Week of October 10-16 By Carol Chen: Write a short story with the moon either as the setting or as a symbol. Go in-depth with the places and things on the moon if you choose the setting option, or use the moon as a symbol multiple times throughout your story. “But Stan, how do you ever think we’re going to find it?” “Don’t worry, Martha. I brought a flashlight. *slap slap* I retract my previous statement as I no longer have a flashlight.” Stan and Martha were touring the dark side of the moon when their equipment ran out of life, their helmets broke, and they now had no source of light. “Stan, you always do this! I can’t believe you. We could die in about five minutes because of you!” “Actually, it’s more like 3 ½ at this point. Hate to burst your bubble.” “Stan, if we get out of this, I might just kill you myself.” The pair hopped conservatively, so as to not blow through their remaining 2 cubic gallons of oxygen. Now I’m no scientist, but that doesn’t sound like a lot. As they scuttled and scuttled, their hope dwindled. “Well, with our last few minutes, what do you want to do?” “Keep looking, Martha. We have to keep going.” “But the ground is all dusty, my boots keep getting stuck, and there’s darkness for miles.” “None of that matters, Martha. Until we see light on this godforsaken satellite, we’re not stopping.” Martha began to etch her name in the sandy ground while Stan kept trekking across the boulders and dust. If she was dying, she needed whoever could find her to know who she was. At the very least, she’d get a mention in the local newspaper. Across the ash-colored celestial body, Stan and Martha’s spirits started to become just as ash-colored. They decided to just explore aimlessly, so as to die without panic. “What do you think of these craters, Stan?” “They’re so shallow. You’d think with however many years of meteor collisions, these craters would be as deep as football fields. But alas, they can barely hold my entire feet.” “I think they’re deep enough. After all, you wouldn’t want to get lost in them. Right, Stan?” “I guess you’re right, Martha.” “Stan, I’m going to be honest. With all these rocks and craters and stuff, I don’t know how much more I can take. If this oxygen doesn’t kill me, could you?” “Martha, that’s nonsense. Don’t say things like that. We’re gonna make it, one way or another.” “Stan, look at us. We’re in the middle of the dark side of the moon with low oxygen and dust. I don’t think we’re making it another 2 minutes.” “Hey, at least we can watch the stars.” And with that, the pair simply watched the stars for their remaining minutes before they, inevitably, suffocated under the pressure of the low pressure of the moon’s nonexistent atmosphere. They watched the stars twinkle like their once-beloved stove flames. Oh, how they longed for their stoves. Nevertheless, they saw the Big Dipper, Orion’s belt, and every constellation you could ever see while on Earth. At the very least, their last moments of darkness were donned by the prettiest stars. There they laid, and there they shall lay.
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Fire and Ice Yume Igarashi Week of January 11-15 By Brain Zhang: Write an emulation of your favorite poem.
Fire and Ice (Emulated Poem) - Yume Igarashi Sometimes you say our world will end in fire, Other times in ice. From the ethereal flickers of warmth in your embrace, From the defeated ashes of my despair from the brilliant embers of your silhouette, Fire I must favor. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of the clarity of your smile And the ephemeral life of our miracle As it melts away To say that for love ice Is also great And would suffice. Fire and Ice (Original Poem) - Robert Frost Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice. 4 Yume Igarashi Week of December 14-18 by Yume Igarashi: Pick any number, and give it a unique identity. What kind of personality does that number have for you? Is it enigmatic, shy, intelligent, nonchalant, or downright breathtaking? Does it have a pointy nose, or perhaps a habit of furrowing their brows when choosing the type of donut they’re going to eat for breakfast? Expand on this character as much as you’d like, and you can discuss them to be living in our world of humans, or amongst a completely new dimension where numbers rule society.
It wore a petticoat of blue gray of generous muslin, standing impressively still near the end of a block, but not quite taking the last step to reach this end. The shoulders were accentuated with the coat’s tight edges, its slim waist shy in an embrace of a luscious belt the color of New York City’s cement after a summer’s morning rain. Today was one of those days that felt like a broken arrow, frail at the corners. The humidity hung to the cold sigh of the city as it took a deep breath, and the ends of its coat fluttered in mockery of the way the long curtains in its old room used to dance. It had been a full arrow back then, a time when a sigh that it let out never sounded like a sigh, only a singular note of a whimsical murmur. Now, even a polite laugh sounded tired to its ears. Its sideways glance was characteristically sharp and slanted as a brave snowflake pirouetted and gently sat at the plane of its left shoulder. Something that improved was the straightness of its back. Curves are alluring, with no edges, no decisive angle or direction, that they boast. But straight lines are beautiful in their own right. There is an admirable stubbornness to them, a certain aura of infectious confidence that makes a fleck of snow courageous enough to softly step on a sea of gray, smile with a blink of refracted light, and melt into its ground. Losing its body of white is a brave thing to do, to lose an entity to call its own. It’s more than what I could ever do, anyway, it thought. Gray was said to be synonymous to dull, but it was far from that. When the black and the white intertwine with great eloquence, gray is their child. Perhaps a few gracious drops of vibrant gray was the medicine that it needed. The gray of the sidewalk, of its coat, and of its sky echoed in its steps, and with a new whisper of swiftness, it turned the corner of its block. Elegance in My Palm Carol Chen Week of November 2-6 by Lamia Haque: Pick up the object closest to you. Describe it in the utmost detail possible. Use your five senses. Find symbolic meaning in those details, and relate the way you describe it with ways you might describe yourself. When I wake up in the morning, I take out a small mug from my kitchen cabinet. It’s
slightly bigger than a baseball and feels cool to the touch. There are three small, sharp grooves on the handle and eight large, shallow grooves in the body of the cup, making it easier to grip. The body of the cup is a warm eggshell color with a thin forest green rim. All around the cup are various fruits: magenta cherries, yellow lemons, indigo plums, and red-brown apples. Each fruit has two vibrant green leaves and a light yellow stem. Just under the rim is a band featuring cartoon-like vines on a pastel green background beneath olive-colored leaves. This simple and elegant design soothes my eyes. Peering into the empty cup in my hands, I see the pure, off-white glow of the porcelain. This majestic vision doesn’t last long. As I feel the need for a boost from caffeine, I pour espresso into the cup, almost all the way to the rim. Now, all I see are warm browns. As I pour a little bit of milk in, a cloud of white blooms inside the brown liquid, turning my cup into chocolate-colored energy. When I use this cup in the morning, I feel refreshed and revitalized. I often stay up late working on homework and projects, so I need my daily dose of caffeine to stay alert the next day. Too much caffeine can be harmful, so this small cup that fits perfectly in my palm is my 8 a.m. savior. But this little, colorful cup isn’t just for mornings. Whenever I have time during the weekends, I try to make my favorite foods and beverages from scratch. Many of these foods and beverages require a mug, so I use my cup for these recipes. With this cup, I can experience new treats in my own home instead of having to hike to some distant cafe or restaurant. Because I can try these new foods and drinks, this cup is even more special to me since each new food item that I create brings me joy. One of my favorite beverages is bubble tea. I have always loved the taste of this drink, especially the combination of chewy pearls with silky milk tea. I would often get large cups of it from my local bubble tea cafes. During a trip to my local Asian supermarket, I bought a bag of tapioca pearls to see if I was capable of making my own version of the beverage. Once I understood and successfully attempted to follow the recipe, I could change it however I liked. The best changes that I make are changes to the tea itself. Instead of using only classic black or green teas, I add rose or lavender to introduce new fragrances. Some days, I use Earl Grey or Oolong tea to add even more flavors. The cup I love so much enables me to experiment with my drinks in ways I would never have been able to do before. What makes these experiences even better, is that my cup holds elegance in a way that a classic red solo cup could never do. I also enjoy making scrambled eggs in this cup, due to its ease and simplicity. Since I only use one medium egg, my cup is the perfect size and shape to hold all the ingredients. I have also made muffins, cinnamon rolls, soup, and even macaroni and cheese in my cup. This cup is also a hardy cup. I have accidentally bumped it off my table a few times, but each time, it survived the fall unharmed. When it hits the ground and bounces to a stop, it does so with grace. To make my “mug recipes,” I often heat my cup in the microwave and oven. It has withstood the heat of both appliances many times and has the same beauty and shine as it did when new. I love everything about this cup, especially its elegance and hardiness. Because I also want to be graceful and strong, I am grateful to see this cup every day as a personal reminder when I pour myself some coffee. Week of November 2-6 by Lamia Haque: Pick up the object closest to you. Describe it in the utmost detail possible. Use your five senses. Find symbolic meaning in those details, and relate the way you describe it with ways you might describe yourself. Its short arms were artificial, plastic, rigid. Coldness is not the opposite of warmth: rather,
a lukewarm indifference echoes with the most resonance in a hollow touch. Black ridges are perfectly symmetric, every curve deliberate. It appears the hard surface is wary of hurting those in close proximity to its skin, as all of the sharp edges are reduced to benign stubs. The black is uniform, filling every crevice of the body with expert monotony. But there is a certain sadness in the way there is a slight sheen of reflected light on the plastic, as if it cannot absorb all the tentative rays from the cloudy afternoon. Black is said to be the knight of all things dark, all things pitied. But that is false. Black is what absorbs all light, the king that swallows it whole in a brave embrace. White is the coward, as he adorns a skin of mesmerizing illuminations and purity at the expense of truly digesting these shards of virtuous beauty. The metal clips are the lowered hands at the ends of these black, rigid arms. Pinch them, and they shall open, ready to hold whatever weight you give them. But is that how it should be? Why do these hands not open from a few gentle words, or from the vibrations of unsuppressed laughter? But pinching them is always easier than such tactics. And so we resort to this dictatorship, or forcing openness and responsibilities. The head is impeccably thin, of the shiniest silver metal. It is thin, yes, but it cannot be mistaken to be fragile. Delicacy and slimness are often associated with weakness, when these things are traits that only those who are powerful enough to be brazen and sturdy can handle. It is in the form of a thin question mark, with mechanical curvature. It is almost translucent in brightness under the foggy light. The head is what hangs onto a supporting bar as the clips endure the weight, strong and silent. Are all questions what keep us hanging on some bar, what keeps us from falling and dropping the important things in our hands? Its smooth surface is unrelenting, and reassuring in its coldness. Week of November 2-6 by Lamia Haque: Writing Prompt: Pick up the object closest to you. Describe it in the utmost detail possible. Use your five senses. Find symbolic meaning in those details, and relate the way you describe it with ways you might describe yourself. (Ex: The pillow was a special kind of soft, providing me with solace after innumerable stressful days.) The leather was soft and smooth, with a layer of polish over it. It curved around the pages inside, a mother protecting her child. A brown string wove in and out of the spine, creating a crossing pattern before weaving around the book, tying it close and finally ending in two old pendants. They bore an anchor and a ship’s steering wheel, into which tiny flowers were carefully carved, as though a captain’s daughter had visited.
Indeed, the notebook looked as though it could be found next to a treasure chest on an old, sunken ship: it was weathered-looking, with some pages torn or folded at the edges, yet the book was remarkably well-preserved. In fact, the compass stamped into the cover looked as though it had been branded just yesterday. Inside the notebook, taped to the sand-colored pages, were postcards, smelling of gift stores and books. Some were printed with mountains so green and clouds so white that you could almost smell fresh air. Others showed islands and shores lined with huge cities, the summer heat almost radiating through the picture, still others picturing old cabins in the forest, trains, and rivers. Some postcards had writing on the back, in neat script. Others reflected chaotic scrawling all over the paper, done in a hurry, almost illegible. Many had no writing at all, but tiny illustrations; simple contours without shading. They described the life of someone gone. Gone, lost to the hurricane and gentle river of time. Frozen, a snapshot cradled by the pages. Adventures forgotten, stories never to be shared again. A life one wishes to return to, but indeed, the moment has passed. Your time is up. You must continue, running through your years as fast as you can, never pausing to slow; if you slow, you are left behind, left to the essentiality of survival, and you must thrive, not merely survive! You must never reflect, not about anything; reflection wastes time and time is money, dirty and filthy, passed down through hundreds of years. Nobody bothers to clean it; when will they have the time? And thus, you see, we have an endless rabbit hole, inescapable. Too many people are going with the flow of the whirlpool to go against it, and so you must spend the rest of your days swimming with the crowd, even though we all wish to go the other way. Numbers Mckenna Adams Week of December 14-18 by Yume Igarashi: Pick any number, and give it a unique identity. What kind of personality does that number have for you? Is it enigmatic, shy, intelligent, nonchalant, or downright breathtaking? Does it have a pointy nose, or perhaps a habit of furrowing their brows when choosing the type of donut they’re going to eat for breakfast? Expand on this character as much as you’d like, and you can discuss them to be living in our world of humans, or amongst a completely new dimension where numbers rule society. 10
Ten is chill and laid-back. You can always go over to his house, grab a soda, and play video games. He seems to get along with everyone. 9 Nine has dark plum-colored hair pulled tightly into a knob. She often looks sternly through her rectangular glasses, chastening you for talking too loud. If you look closely at her, you would find her quite pretty, but she tries her best to cover it. 8 Eight likes ice cream and rainy days. They are extroverted, and can often be seen at ten’s house. Their demeanor is gentle but bold. 7 Seven is golden, a queen of light. She likes playing instruments and singing. Her cats often follow her, their eyes forever scrutinizing your flaws. 6 Six lives a calm life. She often stays up late, watching the sky and moon, and wakes up early to listen to the birds calling the sunrise. She wears floaty, lilac fabric that drapes around her figure elegantly, and her hair is let loose around her. She smells of charcoal and paint, as she is frequently seen drawing flowers or birds. 5 Five is a sun-tanned, muscular, cocky idiot. He often smiles cheekily like he is the smartest, most brilliant person in the room, and as though he doesn’t have time for other people’s nonsense. Giving unsolicited advice is his specialty, and the other numbers rather resent him for his frequent interruptions and eavesdropping on their conversations. 4 Four has small circular glasses, which often slips down on his beaked nose when he is doing his calculations. He is very well-kept, without a single hair out of place nor a wrinkle on his shirt. 3 Three enjoys laying on the grass under the soft light of the sun while reading science fiction, her large hazel eyes soaking in the story. She occasionally dabbles in writing herself, experimenting with worlds that will never be. 2 Two likes puppies. She often has a tiny Pomeranian sticking out of her soft pink purse. She isn’t very intimidating, but she doesn’t mind. Her laugh is a bubbly thing, full of joy, almost more than her tiny body can handle. Her soft, frizzy hair and wide chocolate eyes seem to fit her personality perfectly. It is common to see her curled up on the sofa in an enormous blanket, pit bulls and German Shepherds all adoringly cozied around her. 1 One is simple. They often wear a plain white t-shirt and black pants, with big circular glasses framing their light brown eyes. Their dark hair is shaved at the sides, but curled and piled up top. 0 Zero is a person whom you would forget easily. He wears a black jacket and skinny jeans, his face clean-shaven. On the rare occasions he’s seen (he’s rather introverted), he will try his best to avoid eye contact. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories
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