I was cleaning out my room and found this in my world history binder from 10th grade. We were assigned to make up a revolution. I marveled at my knowledge of government, and wondered what possessed me to write like this. But I'm starting to see a pattern of writing about monarchs...
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1. Seventeen year-old child of conqueror ascends throne of absolute monarchy. Suspected IQ is the same number as his age. Young monarch spends his days throwing costly balls and gambling. To please the king, any courtier playing against him must tactfully and consistently lose. Government is grossly neglected, and corrupt nobles are left to do as they please. Prices rise, wages drop, and law enforcement declines. All intellectuals who speak out are imprisoned, and nobles and commoners alike suffer. The king loses support, and those against him gain number. All are suffering economically, some are fueled by the idea that the youth is not the rightful ruler, his father having conquered the country. Resentment grows.
2. Enraged population deposits manure into all rivers and wells supplying the palace. General chaos ensues.
3. Moderates attempt a program of reform, and pass an order to register all male citizens in a revolt agreement that states all men as having equal rights and privileges.
4. Nobles protest against moderates, claiming that their social ranks should be maintained. Neighboring countries also send words of warning as the king is a close relation, and a revolution could cause changes in their own countries.
5. The extremists take over and begin throwing all opposers of the revolution to lions. Lions grow healthy and breed. Economy temporarily receives boost from export of lions. Young king becomes officially insane, and throws self to lions.
6. As all resistance is eliminated and the lion trend drops, the terror decreases. It rises briefly when the lions are replaced with wolves, but the major crisis is over.
7. As no power in the monarchy remains, an intelligent revolter rises up and gathers followers with promises of peace and security. Becomes dictator and promptly makes gambling legal. As the lions and wolves have lost their previous jobs, the losers are eaten.
8. People support government because idiots gamble and are eaten and their fortunes are collected as taxes, so taxes in general decrease. Intellectuals survive and the arts flourish due to economical stability and the weeding out of the intellectually disinclined.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
Digs
Once upon a time, there was a pebble.
The pebble did not remember where it came from, but it did know where it was at the moment. It was lodged between the toes of King Louis XIV, because the king had decided to wear his very fashionable open-top high heels to a garden party. There have been very few instances in history where a monarch and a pebble agree, but that day both the pebble and the king wished to be elsewhere. At the moment, the king was greeting one of the prominent and particularly foppish members of his court. This particular fellow stood at a galling 6'1”, forcing the king to keep his shoes on, for he would have endured a thousand pebbles before he consented to stand lower than such a simpering fool. Indeed, at the moment he rather wished to be a pebble himself, and slip his shoes off unnoticed. The pebble on the other hand, was reflecting that he would much rather be greeting boring courtiers than sitting in the dark between someone's toes, even those of a very famous monarch. King or not, toes never smelled very nice, and these were especially poor specimens, tortured from years of being forced into uncomfortable heels.
At length, the pebble heard the king excuse himself and walk very quickly to the nearest chamber pot, which was set around the corner of a hedge. He grunted and snorted as he reached around his billowing skirts to reach his foot, and tugged awkwardly at the shoe. The pebble felt the stiff fabric compress and snag on the royal bunions. The king swore softly and peeked around the edge of the hedge. At a gesture, an attendant came swiftly and bowed low.
“M'Lord?”
Louis XIV cleared his throat and drew himself up to his full height, wincing as the pebble dug deeper.
“My shoe is bothering me. Remove it.”
The attendant was well-trained, and only inwardly did he smirk as he thought of the laugh he and the chamber maid would have later.
The pebble felt a cool breeze, and sighed with relief as he was turned over onto the ground.
“Insolent thing,” the king muttered as he wriggled his way back into the shoe.
The pebble did not care for the opinions of the king, for it is very hard to lower the self-esteem of a pebble. It lay in the dirt and enjoyed the feel of fresh open air and the diffused light of the overcast sky.
The pebble did not remember where it came from, but it did know where it was at the moment. It was lodged between the toes of King Louis XIV, because the king had decided to wear his very fashionable open-top high heels to a garden party. There have been very few instances in history where a monarch and a pebble agree, but that day both the pebble and the king wished to be elsewhere. At the moment, the king was greeting one of the prominent and particularly foppish members of his court. This particular fellow stood at a galling 6'1”, forcing the king to keep his shoes on, for he would have endured a thousand pebbles before he consented to stand lower than such a simpering fool. Indeed, at the moment he rather wished to be a pebble himself, and slip his shoes off unnoticed. The pebble on the other hand, was reflecting that he would much rather be greeting boring courtiers than sitting in the dark between someone's toes, even those of a very famous monarch. King or not, toes never smelled very nice, and these were especially poor specimens, tortured from years of being forced into uncomfortable heels.
At length, the pebble heard the king excuse himself and walk very quickly to the nearest chamber pot, which was set around the corner of a hedge. He grunted and snorted as he reached around his billowing skirts to reach his foot, and tugged awkwardly at the shoe. The pebble felt the stiff fabric compress and snag on the royal bunions. The king swore softly and peeked around the edge of the hedge. At a gesture, an attendant came swiftly and bowed low.
“M'Lord?”
Louis XIV cleared his throat and drew himself up to his full height, wincing as the pebble dug deeper.
“My shoe is bothering me. Remove it.”
The attendant was well-trained, and only inwardly did he smirk as he thought of the laugh he and the chamber maid would have later.
The pebble felt a cool breeze, and sighed with relief as he was turned over onto the ground.
“Insolent thing,” the king muttered as he wriggled his way back into the shoe.
The pebble did not care for the opinions of the king, for it is very hard to lower the self-esteem of a pebble. It lay in the dirt and enjoyed the feel of fresh open air and the diffused light of the overcast sky.
Friday, February 5, 2010
dentist therapist frumpy villainous potato mongoose
Creative Writing - Fiction. Assignment #?
I'm a dentist, usually the person standing over the patient. Lying on my back and having someone else examine me makes me nervous. Plus, this lady gives me the creeps.
“Sooo how do you feel today, Christopher?”
How she became the most successful therapist this side of the bridge is beyond me. She's every cat-hair covered, mouth-breathing fifth grade teacher that still gives you nightmares about missing homework when you're 30. Open the dictionary to “frumpy” and you'd find a picture of her.
“I'm...”
I found out fast that telling her I'm fine only leads to deep psychoanalysis of how I carry hidden scars and suppressed fears and desires. Well, I probably will after the time I'm done with this therapy. Seriously, why did Madeline have to get the latex and non-latex gloves mixed up on the one Monday last month when I overslept my alarm, the Starbucks drive-through was closed for repairs, and the Prius broke down two blocks from the office? Still, I shouldn't have blown up at her like that... how was I to know that Doc Rossen would send me to therapy for it?
“I'm feeling....”
What's an empty, deep-sounding word?
“I'm confused about my... purpose.”
My purpose? Since when?
“I've been having strange dreams lately.” At least that was somewhat true.
Her face crackled open into a gray-toothed grin, not unlike the look on a child's face when he discovers the power of sunlight and a magnifying glass over an anthill. Her solidly penciled-in eyebrows rose into almost villainous arcs.
“Descriiiibe yourrr dreaaammm” she said, somewhere between a croak and a croon.
I swear, she is possessed.
“It seemed familiar, but ominous. Like reading a book you know the ending to, but somehow fearing that this time it won't turn out the same way.”
An intrigued murmur escaped her, and she scribbled something on her pad.
“I was eating my mom's potato salad... in the middle of a large cornfield. The stalks rose around me, and the sun was beating down... it seemed peaceful, but the air carried a heavy, unsettling feel.”
Unexpectedly, I could feel myself slipping back into the story-telling mindset, and my voice became low and relaxed. How long had it been since I'd spun such tales? I used to do it all the time with Jules.
“Suddenly, I noticed the slow hissing sound that had slowly been crescendoing behind me. My hands felt clammy, despite the heat.”
My eyes were closed, and the therapist and her cackles were somewhere in a forgotten dimension. I could feel the sun on my back; hear the rustling of the corn.
“The King Cobra... the master of the garden... whose only fear is the chatter of the mongoose.”
Jules and I used to read Rudyard Kipling to each other for hours.
Incorporate the provided vocabulary into a short story.
I'm a dentist, usually the person standing over the patient. Lying on my back and having someone else examine me makes me nervous. Plus, this lady gives me the creeps.
“Sooo how do you feel today, Christopher?”
How she became the most successful therapist this side of the bridge is beyond me. She's every cat-hair covered, mouth-breathing fifth grade teacher that still gives you nightmares about missing homework when you're 30. Open the dictionary to “frumpy” and you'd find a picture of her.
“I'm...”
I found out fast that telling her I'm fine only leads to deep psychoanalysis of how I carry hidden scars and suppressed fears and desires. Well, I probably will after the time I'm done with this therapy. Seriously, why did Madeline have to get the latex and non-latex gloves mixed up on the one Monday last month when I overslept my alarm, the Starbucks drive-through was closed for repairs, and the Prius broke down two blocks from the office? Still, I shouldn't have blown up at her like that... how was I to know that Doc Rossen would send me to therapy for it?
“I'm feeling....”
What's an empty, deep-sounding word?
“I'm confused about my... purpose.”
My purpose? Since when?
“I've been having strange dreams lately.” At least that was somewhat true.
Her face crackled open into a gray-toothed grin, not unlike the look on a child's face when he discovers the power of sunlight and a magnifying glass over an anthill. Her solidly penciled-in eyebrows rose into almost villainous arcs.
“Descriiiibe yourrr dreaaammm” she said, somewhere between a croak and a croon.
I swear, she is possessed.
“It seemed familiar, but ominous. Like reading a book you know the ending to, but somehow fearing that this time it won't turn out the same way.”
An intrigued murmur escaped her, and she scribbled something on her pad.
“I was eating my mom's potato salad... in the middle of a large cornfield. The stalks rose around me, and the sun was beating down... it seemed peaceful, but the air carried a heavy, unsettling feel.”
Unexpectedly, I could feel myself slipping back into the story-telling mindset, and my voice became low and relaxed. How long had it been since I'd spun such tales? I used to do it all the time with Jules.
“Suddenly, I noticed the slow hissing sound that had slowly been crescendoing behind me. My hands felt clammy, despite the heat.”
My eyes were closed, and the therapist and her cackles were somewhere in a forgotten dimension. I could feel the sun on my back; hear the rustling of the corn.
“The King Cobra... the master of the garden... whose only fear is the chatter of the mongoose.”
Jules and I used to read Rudyard Kipling to each other for hours.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Creative Writing -Fiction, assignment #1.
"This world knows nothing of success. These people they worship, success stories they call 'em. Bah. What's their money gonna do for 'em when they die, ey? Give 'em ten years, twenty if they're lucky, and all they gonna be is another name on a shut-up inheritance claim."
Len had a habit of talking to the grayed dish towel he always slung over his shoulder whenever he went into the kitchen. I could hear him in there, twisting the stove knob just so because if you didn't turn it right all you got was the smell of propane, filling the speckled, dented pot, and rummaging in the cupboard above his head for the Oolong that he got from one of the thousand tiny shops in Chinatown.
"Ya want milk, son?"
"No thanks Len, just tea is fine."
I leaned back on the sagging couch and picked at the bits of stuffing coming through. It smelled faintly of linseed oil and was gray, like everything else in Len's apartment.
Except his paintings.
Len had a habit of talking to the grayed dish towel he always slung over his shoulder whenever he went into the kitchen. I could hear him in there, twisting the stove knob just so because if you didn't turn it right all you got was the smell of propane, filling the speckled, dented pot, and rummaging in the cupboard above his head for the Oolong that he got from one of the thousand tiny shops in Chinatown.
"Ya want milk, son?"
"No thanks Len, just tea is fine."
I leaned back on the sagging couch and picked at the bits of stuffing coming through. It smelled faintly of linseed oil and was gray, like everything else in Len's apartment.
Except his paintings.
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