Two Ducks On A Pond

Bob & George.

George the duck dived and swam, kicking his webbed feet in the water happily.

"Nothing could be better than this," George quacked loudly while flitting about. "Today is the best day!"

Bob slowly drifted across the water.

"Really, George? I'm barely staying afloat. It was all I could do to get out of the nest this morning."

"Are you kidding? I can't swim through this water fast enough. Let's sing duck songs! And organize the sticks in the dam according to size!"

No duck is that happy at this time of day.

Bob knew the truth: George was on drugs.

* * *

The above is a short example of the sorts of things I feel like writing these days. Usually, it's a tragic-comedy of some sort because after a long, ridiculous day that's what comes out.

Batman vs. Superman

The Batman impersonates Bruce Wayne. Like shiny baubles, the playboy false identity distracts from the true persona: Batman. Driven by the murder of his parents, Batman fears nothing. Obsession drives him. Protecting Gotham and fighting crime trumps all. Batman exudes excellence, intellect, intimidation, and an indomitable will. The World's Greatest Detective needs no superpowers. He keeps his body and mind voraciously honed as the ultimate destructive force. His agility, strength, and cunning set him far above other so-called superheroes. An elite martial artist, Batman embodies mind and muscle, brains and brawn – a force that not even Superman can reckon with.

While Batman is the Dark Knight, Superman is only an empty shell. Superman is the false identity, the painted figure that hides the real man: Clark Kent. Superman is merely motivated by the existence of his own powers. Though he has flight, super-speed, super-strength, and laser vision, Superman's greatest selling point is that he’s the "good guy." Big Blue, the ultimate boy scout, always keeps his nose clean. Self-righteous do-gooder. Not a great strategical mastermind, Superman's motto is, “Why investigate when I can simply demolish the place?” He is all brawn and physical power with no room left for brains.

* * *

Behold! A piece of writing from my infamous rhetoric class last semester. The assignment was to write a comparison using two paragraphs of equal length - one paragraph must be in noun-style writing and the other in verb-style. The Batman paragraph is in verb-style and Superman is in noun-style. I used exactly 100 words in each paragraph.

P.S. I like Superman a lot, but somebody had to be the butt of this comparison. Sorry, Big Blue.

The Country (Hypotaxis)

After the sun rises, I lumber out of bed and sloppily throw on overalls. Although there's still sleep in my eyes, once I drink a tall glass of milk I'm ready to tackle my chores. If I finish my chores I can play in the pond with the frogs. Mid-morning turns into afternoon, afternoon turns into evening, and soon I realize I've spent the whole day romping around the fields with my dog. But the best part -- what I've been waiting for -- is when Gram and I sit on the porch with milk and cookies watching the sunset.

----

This was part of an in class writing assignment to write a short, Hypotaxis-style paragraph about a day in the country. I modified it slightly to make it a drabble. (As I understand it, Hypotaxis is about subordination of clauses. It's a particular style of writing that joins clauses to create a hierarchy, such that everything builds to the end of the paragraph where the "pay off," the most important piece is.)

Onboard the Eden, pt 1

Klaxons immediately blared in their ears.
"You had to do it," he growled, glaring at her with that “I could kill you” face. “1,000 buttons on that panel and you had to push the one that's off limits,” he said, pointing at the big red button labeled “DON'T!”
“You don't actually think it will depressurize the ship. Do you?”
“Cap'n said so. You heard him!”
As if on cue, the Captain's voice split the air. “All crew report to your stations.”
“Fudge,” she sputtered.
Ignoring orders, the two ducked behind some cargo containers.

* * *

This is another drabble, a 100 word piece of fiction. Now, if you caught the reference (did you?) this is actually a futuristic take on a well-known story. I intend to do at least a part 2, but after that, we'll see. Too much of a good thing isn't a good thing, right? Technically a drabble has to be a complete package, finished in 100 words, so I guess this isn't a "proper" drabble. (I may make some changes to this drabble later. I'm not quite done fiddling with it.)

After today I only have 4 more days of working at the magazine. I'm trying to figure out what I'm going to do next. I need a paying job. I could come back and keep working for free in order to gain relevant job experience. However, unpaid jobs don't exactly pay the bills!

I'm a praying person (just so you know), and I've been praying for a paying job, but it's been sort of half-butted when-I-think-of-it type prayers. This morning I was challenged to really get into it and ask God for a good job. Doesn't James say we don't have because we don't ask? So, we'll see what happens. Maybe God has something else for me, who knows?

I Choked

I choked. While standing in front of 350 people I forgot the words to my own song. Some people looked at me expectantly. Others guffawed. But, I saw your familiar face out of the corner of my eye. You smiled and gave me that look that said “dude, you got this!” I grinned despite myself. You mouthed the words to my song and then I was off. After that, I didn't hear any more guffaws. Yeah, I know some butt scratcher in the third row is laughing and pointing right now, but he doesn't matter. I'm singing for you.

* * *

Above is another drabble (100 word fiction). Yes, it is fiction. I have had horrible, choking moments at piano recitals, but nothing quite like this.

Just got back my editor's revisions on my latest article for the magazine. As always, The Editor makes it beautiful. There is just something powerful about a second pair of eyes to look at your work. The Editor is able to machete through my baloney and get it down to the beauty that I know is there. I imagine that with time and experience there will be less for The Editor to cut through. Eventually I will get the hang of this. I'm not going to let my noob awkwardness win. ("The Editor" is any editor involved in reading one's work, not just my editor. Speaking of which, I am currently working with three different editors at the magazine...)

I have a crap ton of homework to take care of tonight. (Crap ton is a unit of mass. To convert, multiply a metric ton by 1.5 to calculate the measurement in crap tons.)

He wants my Bones

I can see him watching me. His dark, piercing eyes rolled in his head to watch me as I moved about. His head never moved, except to suddenly cock to the side occasionally to examine me from another angle. He wants to eat me. I know it. He's thinking about the taste of my flesh. He can't wait to tear into my skin. I should run. Maybe I can get inside before he comes after me. Maybe he'll find someone else who looks tastier. Really, I've consumed so much diet soda I probably taste like aspartame. God, I hate birds.

* * * * *

The above is my first attempt at a drabble, a fiction of exactly 100 words. Needs work I'm sure, but I wrote it during the sermon at church, so that's gotta say something. I hate birds. My husband's family has a bird. Birds are like cats: they sense the ones who don't want them around and camp out on their person. I'm scared of birds. Their skittering little feet remind me of roaches. Big roaches with talons and a mean beak. (His family has a cockatiel so my imaginings don't quite meet with reality.) Husband's cockatiel liked to land on my head, and then his feet would get caught in my hair. The bird would panic. I was already panicking. Panicking ensued on several sides. Yeah, I hate birds. Even outdoor ones scare me. But, at least outdoor birds generally want to stay away from you. Though, for some reason there are great big black birds that hang out near our home. They sit in the trees and watch me when I go to the mailbox or get in the car. Once, I was unpacking my trunk and the bird cawed at me. My first – instant – response was to call out, “I'm not dead yet!” Dirty, mangy scavenger birds.