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A place for Writing 12 students to read each other's writing, to critique, to suggest, to improve.
About Me
- Brad
- Former adult teacher who loves island beaches. Happy homebody and family man; once devoted dog owner, now without Tashi, my Tibetan Terrier. I prefer the absurdity of the imagination to the absurdity of imagining nothing.
6 comments:
Talented with the gift of gab, Mark is the kind of guy that loves to talk. It might be because he likes to hear himself speak, but he is always interesting so who knows? In his heart of hearts Mark would love to play rock and roll electric guitar, but he’s barely able to do scales. Who said people have to be sensible? Mark’s secret is that he’s very (very) afraid of people with disabilities. It makes him cringe and, more than once, it comes out as inappropriate jokes about “crips” or some such. His best friend Ben is quieter than he is, which suits Mark fine since by being a good listener Ben helps to put him at ease. Not that Mark has no enemies. Because of his big mouth, he sometimes goes too far, especially with sarcasm. Not everyone gets sarcasm, so one of the guys in his office really hates him for something he said a while back. If the guy, named William, ever gets the chance to rat Mark out with his boss, he surely will. Recently, Mark lost his favourite jacket, a leather bomber-style. He thinks someone took it from a coat rack when he was attending a concert at GM Place, but he’s a bit shakey on the details since he had a lot to drink that night. It sure was a long trip home on the Skytrain that chilly October night!
Lance Branchwater, imaginary character desperately trying to hold onto days gone by. He is approx. seventy years old, a has been tennis pro, now striving to remain youthful in looks and fitness. His one friend and confidant, his barber trusted with all his secrets, keeps his pencil slim mustache and hair dyed jet black, ear, nose, and eyebrows trimmed. Lance's favorite place to be is behind the wheel of his 1964 powder blue Cadillac convertible dressed to the nines, pale blue doublebreasted polyester suite,shirt opened to display big phony gold colored medallion nestled in a patch of very wiring grey chest hair …………Let Go Lance , age also has a flip side , not too bad at all
-Creating own character:
There she is, looking at her computer’s screen, crying and touching the screen. Her name is Crystal. She used to smile, and she didn’t know what “crying” meant until now. She was happy whenever she saw the screen, and whenever she talk of him, her eyes were brightened. But not right now, she was crying and missing him. She wasn’t like that at first; she liked to go out and hang with her best friend, but who knew that her best friend, Samantha can steal her most beloved thing—her boyfriend.
If you look at the word “Nocturnal” in a dictionary, you will see my face beside it—I
don’t sleep at night (I am like a bat; I am like an owl.). In my line of job, I am the boss (except, if you‘re a good tipper). I like looking at my victims suffer. I somehow feel glorious as they taste the whip, the slap, the sweat, the blood, the pain, the torture. I don’t feel guilty about it. They ask for it; they pay me for it. When I was a young girl, and was still a virgin and innocent, I wanted to become a nurse. I wanted to take care of sick people. It’s some non-sense, childish dream, I tell you. But you know what? With the kind of job I am doing now, I can still become a nurse. I can still wear the white blouse, white shoes, white hat and all. The only difference is, my costumers (or patients, whatever you want to call them) are not seeking for some medical attention—they want pleasure. I have this regular costumer, Michael, who has become close to me, considering that I don’t really have any friend. Michael often comes to me after he and his wife have finished fighting. He likes calling me “Nursey Janey”. Before our sessions, he would tell me his problems. I don’t really like hearing them, but he pays me by the hour, so I would have to bear with it. Most of the time, he would cry and cry and cry, like a baby, but when the time has finally come for me to do my job, he would turn into a drooling-maniac-monster that needs to chained and blindfolded. I would quiet him down, tame him. I would step on his bare chest with my white boots, and struck him with my whip, until he obeys. Finally, when he obeys, I would let him devour my flesh. I sometimes ask myself why I ended up here, doing this kind of job. Yes, I am kind of a masochist, but if you have the same childhood as mine, you would understand. I just hope that one day, somehow, I would be able to escape from this kind of life. But for now, I have to free myself from myself. I have to leave my old self behind so I can become my real self, not “Nursey Janey”, not “Teacher Janey” or “Janey the Cop”—just Jane.
Thomas Rush was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, only he didn't know it yet. His whole life had been wrapped up in his work at the ad agency. It was the only career he had known and he was the best in his field. In fact, right now, he was at the top of his game and he knew it! He had not even reached forty, yet he had been the "golden boy" at Pummel and Row for the past three years. His co-workers nicknamed him "The Closer" because he always seemed to be able to "close" the really big accounts, like Nike, Kokanee Beer, and the like. Typically though, as successful careers go, his home life was on a progressively downward spiral. Unbeknownst to Thomas, of course. But not for lack of trying by his wife, Delia. She had given him ample time and opportunity to talk things through. She had even set up appointments for them to see a marriage counsellor but he was always working overtime and weekends, so fitting that into the schedule was impossible. Besides, Thomas always assumed it was just something Delia wanted to do as a couple. She couldn't be that serious. Marriage counselling was for couples on the brink of divorce! Nothing was that wrong with them, he had thought. Yet, there he stood, in his own living room, looking at the packed suitcases by the door, and Delia sitting with her head hanging low, tears streaming down her face. The words she had just spoken packed a punch like he couldn't believe. Just three little words: "I'm leaving you."
The next bombshell came about an hour later when his cell phone rang. It was his best friend, Brian. He was also his ad partner at the firm. "We didn't get the account, buddy," Brian said, "I'm sorry." Thomas didn't hear anymore after that. He was still reeling from the slow realization that his wife of eighteen years was about to walk out of his life. Of course, now was not the moment to share this with Brian. He would do it when he had calmed down and had let everything sink in. Besides, it wasn't fair to burden Brian with that news right now. It was bad enough that they had lost the biggest account of their lives to their heaviest competition, after spending eight long months and countless hours on their ad presentation. "Good old Brian," Thomas thought. "I'll take him out for beers tomorrow night and we can share our misery together. What are best friends for?"
And that blonde girl, that’s Sara. Nope, no “H’ she prefers S-A-R-A. Tall, slim, and blonde, she’d have you fooled; you’d think she was from California. Ask her about her ambition in life and you’ll get that typical-quick response of hers, “to walk down Rodeo Drive with the paparazzi clicking away”. A singer, a dancer, an actress - she wants it all and will do it all. Behind her or should I say in her Louie handbag, is her best friend Coco, a 2-year-old Maltipoo: listener and companion. You can’t forget the ones bringing her down which seems to be the rest of the world, her biggest enemy. No one can see her succeed and no one wants to, everyone around her left -vanished. She’s doing this “so called life” on her own and is destined to make it – the next Hollywood star.
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