaloupe! I only have strawberries!” She said with her hand over her mouth.

Mr. Robinson stared at her for at least 10 seconds. His eyebrows frowning. Slowly his left eyebrow raised as he became aware that she was serious. “Well. We could run to the store first before putting you on the alien space station to save him. But I don’t think that your ability to get honeydew melon and cantaloupe is really at the top of our concerns at the moment. We could probably have headquarters teleport us some….” He said. Helen shook her hand in the air again. “No no no no no that won’t do. He likes the fruit I get from the farmers market down the street. We must get that specifically.” She stood. Pausing with her right hand on the table. “Bob where did you leave my purse?” She asked her husband. Bob turned to look at her, unwillingly taking his eyes off the weather report. “I don’t know dear. Check by the bed.” He said.

The elderly woman moved down the hallway at the pace of an old dial up computer trying to download solitaire. The man’s shoulders slumped. “Ma’am, the government will be able to cover the cost of the honeydew melon and the cantaloupe.” He called after her. Again, she waved her hand at him. But this time behind her back. “Nonsense, deary, I have to have a purse. I’m not quite sure how being in space is going to affect my allergies and blood pressure, so I will need my medication. Besides we do not take handouts in this household.” She said. Her voice echoing as she rounded the corner into her bedroom.

Eventually, Helen and Mr. Robinson were sitting in the government IRA vehicle. “What is the address?” he asked, after pressing a button that caused at least a dozen screen navigational screens to surround him. Helen clutched her purse and stared at the screens. Her eyebrows furrowed. “I do not know. I just know that it’s by the Casey’s behind Mathew’s Elementary. The one Jacob went too for Kindergarten.” She said. The man paused, finger extended towards the screen and stared at it for a second. He sighed and pressed another button. All of the screens retracted. “Okay then. Just tell me how to get there.” He revved his engine. “Must you do that? I have neighbors.” Helen fussed. Mr. Robinson rolled his eyes. “Ma’am. Please just tell me to go left or right.” He said. “Oh. Turn right.” She said. The car lunged forward. “Goodness.” Helen gasped.

“We received a prophesy thirteen years ago that Aliens would be invading Earth and would leave devastation and death in their path and would almost completely wiping out all of humanity. But that there would be a single person that would be capable of beating them and that this person would need to have excellent strategy, empathy and the ability to shoot well in a first person shooter if we could find them. So to find the perfect candidate to help protect humanity. We created a free video game capable of challenging and assessing it’s users based off an algorithm. Your grandson bought this game and excelled incredibly. He was then recruited and trained to defeat the aliens. This mission was fulfilled two months ago when we sent him out. However, he was captured and turned to into a four year old who will not stop asking for snacks from his grandmother from our operatives attempting to rescue him. So here we are. We need you to infiltrate the enemies base and get to the cell where your grandson is being held then give him his snacks and convince him to come home with you. We have scientists working on a device that will transform him back to his correct age and then he will finish the mission and save the world.” The IRA agent triumphantly announced.

“Sounds lovely.” Said Helen. She squeezed the cantaloupe, testing for ripeness. “How long will it take us to get to him? I want to make sure the fruit is at the proper ripeness when we reach him.” She asked. The man stared at the elderly woman. “Um well we’ve got to stop by the base on Mars first to pick up the operative that will join us but it should only take about two days to reach the enemies base with the current technology.” He said. Helen smiled. “Okay, we will need a cantaloupe that will be at it’s ripest in two days then.” The woman squeezed five more melons before deciding and placing them in her carry basket. “Let’s go save my grandson.” She said.

Crayons

Author’s note: I wrote this last night while I was serving on the back of the paper I use to take orders. It’s really short and mostly just for fun. Thank you for reading!!

“BA BA!” I shouted. But mother wouldn’t listen. I shouted at father. Also, neglecting me. How could they not see the beautiful girl sitting high atop her chair three tables down from me? I threw my red crayon in her direction. Maybe she’d hear the noise and turn to me so I could just have a moment with her. But, I do not yet have the strength of my father and the crayon barely rolled past my mother. I stared at it as if my world was falling apart.

“Here you go sweetie.” Said the waitress as she handed me back my red crayon from the floor. YES!! MORE AMMO!! I SHALL TRY A NEW TACTIC! I threw the crayon at mother. It clanked against her plate of eggs and sausage. “What is it honey?” She asked. Mother knew. Mother always knew when I was trying to tell her something. Communicating it, however, was a different story. So far, we’d developed a satisfactory way of conversing. Angry cries meant I was hungry. Sad cries meant I needed my diaper changed and when I smiled, it meant that I wanted her to hold me close. But I had yet to come up with a cry that meant: the girl of my dreams is three tables down. Become friends with the parents so we can organize play dates! I sighed. My vocabulary wasn’t sophisticated enough for love. Mother leaned in and kissed me on the nose; unaware of my internal struggle.

I was going to lose her. I knew it. I stared down at my mashed potatoes, ready to bury my head in them, when I heard the sound of something small falling to the ground to my right. I turned.

A green crayon was rolling towards me. Almost two tables away. I looked up at the girl I’d been trying to gain the attention of; her big brown eyes were staring straight at me. She smiled. I smiled back. I went to wave with my left hand and realized I had one blue crayon left. I threw it at her. It rolled past my table again. We watched it as it came to a stop. Miles from her and her green crayon. But we smiled at each other. Then the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, was picked up by her father and carried out of the restaurant.

Logan’s Myopia

I wrote this short story as a creative exercise around the word of the day: Myopic, which is an adjective describing someone or something that lacks imagination, foresight or intellectual thought.

Logan stared at his computer wondering where the last two days had gone. He’d been so obsessed with solving the code for his company’s program that he’d only moved from his desk to heat up dinner, go to the bathroom or take a shower. Wait, had he taken a shower? He couldn’t remember. He had three excel sheets, countless browsers and the company’s data processing program that they called Myopia. He had officially finished it almost four hours ago but now he was rechecking it just to make sure. He ran it again. It succeeded. No error messages. He leaned back in his chair and looked outside. The sun was out and a slight breeze was blowing through the green leaves of the tree outside of his window. Maybe he could take a shower and see if Amelia wanted to go grab some dinner. He was suddenly very hungry. Amelia was a girl he’d taken on a couple of dates the past week or so. Logan checked his phone for messages. She’d sent him 14 messages and called him three times, all expressing anger that he hadn’t talked to her for the past two days. He honestly didn’t understand how she could get so upset, Logan had been clear with her that when he got focused on a problem, little else mattered outside of that. He messaged her, ignoring her angry messages and said Would you like to go get something to eat? Logan waited for a moment for her to respond and then through the phone on the bed and jumped up to take a shower.

Ten minutes later, Logan emerged from the shower and checked his phone. Who is this? Logan eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Sure it had been a couple days but it didn’t make since for her to forget him completely. He decided not to respond sarcastically. Logan, we went on a couple of dates last week. Do you remember? The three dots pulsated on his phone screen. No I don’t remember you. Please leave me alone. Amelia responded. Logan’s mouth opened in disbelief. He’d had girls ghost him or tell him he was ugly or boring or to nice or thought he was smarter than them but they had all at least remembered him. And to go from the angry messages and phone calls to completely not remembering him didn’t make any sense at all. Logan continued to stare at his phone. Thinking about their dates and the sex on the second date. Surely he’d at least been memorable. Logan rubbed his forehead. His stomach growled. The hunger pain returned. Logan decided to drive the two blocks to the gas station for a snack and say hi to Ramone, the store owner that lived in the back room and always popped out, even if he had a clerk on duty to say hi. Logan grabbed his jacket and a little cash and left the house. His neighbor, Tom, was outside mowing his lawn.

“Hey, Tom!” Logan called. Tom stopped walking the mower and stared at him. He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave back. He simply stared at him. Okay, nevermind. Logan muttered under his breath. He got in his car and watched as Tom turned, faced forward again and continued pushing the lawn mower.

At EZ Shop, Logan entered the front door as he usually did. The bell of the door chimed and echoed throughout the small store. “Hello, welcome customer, I will be right there!” Ramone yelled from the back room. “Hi, Ramone!” Logan said as he headed straight for the cooler with the Mountain Dew and a frozen hot pocket and then walked to the counter. Ramone stood professionally on the other side of the counter. His dark brown hair and mustached neatly combed. “Hello, sir, will that be all for you today?” Ramone asked. Logan raised an eyebrow. “Um, yes. Why are you talking to me like that?” Logan asked. “Oh, I’m sorry sir, it was not my intention to offend you.” Ramone replied. Logan handed the man acting like he was a stranger the money. Logan was so speechless he didn’t even know how to talk to him to get him to be normal. He took his snack and drink and left. He’d been visiting Ramone in his convenience store for almost three years now. Why was he suddenly treating him like a new customer? Logan was a little bothered, after all the effort he’d put into that relationship, arguably the relationship with your local convenience store clerk was one of the most important ones if you didn’t want get embarrassed at buying condoms at 3am or buying three Gatorades the next morning after the hangover had taken over. He opened his other messages. One was from his mother, asking him to call her when he was free next. She’d sent the message two hours ago.

Logan pressed the call button. His own mother had to remember him at least. “Hey Logan, something weird is going on. Your father is acting like he doesn’t know me. And he just started frantically cleaning the house for the past four hours.” She said. “Stepfather. Mom.” Logan corrected. “Fine. Your stepfather, Logan. You’re missing the point.” She said. “Sorry Mom. Yeah I’ve ran into something similar. This girl I was talking to, and my neighbor and the store clerk are acting like they don’t know me too. You’re the first person I’ve talked to that has remembered me.” Logan said. “There has to be some sort of explanation. It’s only a few people acting weird. Maybe there is an ozone alert or something?” His mother said. “Hey mom, let me call you back in a minute.” Logan said. He opened his email and found a message from his boss. His boss hadn’t spoken to him two weeks, since the last time he’d checked on the program Logan had been working on. The email read:

Hello Logan,

Thank you for completing the program for Myopia. It is officially finished and now that it’s finished I would like to completely explain to you its’ purpose since the people around you are going to start acting different. Myopia was commissioned by the President of the United States. The code that you created reaches everyone in the world that comes into contact with the internet and carefully examines their processing skills to determine whether the person is capable of broad complicated thought or if they are more shortsighted. If they are more shortsighted all memories that interfere with their primary productive purpose in society are wiped. The code will not affect you. As we still need you, however, you are now blocked from altering the code for Myopia just in case you felt the desire to rewire its’ purpose. I will contact you soon for more information as the effects of Myopia is realized throughout the world.

Thank you for your amazing talent and efforts,

Mark

Of all the thoughts and concerns that could have popped into his head, Logan immediately said out loud, “I knew my stepdad was a dumbass.”

Thank you for reading! My next article will be focused on dance etiquette.