Monday, February 22, 2010

Intro. to Creative Writing

I had to write 3 poems for my creative writing class. The first came on a whim, the other two were forced. Tell me if they're any good.


She has footprints on her back.
She tries to hide them- always washing her sweaters, sometimes turning them inside-out.
But I see them. I see the lines on her face, the ones that shouldn’t be there- not yet at least.
Her blue and red eyes leak “weary” and “down-trodden” down her cheeks, catching in her mouth-corners.
She tries to be tough, but inside she’s just as tough as those cashmere sweaters; the ones that are faded in places from too much washing.

But she can’t quit. Her suffering feeds my education; my future is hungry.
Perhaps I’ll buy her a new sweater.


I hear the train a comin'
It's rollin' 'round the bend,
And I ain't seen the sunshine,
Since, I don't know when.

“Folsom Prison Blues” Johnny Cash

I know this train is coming to a stop.
Everyone is so concerned with fuel and momentum,
They never want this ride to end.
But I’m okay with it.

Eventually the train will run out of coal,
And it might come to a quick, peaceful stop,
Or an agonizing crash.
Or it could collide with another train.

But I’m not too concerned.
In fact, I’ve contemplated making the train stop sooner than scheduled,
Taking control and ending it all early.
And people will tell me I’m sick, that I should get some help.

But if the train is stopping, why wait for the end?


I picked up the bottle again last week.
It would have been nearly a year in March.
Her sleek curves tempted me, glossy and sleek,
And on the rim, my lip-gloss left its mark.

I picked up the bottle again, I’m weak.
Her laugh was cruel as I took my first gulp.
I fell off the wagon, felt like a freak.
Her forbidden fruit had a bitter pulp.

The bottle slipped from my hand, my head spun.
My sweet ecstasy was marred by my shame.
The bottle grinned in triumph, she had won,
The sweat dried up on her green-tinted pane.

The skin on my stomach is mangled and numb.
“Days Since I Used” has now gone back to one.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

"Fanfiction" for lack of a better term

Background: My friends at UT and I were talking about what it would be like if our life was a tv show. This is a "script" of our "unscripted" show. Inserted is a purposefully bad Star Trek fanfic, inspired by my recent outburst of McCoy fantasies during lecture. :/ Enjoy? (Feedback...well, if you wish).

SLUT: The Sexual (and the Less so) of The University of Tampa
A nonspecific episode in the First Season

[Opening Theme- “Jizz in my Pants” by The Lonely Island”]
[The minarets of Plant Hall, pans to Plant Park and the “fire sticks.” 5 girls sit chatting.
Lyza, a tall fair Writing major with short, curly red hair.
Nichole, a natural ginger with more moderate proportions.
Kiy, a tan, dark-haired artist of mid height with emotional brown eyes.
Scarlet, a short, timid writing major with bird-like features.
And Riley, a feisty blonde with gray eyes and a little too much energy.]
RILEY: (narrating) Hey, I’m Riley. I’m a freshmen writing major here at The University of Tampa in balmy Florida- and I fuck everything.
I’ll just let that sink in…
You good? Okay, I’ll proceed. This is me. (Focuses on Riley) I live on the 7th Floor of Vaughn with a terminally absent roommate, Jenna. My sexuality is complicated: okay, not really, I’m basically attracted to anyone with two legs and something in between. But enough about me.
(Pans to Lyza) This is Lyza. She’s a soft-spoken sophomore with a fetish for Indian boys. Let’s just say the university’s supply hasn’t disappointed her. She writes, too, and it’s always easy to make her laugh. I think we like that about her.
(Pans to Nichole) And Nichole. I met her on the freshmen trip to Busch Gardens. She’s a bio major and, more importantly, a lesbian. The sexuality of our groups of friends is varied, and shapes how we interact. In a good way. Her girlfriend is Morgan.
(Pans to Kiy) And this is Kiy, also a lesbian. Her girlfriend, Re, visits a lot, so you’ll see her soon. Kiy is super artistic and spastic. She is also the last person to stifle her opinion, and she always makes us laugh, even when we’re debating.
(Pans to Scarlet) And finally, Scarlet. Being fellow writing majors, we clung together in the sea of psychology and business majors, we being few and far between. She’s tiny and timid (and Catholic) but I think hanging out with us is starting to get to her.
SCARLET: Well, my nipple color kind of varies, you know? (Everyone nods in agreement)
RILEY: Well, our nipples are pretty tiny since we have such small boobs.
KIY: But…I like tiny boobs.
RILEY: (beams)
NICHOLE: I think we should get to class. (Everyone grudgingly agrees)
RILEY: (narrating again) Nichole has always been the voice of reason in our group. When some of us want to stay out late and waste time, she reminds us that we should study. And we appreciate that.
About classes…
[Scene change: Lyza in class. She stares through the lecturing professor, eyes glazed.
Scene change: Nichole in class, mirroring Lyza’s face.
Scene change: Riley, appearing enraptured. She gazes at the professor intently]
RILEY: (still narrating) I bet I look really focused, right? Well, not quite.
[Scene change: Riley’s imagination. Star Trek: The Motion Picture (2009)]

The U.S.S. Enterprise. Doctor Leonard McCoy (a.k.a. “Bones”) sat in a rotating chair, listening to his stomach through a stethoscope. Sweat pooled on his brow as the ships central air was malfunctioning.
“Need some entertainment?” Whirling around, his stethoscope flying, Bones turned towards the intruder- Riley Cavinah, a cadet who had been picked up recently to replace a fallen crew member. She was rebellious and had so started on the wrong foot with not only Captain James T. Kirk, but Commander Spock and his current fling, Communications Officer Nyota Uhura. At least Scotty seemed to like her.
“Can I help you?” Bones stammered. He stood up, straightening his uniform, which had become crumpled in his state of boredom and near-slumber. In comparison, she seemed a step below unprofessional. One pant leg was un-tucked from her boot, her jacket was no where to be seen, and there were grease stains on her undershirt. Her blonde hair was tied back in a messy bun. “I see you’ve been assisting Chief Engineer Scott.”
“Oh, let’s set aside the formal talk, huh?” she replied, smirking. “I’m avoiding Kirk and thought, since you’re never busy, maybe we could entertain each other.” She reached sensually behind him, her face coming dangerously close to his.
“Uhm... Cadet, I… Riley, I… This-“ She produced a pack of cards that had been sitting on his desk behind him.
“Blackjack?” She cocked an eye brow and he felt a jerk in his stomach.
“Sure.” He stuttered a little, wiping his brow as she pulled up a chair and a tray. She began dealing cards, her motions deft and fluid.
“Shall I start?” He realized he’d been staring at her hands. It wasn’t the worst thing that he could have been caught doing, he considered, nodding.

She won the first two games, and soon they were both covered in sweat. Bones fiddled at the button on the collar of his jacket, feeling the coarse material stick to his throat. Riley giggled flirtatiously.
“You can take off your jacket, no one’s around. As far as I know, Kirk is busy yelling at Scotty… I think that’s why he let me off. Didn’t want him to turn on me.” All the while she spoke, Bones still nervously fiddled with that button. “Here,” she purred, standing and pushing the tray aside,” Let me get that.”
With more strength than he thought she had, she pulled him up by the collar and planted a forceful kiss on his shock-parted lips. As if he’d expected the whole thing, his hands fell upon her, pulling the hem of her undershirt free of her pants.
“Oh, Leonard,” she moaned into his mouth.”
“Oh, Miss Hudson.” His voice changed, taking on the timber of a small, Indian woman. She pulled away shocked. “Explain to the class why biodiversity in the tropical rainforests is important.”

[Scene change- Riley in Environmental Science class, Professor Hulath is tapping her foot expectantly]
RILEY: Err… Klingons?

[End Scene]

Monday, August 17, 2009

I Constantly Thank God for Les Paul

I know I'm not gonna' be that far from home, but I'm still terrified of going off to school... Yep, that's it, but I haven't posted anything in 2 years, so.


Deal with it,
Robin-Beth xx

Saturday, March 3, 2007

And the shorts get packed away again.

Good-bye, warm weather. Hello, cold front!

My skinny, tan less legs were just getting used to sunlight, when the temperature decided to drop from 75 degrees, to 57 degrees. Funny? I beg to differ. Although I would always rather be cold than sweating, this is too much. Thanks to this weather, I am cooped up inside, forced to work on an extra-credit project for chemistry 1 honors, while some weird balding plumber fixes my parents shower.

And all my friends had plans to go to the beach...

I almost laugh, because somehow I knew I would not be able to join them. Somehow I knew something would come up to postpone our plans. Well, actually, something came down to postpone it. [In a childish tone] Stupid weather. *pouts*

Well, I suppose I should get started on that project. It is 10 test points after all. (Thank you Mrs. Priddy.)

Sincerely yours,

Cold and Contemplative

Friday, March 2, 2007

Another day in the life...

I thought when I quit marching band that it would be such a blatant release that I could not possibly miss it... And yet somehow, I do.

I see "all those band kids", huddled together, blissfully unaware of the cold reality of a lonely high school student's life. Huddled in the library, taking comfort in knowing these authors will not torment me so. Then again, I certainly was not expecting the events that led to my leave taking to occur at all...

I spent my freshman year in the rush of learning the tricks of the trade; in other words, learning to run complicated marching steps while playing even more complicated 16th-note runs on a tenor saxophone-that was 10 percent of my body weight, I would later find.

It was not until my sophomore year that I realized how harsh the system worked. This was the Holocaust of the 21st century: Director Kevin Ford was Adolph Hitler, the upperclassmen in leadership were the Nazis, and we, the trembling "noobs", were the Jews and gypsies and gays and blacks. They molded us, forced us to conform. We were not allowed to express ourselves. It was George Orwell's 1984 and I was Winston Smith.

Now, if you will recall, I was carrying an instrument quite large compared to myself, and yet essential to the band as a whole. This caused painful tendinitis in my right wrist, my right knee and my right ankle. Tendinitis, for those of you unaware of the problem, is sort of like arthritis, however, instead of affecting the bones, it affects the tendons- the parts that attach the muscle to the bone. Naturally, the pain in my leg threw off my gate and eventually the tendinitis spread all the way up my leg through my hip and into my lower back. When in runthroughs- a quick run of the part we just went over in marching band practice-my eyes would water, I thought to myself, It will all be worth it. Like the great Stephen King says,' everything is eventual'.

After a while, that optimistic attitude wore off. During breaks, I was forced to give up my water runs, for my injuries caused too much pain and exhaustion for my to cross the football field for a drink of which would only last but 30 seconds thanks to Hitler- I mean, Ford.

And all the while, I was constantly told that I was letting the band down. I was told that I was not working hard enough. I was even told that I sucked and- and I quote- "sound like a goose when I play". Even the instructors caused emotional anguish. I was brought to tears on more than one occasion by are drill teacher, Johnny Zollo, or as I liked to call him, our Drill Sargent.

My parents spoke with the Furer on numerous occasions of this abuse, yet I continued to be martyred to the point of emotional breakdowns in the school restrooms. My physical exhaustion caused me to puke and faint as they continued to badger me to "get back on the field!"

But I did not tell my parents the full extent of this abuse until it was too late, the marching season was over, the scars were there and would not heal easily. My pride and wish to please kept me from voicing my opinion and I was eventually left no choice but to leave the environment, granted many other circumstances contributed to said leave-taking.

I end this with one question: Was I wrong to leave?

Sincerely yours,

An anguished teen