Writing Exercise: Random Words

For an aspiring writer of any kind, one of the most useful and important tasks is to write every single day. For me, this is no easy task, but using a website like this Writing Exercise one  is often a great help. Today I used the random words generator, which spat out these eight lovely words:

tongue
cheat
curved
piano
reject
enormous
coffee
  anger 

The idea  is to write non-stop for 10-15 minutes and incorporate all of the words into a story that is somewhat cohesive. Here is my attempt. Let me know what you think.

Holding your tongue both literally and metaphorically is a hard thing to do. Today, Gillian asked me to “hold my tongue” when I almost spilled her most private secret to a room full of friends. How dare she expect so much of me? How dare she expect me to keep such monumental information all to myself? It’s too big a task for an honest, simpleton such as I.

To hold my wet, slippery tongue literally would involve some logistics. If it’s not considered a cheat, I would simply dry my tongue out by breathing with it flopping all wiggly-piggly out of my mouth with taking deep breaths. Then, once dry, I would snatch a hold of with my fingers, and Ta-Da. Tongue held. However, to hold it in its naturally slimy state would take more finesse, and much more thinking. This is neither here or there, but how my wondering mind works.

Gillian has a curved, sensual, womanly body. Although, I would never tell her that. I have been her best friend for way to long, I am sure that door is well closed. That, and even she admits I am an awkward fool. She is also married, to a dink… I mean… A very well-respected man. Together, they have two children, a Rottweiler named Bruce, and me, I guess. I live in their pool house. I guess I should introduce myself. My name is Peter. Nice to meet you. I have known Gillian since we were kids, and she has always looked out for me. I can only assume, out of pity. In her words I am “Smart as they come, but when they come as people, I am dumb as bricks”. I don’t think that’s a compliment.

Last week, I saw something I was not supposed to see. Walking into the house, Gillian was naked. Completely naked, and laying on top of their grand piano. I tried not to look, but the vision was stunning. Legs for days. Curves like mountains I have read about and more beauty than what historical paintings have shown me. I finally pulled my stare away and turned to leave quietly, when I saw him. No, not her husband. Not Carlos, even though he is not my favourite person, I wouldn’t wish this on him. This man was familiar, although I could not place it. When he walked into the room, they both saw me. Gill shouted at me to forget what I saw and get lost. I did as I was told. As I always do.

The first time she pushed the “reject button” with me was in junior high, when I asked her to go to the movies. Even back then she would push me aside for the boys who could skateboard, or handle monkey bars. Not the boy who read poetry under her windowsill, or searched the dictionary every day for new words to describe her. Exquisite: extremely beautiful and, typically, delicate. This time, though, catching her with a man who isn’t me. That hurt. I can’t explain why, but it did.

Later, she came to talk to me about her enormous problem. She made me swear not to tell anyone, especially Carl. She was going to tell him, let him down easy, all in due time, yadda yadda yadda. But for now, I had to keep my mouth shut. I don’t like keeping secrets.

 Almost spilling the beans came oddly after delivering fresh coffee to a room full of friends gathered at Gillian and Carl’s house. I came in from the kitchen with the hot pot and went to pour it for a good friend of ours, when he set his mini egg sandwich down on the grand piano. I knocked hot coffee everywhere as my stomach lurched. I may be a bit of a Germaphobe. As the hot coffee was spilling and everyone was searching for an explanation to my outburst, I started saying something like “Gillian’s bare a…..” when Gillian cut me off. 

“My bare naked baby girl was sitting on there, but don’t worry, Brett, I washed it. Peter is a bit afraid of naked baby germs. Don't mind him.” Afterwards, she laughed nervously shot a terrifying look my way.

The room laughed, and I could see Gillian ushering me into the kitchen using a brief arm gesture and a fake smile. Here, I got a fine lengthy lecture from Angry Gill. All I really understood was that I needed to hold my tongue, or leave the house for good. I told her I hated her every human fiber (I am sure that should have been "every fiber of her being" but I wasn't thinking right), and I would be gone by sunrise.  Where has being honest gotten me, anyhow?

 

*If you enjoy the story, I would love to hear title suggestions, as I have yet to pick one* 

Dandelion (A Short Story)

Here is another story with the subject provided by my loving sister, Kendra Deen. Through a facebook post, she suggested I write about a little boy and a dandelion. I hope you enjoy the story.

Dandelion

  

My Ma once told me that I’d become a flower. She said “Son, on the outside you will grow and grow and grow until you’re a full grown man.” Then she smiled “on the inside you will blossom. Your colours will develop and mature and change until you are a beautiful soul”. I asked her what happens when I am all done growing. “Your never done growing” she said “You will grow tall, and then proud, and then old. On the inside, you’ll grow until you grow seedlings, then you grow in ways you never thought possible.” This was confusing to me. If I keep growing and growing I’ll be taller than my house. I will have to use clouds as cotton balls and eat trees for my vegetables and I will squish people I love with one hug. I don’t want to grow and grow. I want to be little forever.

On her last day, Ma told me about being a flower again. I told her “Ma, I don’t want to be a flower. I don’t want to squish the people I love. I want to be me.” She laughed and it sounded like grandma's smoker laugh, even though she never smoked. I don’t think so, anyhow. “Oh sweetie pea, you won’t become a giant. Growing is not about getting really big. Growing is about living life and letting you become you.”  “But Ma, I am me” My eyes started to cry. “Yes, son, you are you, but... You still need to become you too.  Just like a small Dandelion. It looks like a dandelion, but it still grows and blossoms into even more of a dandelion so that no one can mistake it for anything else. I never want you to be mistaken for anything other than you.” Dandelions were Ma’s favourite flower. She always asked me how a weed can be so pretty. What’s a weed? 

          Ma looked tired. I asked her if there was anything she needed or if I should leave so she could sleep. As a tear slid down her pale cheek she said “All I need is you. I am going to sleep for a long time, perhaps forever, so I want you by my side until I drift into sleep.” I knew this day would come, even if I don’t know what it means. I knew Ma was dying. I knew she was sick and nothing doctors could do would save her. I accepted it, like Dad told me I had to. I just didn’t like it. As Ma drifted into her sleep, I held her hand and said “Ma, I’ll become a dandelion. The most perfect dandelion you ever saw”. She smiled.

         Today is a sad day. Today we say goodbye to Ma again by putting her to rest. That’s what dad says. “To Rest son, where she can spend all her days sleeping and dreaming about us”. I don’t understand this either. Why can’t she rest at home? I accept it, because I have to. Today is hot out. Dad is sweating a lot. He made me wear a tie. I hate ties. I wanted to wear mom’s diamond necklace she loved. It looked beautiful on her. Dad said it wouldn’t look appropriate. What is appropriate?

        When Ma has been laid to rest, whatever that’s supposed to mean, we walk home. Dad says he needs air. I don’t get this either. Why say you need air when you get air everywhere? Adults make no sense to me. When we get near the house I spot something so small it looked like a spec next to our front step. It is yellow. I run ahead of dad to see it closer.

         Today is April 10^th, and there is a dandelion by my front step. Unbelievable, as Ma would say, so early for a spring flower. I think of Ma. I think of future me. The dandelion is just a baby and I make it a promise. “Dear Dandelion” I said out loud, but quiet enough that dad could not hear “I promise to take care of you, for your whole life. I promise one day you will be big and strong and you will be you.” I found a pot and some soil on Ma’s garden bench in our basement. I carefully dug up the dandelion just like she taught me to do. I planted it in the pot and carried it inside. I put the dandelion in my window every morning, and at noon every day I walked it across the house and put it in the guest room window. I know dandelions need 12 hours of sun. Even though I don’t understand everything, Ma always taught me how to care for flowers.

Pancakes and Silence (A Short Story)

 Recently, I posted a Facebook status that challenged anyone and everyone to give me writting topics for a short story that I would post here, to my blog. This is the first one and I have Natalie Carr to thank for the story topic "eating pancakes with a monk". Without further a due, here is the story...

Pancakes and Silence

 

        The stillness of the room was deafening. My patience was lingering only by a thread, as I waited and waited for something to happen. Anything. Keeping my body still as I sit awkwardly on my knees was impossible. My breathing was louder than anything else in the room. Louder than the fifteen Monks that sat along me and across from me at the lowered table. They seemed like majestic, stoic creatures that couldn’t possibly be human. How can anyone be this quiet, most of the time? There is no way in hell I could, I know that. Respect.

         I am here because I have something to prove. To myself, and to everyone else, I must prove I can be silent. I came her three days ago. For three long days I have wanted to ask questions, say hello, speak in some way. A vow of silence seemed easy until the end of the prayer; when the oath was official. This is the hardest thing I have ever done.

A monk entered the room. He was dressed slightly different than the other Monk’s. He was wearing a robe like then, but the rope waist belt wasn't tan, it was gold. He sat at the head of the table. I knew now that I would at least hear sound louder than my impatient breathing. He spoke a poetic prayer that he spoke at every meal. I couldn’t understand it, but the importance of it soaked into me like water soaks into a sponge.

         With my head bowed, and ears open, I waited for the meal to be passed silently down the row. Then I could nod a thank you to the kind man next to me and eat. I was so hungry. Three meals a day are served at the Monastery, but they are meager tasteless meals. Usually rice, or beans, or something equally as boring. Today, it was pancakes.

        When the plate is passed to me, I look at the man next to me and he is grinning. His smile is goofy, and huge and it catches me off guard. I laugh out loud and then immediately regret my own disrespect. I piled a small stack of them onto my plate and passed it to the next Monk who looked at me with judgement in his eyes. I know he was thinking of my inexcusable laughter. I should have cared more and gave him an apologetic look back, but I didn’t. I wanted pancakes.

         I searched the table for syrup, for butter, for fresh fruit. Anything to elevate these pancakes and make them what they deserve to be. There was nothing. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I know life in the Monastery means to use as little as possible to get by. Syrup is a frill and Monks are a no-frills kind of people.

         I couldn’t help but think of the monk’s grin. I wanted to know why he was grinning. Was today special? Was there something he knew that I didn’t? Was he just a smiley guy? Or maybe, he was smiling so big because of the pancakes. Don’t pancakes bring out the innocent child in all of us? I wish I was grateful enough to grin ear to ear over a small stack of plain pancakes.  I guess I need to spend a little more time here, living amongst majestic, stoic, creatures that smile like children. Human children.