Ghandi and Stalin

Oh...just another 30 minute creative writing segment. This time we had to--- I don't know how to describe what we did. I literally just typed 4 different explanations and they were all confusing. He numbered us off. I was a 1 so I had to pick 2 historical characters that would never get along. I chose Ghandi and Joseph Stalin. Person 2 and 3 on either side of me had to give me a setting and a place, as weird as that sounds. Person 2 said "survival in chaotic world after nuclear attack" and Person 3 said "Boat" and we had to incorporate these 3 random things into a story. We all had different elements because we were all sitting next to different people...does that make sense??? Haha I hope so. Anyway, here it is:

The air around them is silent. The only noises that can be heard are the soft undulations of the waves against the side of the boat and the distant cries of motherless children and hungry parents. Stalin tried to brush the grime off his jacket but it only got worse when the dirt from his hand joined with the dirt on his sleeve.

“How did I get stuck on here with you?” Stalin snapped. The man was sitting cross-legged on the deck of the small boat, wearing only a robe. He doesn’t answer. “Of all people in the world…” Stalin mumbled under his breath. The man sighed and opened his eyes.

“Perhaps you should try meditation” Ghandi whispered playfully. Stalin indignantly turns his head and looks out across the sea. He watches the smoke and dust floating around what was once Europe. The land, now desolate, appeared to be stained with the blood of unnumbered bodies of his countrymen. It was this same scene all over the world. There was no where to run. No where to go. No where to hide. The only refuge he could find was the boat and even this wasn’t exactly a refuge. The old man was getting on his last nerve and, heaven help him, he was about to strangle this dirty scrawny person.

“Is there any food on this ship?” Stalin asked desperately. Ghandi merely smiled. He knew he was going to die but unlike Stalin, he could accept it. Besides, fasting was second nature to him and he was accustomed to going many days without eating. In this, his final moments, he didn’t yearn for food as his shipmate did. He yearned only for God.

Stalin looked around the boat for something clean to sit on. His suit had been brand new and freshly pressed when the sirens began to blare. He thought it was a fluke but as he looked to the skies, he saw them; little bullets raining from the heavens. They grew larger and larger and he knew what they meant, but he refused to accept the inevitable. He ran toward the sea, thinking it was his only escape. No one else was on the beach. All others sought shelter in their homes, with their families in this time of dire straits. He had no family; no friends. He never had. Those people who had his blood in their veins were unworthy of such an honor. He eliminated them all. The End was here, and everyone was just going to sit around and watch it happen, like dogs being whipped by their masters. But no. He wasn’t going to go like this. Not Joseph Stalin. He had glanced out across the waters just as he heard the first distant boom of nuclear missiles crashing to the ground. He remembered the way his eyes had fixed upon one lonely boat out on the water and he ran to it, his heart racing. What did he expect to find on that ship? Shelter? surely, and saftey? yes. Food? Perhaps. Somewhere inside him he hoped for a way out. If he survived this, he could rule the entire *world*. All knees would bow to him; “Praise Stalin, who conquered death. Praise Stalin who conquered all!” He closed his eyes and saw them all, the thousands and thousands of followers he would have when this war was over…and then his day dream abruptly ended. He took a breath and inhaled the smell of burning flesh and death. Such a natural, good smell... until it occurred to him that soon it would be his own flesh.


There you have it. I don't really think I like this one so much. I don't know why. Obviously it isn't done. I wrote a little more from Ghandi's point of view but I figured this was enough. I know there are issues with the past and present tense sprinkled throughout, so if I ever decide to like this story I'll have to play around with it some more to get that fixed. *Sigh* Better things to come.

Person, Place, and Thing

Here's how it's gonna go. I tell you the background, show you the piece, and you comment. Easy, right? Let's try.

For class, the Professor gives us a kind of prompt or exercise and we write for 45 minutes on that prompt or on our own thing. This particular prompt required us to write a monologue based on a person and an inanimate object. We wrote a description of a person and then we got up from our seats and went to someone else's computer to give them a description of a place and repeated the process for a thing. When we were writing each description, we couldn't see the other two aspects of the setting so if I'm describing a place for the person to my right, I can't see what person they created for themselves. Interesting, no?

  

Person: Tall, lanky male with blond hair and very pale skin. Dark circles under his eyes to the point where he looks like a walking dead man. Wears all black, tight fitting clothes and a necklace with a guitar pick on it.

Place: The place in a green garden, it is spring time and the flowers are just beginning to bud and bloom. It is mid morning and the dew has mostly evaporated, but the smell of damp is still present. You find yourself in the middle next to a weeping willow and a small steel bench decorated with roses.

Thing: A worn old box of matches. Not the big boxes you can buy at the store but a small yellow one. Only a small number of wooden matches remain inside and the aged box makes you wonder if they’ll even strike. Some grains of sand have gotten inside the box telling a story of where it might have come from. The name of the brand is worn off.

Lawrence:

I’ve always tried to imagine what it would be like to be stranded on a desert island with only one flimsy box of matches. I picture the sun gleaming off my skin, burning it to a crisp and scrambling to find shelter or food or anything that might keep me alive. It’s always been in the back of my mind; one of my biggest fears really. I never thought it would happen…well, I suppose it hasn’t. I’m not exactly stranded on a desert island. Stranded with a box of matches…in a secret garden. I can’t even be sure the matches inside work. I never saw this one coming. I’ve never prepared myself for something like this. I am literally trapped in this garden with nothing but the clothes on my back and a small box of matches. The box has a little sand in it, as if I’m being taunted by some unseen force; as if someone is saying to me “Desert Island, Lawrence? You thought you would get off that easy? We’ll, here’s some sand just to remind you how good you could have had it.” I think it’s the box of matches speaking to me. It must be the one taunting me. It has a voice and a spirit. No name. The name is so faint, not even an eagle could see it. There are matches inside. Do you think they’ll strike? You might say to yourself, “Now this Lawrence fellow has got it all wrong! I’d take a beautiful garden over an island any day.” But you would be wrong. Did you see that movie castaway? Tom Hanks makes it out of there okay after many years. An unending supply of fish, a giant rock to live in, gallons and gallons of water. What do I have? I have about 6 tiny fish, a bench under a tree, a pool of stagnant water, a lot of deer feed…and this box of matches. It whispers to me sometimes. “Lawrence,” it says “Lawrence, where will you go? What will you do?” It mocks me. I hate it…but the matches? They look so old. Do you think they’ll strike? I can’t stay here for much longer. I can’t live in this flower green place for eternity. I need to know if the matches will strike. The trees are murmuring to me. The grass is speaking. The fish scoff at me. How long have I been here? I wish that box would stop talking. I can’t even hear myself think!...The matches. They’re silent. They don’t say a word. It’s as if, through the silence, they’re telling me something. And now I understand. But will they strike? I can feel hunger and exhaustion creeping up on me. Have you ever been to a garden at night? It’s a scary place folks. I don’t think I’ll make it another night here. I can’t. I have no one but this box of matches.

*Lawrence sits in silence for a few moments before opening the box. He takes out a match and tries to light it, but it breaks in his hand. He tries again once more with the same outcome. He carefully takes out the third and final match, stares at it thoughtfully, and brings it to the side of the box. There is no sound except the match striking against the box, followed by the soft sound of flame. Lawrence’s eyes widen and he takes a deep breath*

Lawrence: 

Burn it to the ground.

*He throws the match into the grass and the entire garden goes up in flames.*

I'm not quite sure why this turned out so morbid. When you're a writer, though, you're just the medium whereby inspiration flows onto paper. You have to just keep your fingers going and the characters sort of lead themselves in the direction they want to go. 

So.

What do you think? Obviously it isn't a masterpiece because it took me all of 45 minutes to write, but the idea here is to improve my writing style and flow. Eek.

The Very First Entry of This Blog.

Well, this is new. I've never blogged about anything. It might be a waste of time because I doubt anyone will read it...I'll read it. I guess that's what really counts. My bishop told me to get a hobby and so here I am, and perhaps this will be a great source of stress relief to me. Painting, writing, reading...and dogs. Those are my favorite things! And of course, my friends. But there are some things painting, writing, reading, and dogs can do for you that friends cant. Try one of them, and you'll see what I mean.
Anywho, I think what I want to do with this here blog is put my writing on it. Whoever reads it, I ask that you tell me what you think. What do you like? What do you not like? What was good and what can I do better? Is it a good idea or a flop? Stuff like that. I kind of don't like sharing. It makes me feel...pretentious. But how else will I improve if I never show anyone what I write? Some of it is kinda weird, I think. There are two things I'm working on that...well I have no idea where they came from. The things I think about on a daily basis and the things that come out in my writing are, at times, completely opposite.
So. I'll post every time I get something finished (or at least finished enough to share). Judge my writing, not me, and please enjoy.