Wafflecopter

I came up with a particularly amusing idea one day for a Monty Python-esque play about a man who builds a helicopter that runs on waffle oil.

Characters:
Arthur: 56, sophisticated, civilized upper-class British man
Mary: 44, Arthur’s wife, haughty, easily offended
Jacob: 32, energetic, imaginative mechanic and inventor, possibly insane

(EXT. JACOB’s backyard, Britain circa 1925. JACOB is busy tinkering with a contraption that looks like a combination between a bicycle, a lawnmower, and a helicopter. Piles of scrap litter the yard around him.)

JACOB: One more turn here, and…

(There is the sound of a gate opening offstage from the left, and ARTHUR and MARY step into view, still in the middle of a conversation. JACOB doesn’t pay them any notice.)

MARY: I implore you not to encourage the boy any longer, Arthur. He’s already lost his marbles, and even the slightest hint of interest in his demented projects sets those broken gears in his mind a-whirring.

ARTHUR: Relax, my dear. Jacob may not be as “normal” as you or I, but the lad means well. (To Jacob.) Jacob, my boy!

(JACOB slowly comes out from under the helicopter/bicycle/lawnmower, oil stains on his clothing. Noticing ARTHUR and MARY, he hops to his feet and extends an oily hand.)

JACOB: Arthur! What joy it brings me to see an old friend again.

ARTHUR: (Shakes JACOB’S hand.) Likewise. I’m sure you’ve met my wife, Mary.

JACOB: (Bows slightly toward MARY.) Good to see you again, ma’am.

MARY: (Scowls at JACOB, but returns the gesture.) The feeling is certainly not mutual.

(Ignoring his wife’s hostility, ARTHUR turns toward JACOB’S contraption and points at it.)

ARTHUR: What, pray-tell, is that hodge-podge, Jacob? Some sort of flying machine?

JACOB: (Follows ARTHUR’s extended finger. Smiles.) Why yes, yes it is. My friends, this contraption will revolutionize the concept of environmentally safe air travel! Humans will finally take to the skies like birds!

MARY: (Buries her face in her hands.) Good lord, here he goes again…

ARTHUR: (To Mary.) Hush, dear. (To Jacob.) Dear boy, do you not read the news? Two young lads already built a flying machine ten or so years ago with resounding success. Are you not reinventing the wheel, so to speak?

JACOB: (Disgusted.) You mean the Wright brothers? Fah! I hear those two gits eat babies and kick their grandmothers every chance they get. No, this machine is revolutionary in that it does something no other machine can: It runs on waffles.

ARTHUR: (Surprised.) Waffles?

MARY: Oh dear. Arthur, you fool…

JACOB: (Excited.) Yes, waffles.

ARTHUR: Well, why does it run on waffles?

JACOB: Because nobody likes waffles.

ARTHUR: That’s preposterous! I like waffles!

JACOB: Well, I don’t.

ARTHUR: (Irritated.) So you brought me out here just so you could give me some malarkey about a waffle-powered flying machine? I say, dear boy, out of all your crazy schemes–

JACOB: But it doesn’t run on just any waffles.

MARY: Well, what kind of waffles does that thing run on, then?

JACOB: Why, Belgian waffles, of course.

ARTHUR: Belgian waffles? And why, may I ask, does it run on Belgian waffles?

JACOB: Because nobody likes Belgian waffles.

ARTHUR: The Belgians sure like their Belgian waffles.

JACOB: Well, then I don’t like the Belgians.

MARY: And I like Belgian waffles!

JACOB: Well, then I don’t like you.

MARY: (Insulted.) Well, I never!

ARTHUR: (Points to the oil stains on JACOB’S shirt.) If the machine runs on waffles, then what is that on your shirt?

JACOB: Oil.

ARTHUR: Oil? I thought you said this thing ran on waffles!

JACOB: It does. Waffle oil.

ARTHUR: Waffle oil?

MARY: How do you get oil out of waffles?

JACOB: Very carefully, of course.

ARTHUR: (Irritated.) Enough of this! Show us this thing in action, Jacob! Go on, have at it! I did not come here for nothing.

JACOB: (Knocks on the machine with a fist. There’s a hollow plastic sound.) Can’t. It’s
a prop.

ARTHUR: (Shouting.) A prop! What the devil do you mean by a prop?

JACOB: Simply that: It’s a prop.

MARY: So it doesn’t work? At all?

JACOB: I believe that is the definition of a prop, yes.

ARTHUR: That’s it! I’ve had enough! Jacob, as one good friend to another, see a bloody doctor before you kill yourself! Come, Mary. We have a croquet party to attend to at three.

(ARTHUR and MARY angrily march off screen. JACOB stands for a moment, shrugs and hops into the machine. He turns some knobs and pushes some buttons. After a few seconds, the machine comes to life and takes to the air.)

(The curtain falls.)

That Boy

Like “Megan,” “That Boy” was written as an in-class assignment for my Intro To Creative Writing class. This assignment was meant to represent Image (how we see a character or a setting, I suppose). We were supposed to take a picture of ourselves as a kid and write about what we see or what we imagine going on in that photograph. As you can probably tell, I don’t think very highly of myself.

Look at that boy.

Lips pursed into a smile. A fake smile. A nervous smile. Biting his lip (perhaps?) as if he would rather hide in a corner than have the camera eat his soul and puke it out.

Look at his face. A pale, peach face. Clean and smooth. Untouched by the impurities of acne, the turmoil of puberty. Untouched by the growth of facial hair, hence why he does not need to shave. A face not stained by tears, not pulled and twisted by years of laughter and frowns. Big cheeks, like a chipmunk. Slightly extended, as if he were holding a breath as the camera flashed, as if he were waiting for that moment to die so he could get on with his boyish life. What an odd face.

Look at those lively gray eyes that convey the childish innocence of his youth. Lively eyes that reflect the light of the camera. Sparkling eyes full of memories. Memories of friendships come and gone, goals met, successes made, troubles caused. Memories that would evaporate, an innocence that would die, several years down the road.

Look at the boy’s nose. His large nose that splits his face down the middle. A feature that he would later christen as one of his greatest faults. That big, pointy nose. What a big, pointy nose. A big, pointy nose with big nostrils, ripe for booger picking. Smile for the camera, Big Nose!

Look at those ears, like two beacons on the side of his head. Big ears. Sensitive ears. Sensitive ears that would cause him great discomfort. Holes in his ears big enough to actually stick fingers in when that discomfort reared its ugly head.

Look at his hair. His brown, curly, boyish hair. Curly as if his very head harvested a forest of ferns. Curly since his mama first saw his face. Another distinguishing feature he would later regret having.

Look at his shirt. His ugly shirt. Horizontal rows of strips and stripes, cascading down his shirt like a poorly drawn waterfall. Repeating patterns of maroon, black, and olive green, each spaced out by a line of squiggles. Black collar. What poor fashion sense.

Look at that boy. All smiles for the yearbook. Young boy. Little boy. Silly boy.

So much untainted innocence. Forgetful of the past, optimistic of the present. And now, your ignorant future looks at you with tears in its eyes.

“Look at that boy,” it says. “That stupid boy.”

Okay, Who Farted?

Okay, who farted?
I want to know!
Now!
Whoever smelt it
dealt it,
and I sure didn’t,
even though I’m nearly gagging.

You think it’s funny?
Well, how about this,
funny man?
The passage of flatulence
comes with consequences.
You could accidentally set yourself on
fire.
Babies could suffocate.
The whole moral fiber of the world
could collapse…
In an instant!
Do you want to live in a world
smelling of nothing but
stale flatulence?
NOTHING BUT!
Mr. Ozone sure doesn’t
like you, as every trumpet blast
burns
(Hear that? BURNS!)
him away.
Can you hear him screaming?
“Why, Jesus? WHY?
Why are people farting?
Why do they think it’s funny?
Who do they think they’re
fooling?
Me?”

Just think about them apples,
funny man.
Nobody died, so you
don’t have to salute them.
Don’t eat the beans
if you can’t handle them.
Don’t give me that malarky about
the cows.
They go moo.
You do not.
Understand?
Now go clean up
your room.
It smells in there.

Rain

Today
the sky is gray.
Silent
at the moment.
The clouds do not weep
yet.
Then they open
their hearts
and the rain
falls.

It falls.

Falls.

Falls.

Falls.

Bounces
off the trees.

Slides

down

the

rooftops

onto the ground
below,
filling in the pores
and making puddles
to splash in.

What a wondrous
sound
the rain makes.
Do you hear
it?

Pit pat.

Pit pat.

On the ground.
Such a soothing
melody.

I watch
it out my window
As the water hits the
glass.

Thud!

Thud!

Announcing its
arrival
to me.
Hello, rain.
You are always welcome
here.

Megan

This is an in-class assignment I had to do for my Intro to Creative Writing class to supplement our lesson on Character development. The character of Megan is far more complex than what is described here.

Her family called her Megan. She is a lovely young woman with long, blond hair that frames a perfect face with perfect features: an honest smile that never fades; small glasses with square-shaped lenses precariously perched upon a small nose that wrinkles when she grins and laughs; and her eyes…oh, her deep blue eyes that glimmer like the ocean waves as they move on a sunny day; a hypnotic blue that overwhelms your mind with a sense of comfort and safety.

I apologize, I’m getting ahead of myself.

Her parents knew their daughter was special the day she was born, but what proud parents wouldn’t? That is, until the soiled diapers, two-o’clock feedings, and the endless hours chasing some little ball of energy (that’s unfortunately not a puppy) around the house, come along. But she didn’t seem to be a problem for her parents (like the author, even though the author loves to compare himself to others.) As a matter of fact, she seemed to be perfect, although perfection is rarely reached by any human.

Perhaps it was her strong Christian upbringing. Megan was always taught to love her fellow man even if her fellow man would rather shove her down a manhole. Due to that, she has many friends from all over the place. Everybody loves her, especially the homeless folks. Megan developed a special sympathy for them, as well as those kicked around by society, and, as she grew older, decided to work in a homeless shelter.

Now, Megan was a smart young lass (being a blonde doesn’t necessarily mean she was totally braindead; no, Megan hated stereotypes,) and even her parents were surprised how well she excelled in school. As a matter of fact, when they tested her IQ, it came back as a whopping 160. And she doesn’t use “like” more than once in each sentence. How about that?

Sorry. That was uncalled for.

Being a woman of above average intelligence (pardon me if I felt the need to make a joke here), she enjoys mathematics and science, Calculus being her favorite subject of all. Why Calculus, you ask? Megan loves a challenge, which is why she plays chess every day with her old man, and some of her friends (who are, thankfully, not poor sports, since they lose every time).

Now, when you order a intelligence sandwich, you’re likely to get a side of deep-fried arrogance, since, at least from the author’s personal experience, smart people love to belittle the other lowly peons, and even other smart people. You’d expect smarties to be working long hours late at night, caring more about their studies than something as trivial as friendships.

Well, then, friend, I’d have to insist you stop believing the stereotypes you learned in middle school.

Megan loves to have fun. She’s so silly to the point that if you didn’t know how smart she was, you’d think her noggin contained nothing but air. She doesn’t like to party, though, for she’s more traditional than that. A day at the library or a trip to the museum? Sure, she’ll say with a smile and a giddy little giggle. Why not?

But beyond the smiling face and playful, generous disposition, there lies turmoil. You can imagine that being as smart as she is, people around her would have high expectations. Best schools, best careers, the most elite of the elite.

Megan just wants to be normal. She wants to be an average girl like everyone else (who’s female). She doesn’t want her parents breathing down her neck all the time. She doesn’t want college deans and the presidents of corporations looking at her with starry eyes and dollar signs.

Sometimes she gets depressed, and who wouldn’t? Seeing the things she does at the homeless shelter she works at make her feel as if the human race isn’t offering as much as it should, and she takes those sorrows upon herself (even though this author wishes she wouldn’t.)

What can she do to ease her pain? She feels she’s the only one who can answer that question.

Adam Ballard

This poem is called an abecedarian, a poem “in which the initial letters of the words beginning each line or stanza spell out the alphabet in order” (About.com), or, in this case, every word in each line beginning with each letter of the alphabet.

Adam Ballard could describe
Everything (that)
Goes,
Happens.
In just (a) kite’s lifetime,
nobody made off putting
(or) quaint remarks, saying
(he) tells us very wonderful
(things about) xylophones, zoology.

Space

Written in 8th grade.

The blackness of Space,
the final frontier.
A comet, with its orange streaks,
passes by.
The planets spin around a star,
our Sun.
The tiny white dots that litter the darkness,
those little lamps, our stars.
The smell of gases and dust fill the sky.
A loud explosion, light years away.
A star says farewell. A supernova takes its place.
Now Red Giants or White Dwarfs
appear.
The little specks around our Earth,
Man-made satellites,
not including the moon.
Nebulas, stars being born, but
not in cots, they.
And I wonder,
what else goes on
up there?

The Story of Musicland

You may not have heard about it, but there is a place called Musicland, where all the notes and musical symbols live and hang out. All the inhabitants set their clocks by the Time Signature Standard and wake up on the dot, but a few lazy drawls usually stay in bed until ten beats past 4/4. Those who do wake up on time, however, eat their hardy breakfast of noise and go to work, making music for all to enjoy.

Businesses are prosperous in Musicland’s Musica District, since everyone enjoys music. Most businesses have set up partnerships, such as the recent merger between Jazzy Jazz Inc. and the Deep Blues Corp. But things aren’t always as civil as they appear to be: Pop Biz takes most of the profits from the hipsters and Oldies Co. has a strong rivalry with HeavyMetal Productions, whom they blame for stealing Oldies Co.’s profits, and overshadowing their products. Other than that, the music business world is pretty much stable today, although a few low octave notes will tell you stories about the Great Deafness of 1913, where the National Musical Stock Market crashed.

Of course, life in MusicLand isn’t all work, work, work. There’s still hip notes who enjoy catching some sound waves at the beach. Frequent musical shows, such as Mezzoforte and Cresendo’s weekly Opera Extravaganza, are very popular and allow tired notes to decrease their tempo after a hard day. Pianissimo’s Pizzaria is a popular rest stop for hungry symbols on the go, and for those who like to party, TechnoTranceTronix Inc. and Heavy Metal Productions own their own dance halls, where the higher octave notes can get down and boogey.

But there wouldn’t be a MusicLand without its rhythmacratic government, run by the great Treble Clef. Here in MusicLand, it isn’t unusual for a female note to be Clefsident. Some of the highest octaves consider Ms. Clef a role model, and is therefore quite popular with the female notes. The Vice-Clefsident is Bass Clef, who doesn’t really do much in the way of running the government.

—

Now, let us zoom in on one of the citizens of Musicland’s Symbolia City, Mr. Cee Note, to see what he does every day. Mr. Note usually spends his time at his job at the Classical Corp, one of the most prosperous music businesses in all of Musicland. His pay is reasonable, about 5.50 beats an hour, considered minimum tune in Musicland. He’s not married, has no high octaves to take care of, and lives pretty much alone in his Altopartment on Whole Note Avenue.

Usually, Mr. Cee Note wakes up at 3/4 in the morning after a long rest, but today he felt a bit groggy and overslept. Whoops. At least he doesn’t start working until 4/5.

After waking up at five beats past 4/4, he slowly raises out of bed and makes his way to the bathroom for a quick shave. Male notes usually look unattractive with note-hair on their chins, so our Mr. Note quickly shaves it off with a razor. Examining his face in the mirror, he splashes water on himself and heads out the door.

Ah, breakfast. The most important meal of the day. Mr. Note rummages through his cabinets, trying to find a box…oh wait, here’s something! A box of Noise Makerz, his favorite cereal. Taking out a bowl, he dumps the rest of the contents of the box into the bowl and splashes on the mezzo-ilk. BOOM! Nothing like a loud explosion to wake someone up in the morning, eh, Mr. Note? Hey, go easy on the cereal!

Looks like it’s almost 4/5. Mr. Note puts on his coat, and heads out the door. Usually he drives his Altomobile to work, but today he fancies a stroll in the park. Off he wanders into the park, passing by the bronze statue of the founder of Musicland, Jedidiah Cleft.

Passing through the park, Mr. Note meets his friend, Bea Flatt. Ms. Flatt and Mr. Note were close friends ever since octave school, but there is no romantic interest between the two, I assure you. Ms. Flatt is usually down and solemn most of the time, the classic personality of the Flatt family line, but Mr. Note puts up with her tendencies. Hey, Mr. Note, don’t talk too much! You’ve got your job to go to!

Ah yes, Classical Corp. Pretty big building, don’t you think, Mr. Note? All that black and gold trim makes it look like a castle from the Middle Rhythms! But, in you go.

What wonderful sounds we hear! As we follow Mr. Note through the hallways and past the endless rooms full of worker notes, buttons and various machinery. Turn the corner, into the studio. What’s up today, Mr. Note? Ah, I see we have Chel Ohh and Clarry Nett in the studio today. Due to the shortage of jobs in Instrument Vista, instruments immigrate to Symbolia to gain work and earn their share of beats. Let’s begin, shall we? A one, a two, a one, two, three, four…

—

It’s 6/8. Wow, time goes by fast, eh, Mr. Note? It’s back off to your altopartment to watch some tenorvision. Wonder if your note opera, Days of Our Fortes is on…

Oh well, looks like you missed it, but you’re beat anyway. Guess it’s time to sleep! As our hero crawls under the sheet music, the musical sun goes down, and all notes take a nice, long rest.

The Writer’s Path

Written for my Intro to Creative Writing final.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the art of fiction and poetry writing, it is this: it is not easy. Sure, writing can be fun, challenging and rewarding, but it is not easy. Writing is not about how many words one writes, or how perfect one’s prose is; writing is not a contest. No, writing requires creativity, discipline, and, most of all, heart.

All three are needed to navigate what I call “The Writer’s Path.” It is a long and hard road that seems to stretch a lifetime, branching into hundreds upon hundreds of forks, marked with signs full of nothing but gibberish. I have been down the Writer’s Path before, and I can see all the footprints left by travelers who have tried to enter this realm, and the footprints of those who have turned around and headed the other way. I was one of those people, one who thought he was foolish to go down that road; that, perhaps, he had something important to offer. Now, I realize the only foolish thing I had done was believing I was foolish to begin with.

I see that you wish to travel down this road yourself, but are too afraid to take a step without guidance. Take my hand, then and I will teach you what I know.

We are at the beginning of the path now, and, as always, a writer must start somewhere. A proper education, including a good foundation in English, not only helps to build your vocabulary and rhetorical skills (for these are an absolute must if one seeks to be successful in a writing career), but the things you learn can aid you in the creation of fictional worlds, cultures, technologies and people. Attending special writing schools and taking creative writing classes in college help to fine tune the knowledge you have already amassed.

But what better way to learn about writing than from the greats? Reading many novels is a great way to learn how a professional writer works his or her magic, and is also a great way to increase your vocabulary (aside from reading the dictionary, of course). Take it from me; I do not read a lot and my writing has suffered because of it. Whenever I do get the chance to read, however, I become inspired to write and have even considered adopting some of the writing techniques of my favorite authors.

A few more steps across the path now, and we finally come to the first fork in the road. You have already established your foundations, but where do you go from there? Whatever you do, you start small, and you write, and write, and write. A beginning writer does not start his first novel on his first day, just as an apprentice carpenter doesn’t build a house the first day on the job. They constantly practice at their craft until they build up enough knowledge and patience to combat the big tasks. Do not overwhelm yourself in an attempt to prove something; you cannot compete with Shakespeare no matter how hard you try. Successes do not come often, and when they do, they come after a lot of practice and patience. You are still learning, and that should be enough.

But wait, you’re letting go of my hand and turning back. Why? Are you giving up that easily? Stop. You must realize that, for anyone, The Writer’s Path is a difficult path to navigate; full of mountains, potholes and deserts, and, hence, it is not wise to navigate alone. Be aware that not everyone will accept your work with open arms and a smile; they will oftentimes tell you things about your work that you’d rather not hear. Despite this fear, take to heart these comments, for criticism and the insight of others can only do you good. Do not avoid giving your work to someone else because you are afraid they will dislike it and call you out on it; listen to what they have to say and use their suggestions to better your own writing. Other people only control what you write if you let them.

You have taken my hand again. Good. Let us go a little farther down the path. Notice how there are not as many footsteps in the road as there were before, for few people have gotten this far without turning back. Those who have amassed enough knowledge and experience and feel confident enough that that they can make it in the big writing world have decided to send out their work. Some of them have gotten their first rejection slip, then turned heel, and left. Or some have not found the right contacts and have gotten fed up in their attempts to find a good editor. When you want to get your writing out there, you need to search for the proper medium, whether it be through a magazine or an agent if you wish to publish a novel. Even going to one or two writing conventions is a great way to meet other writers and potential agents, although this author has never been to a writing convention so he cannot say much about them. And be wary, because very few new authors sell that well, and very few, if any, manuscripts are accepted by editors. Learn to not fear the red pen, for it is your friend.

Well, I am afraid this is where I must leave you and let you finish your journey on your own. I have passed on what knowledge I have obtained to you in hopes that it may guide you further down the path. However, I am not the only person you will meet in your travels. There are others who will help you further along, that will teach you things even I have not learned. So heed them well.

And as I turn away, and walk back the path we came, I hope that you have learned that a true writer loves what he does; puts his mind, body, and soul into everything he writes. A true writer is not afraid to push the limits of his writing, and when he finally reaches those limits, he pushes them higher. Fiction isn’t simply a game; to a true writer, it is a way of life, a pastime handed down generation after generation to those willing to grip the mighty pen between their fingers and use their knowledge to do what only the gods can do.