Red Monster

Well, we had a little meet up with Green Monster – who really was in a bit of a state – and what happened? Blue Monster tried to gate crash. He’s already scared Green and thought he could make things better by insisting on coming to Green’s ‘party’. We spent ages trying to explain it wasn’t a party whilst Green barricaded himself in the toilet (right up until he remembered Yellow’s story, that is).

Still, Green Monster is now at least leaving the house once more, so if we could just stop Blue from trying to appologise to him all should be well once more; although Blue has insulted me yet again with insinuations that I have a Temper.

stomp

Anyway, putting monster relations on hold there for a minute, this week I want you to spend 20 minutes writing about a pet you either have or have had in a way that portrays their character.

The Daft Cat

Minnie the cat was a daft old thing. She pretended to be the grouchiest, meanest “DONT COME NEAR ME” cat in the whole farm, and there were a lot of cats, at least five though sometimes visiting cats would lurk taking the number up to seven. But Minnie was really as soft as butter and when the little Black and White kittens who were – she professed – the bane of her life pounced on the end of her tail, which was flicking in annoyance over their distracting little mews whilst she was watching the birds on the windowsill – she was secretly pleased.

She duffed them up anyway, and then went out and caught them a mouse.

The kittens loved Minnie and were always trying to snuggle up with her – oh, she wasn’t their mother, but then their mother had been a neglected cat and had taken it out on them so Minnie was an angel in comparison. Plus she bought them mice.

Minnie often chased them off and, once she was sure they knew who was boss, she would let them snuggle up to her – it was just for the warmth, you understand; it had nothing to do with little cute noises and fluffy fur.

Well, Green Monster has gotten himself into a bit of a state, and misunderstood my piece last week where I was using green eyes on my monster as a written symbol for jealousy without actually using the word, praying on old wives tales. Still, I spoke to him and he has agreed to let me and Yellow Monster come round for some tortilla chips, guacamole and lime-aid.

This week I thought we could all go and examine some piece of nature outside and write a poem on it.

The Little Damsel Fly

Zoom zoom went the little damsel fly

zoom zoom across the waters of the pond

zipping and zapping and whizzing and wozzing

back and forth and back again

Zoom zoom went the little damsel fly

through the water lilies and over the pond

skimming and skirting around the plants

back and forth and back again

zoom zoom went the little damsel fly

until the large trout with the wallowing eyes

aspied their whizzing and whirling

and thought that a dinner of it should be made

Snap snap went the large trout’s jaws

upon the little damsel fly

and the little damsel fly was no more

Oh dear poor Green Monster has been scared by Blue Monster trying to be nice – I’m attemtping not to roll my eyes in despair at the Monster condition. I have this horrible feeling that I am going to have to intervene; after all, Green is my friend and, I encouraged him to get a blog.

Interestingly though, this whole episode seems to have inspired the writing bug in us all, so to keep with the emotive theme this week I want you all to write about jealousy.

Jealousy

A coiled monster sleeps within

a dragon

tamed and wild

it sleeps now in the home of the Id

peaceful and serene

When awake

it has jewel green eyes

a blade sharp tongue

and acrid breath

that may melt resolve

This is the fear

the nightmare from within

it sleeps now

but not for long

and you cannot run

it stirs at your thoughts

fear

Blue Monster! How many times do we have to explain that initially Yellow Monster was being friendly with statements like “dude”? I do have to admit it was getting a little passive agressive, but then you do always over-react!

Yellow is right. We need to cool off a bit otherwise poor Green Monster will stop reviewing, and then our battle to infect the human race with reading and writing and the such like will be a little less effective.

This week I think you should all write on the specific theme of Pride; and this most certainly is based on a personality trait I see in a certain fellow monster.

Pride

Pride grows

a thorny flower

in a garden of life

striving always to push further

in danger of hyperbole

in danger of killing the grace

of creativity as it flows

Pride breeds complacency

but not enough

and there will never be fruit

Pride

Oh, dear; Blue has gone into a sulk again and Green is being upset too, you would think we were all a bunch of kids in the schoolyard here.

Still, here is this week’s exercise – write something about wood for twenty minutes.

Whittling Wood

I watched Dad for a long time, the way he would whittle the wood, lifting it regularly up to his eye staring in a vague concentration. He only had a penknife to fashion his little miracles out of the chunks of wood he brought home from the wood yard. It had a red handle with the Swiss symbol emblazoned in gold. This time he was carving a hedgehog about 5 centimetres long with a wonky noise that followed the grain, and would give the hedgehog character.

It was pine but with a bountiful close grain and it smelt of lemons and limes to me. I was ten and my birthday was in the morning; the hedgehog, I knew, was not for me but for my little brother, so that he would leave me be to enjoy my presents. I didn’t feel as excited as I had in previous years; I knew there was no money, my grandmother had had to step in and buy new school clothes for me, and I had none of the set texts so would be carting around battered school copies with ripped pages and ink blotches.

I went to bed as he was finishing inscribing the lines on the hedhog’s back that were its prickles. I found sleep hard but eventually I slept and awoke to sunrays under my door and through my window – the light was a harsh white and it made me feel nostalgic. It was the first time I had ever felt that sad poignancy in my stomach and I savoured it, unsure as to whether moving from the warm cocoon of my bed would destroy it.

I got up anyway because all ten year olds secretly know there have to be some presents on their birthday even if there is no money. I snuck down the stairs in a Minnie Mouse nightshirt and hand crocheted orange-pink bed socks.

The living room table where we ate our meals contained a few small presents wrapped carefully in reclaimed Christmas paper and the card I recognised as a Christmas card that had been chopped and reincarnated. It had a Care Baer on it and I loved it.

Dad appeared from the kitchen and smiled, handing me porridge with a chocolate square on top. I grinned and sat down cross-legged on the floor blowing it to a coolness I could eat. The chocolate square was molten, though it had retained its shape.

Presents! I longed to open them and before I finished swallowing my last mouthful I was up and prodding at the parcels. Dad consented to let me open them then rather than waiting till after school for Mum to come home from work.

One was a geometry set from my grandmother – useful, practical and much needed for school. The next was my Mum’s oldest make-up set full of half used blues and pinks – it held no interest for me and I pushed it aside. Then, to my joy, there was a small balsa wood aeroplane, and another and another made with matchsticks and broken wooden pegs and other such things; I had a whole squad. Mostly they where biplanes, and I was ecstatic.

But there was one last present and it was the smallest, tiniest of all, but it was heavy. To my astonishment I uncovered a red handle that was so familiar but this one was half the size with only a few things, two blades, a bottle opener and a corkscrew. It was beautiful though the gold emblem had already been scraped off and the red handle had a blobby yellow scar from some glue repair in the distant past.

Grinning, my dad produced a box of offcuts and said I could choose three pieces. I grinned and looked at the wood. The first piece I touched told me what it wanted to be – a Chinese man with a large hat in the paddy fields – I made him for my mother, the second said it wanted to be skull and I made it for my brother. The third piece, why, it said it wanted to be a hedgehog and ended up with a very wonky nose – I gave that to my Dad.

I am in despair of Blue Monster and think he may now of offended Green Monster even more with his comments on creativity.

Never mind lets try and write without the letter R!

Omitting the letter R

So complex is the situation of composing an essay without the use of specific symbols within the language that is native to us. It is so difficult that it can cause a swelling of the mind if you do not make amends. But this one is less difficult to do than t would be. Even so I would not like to compile a whole novel like this.

Blue Monster seems to be taking offence rather easily yet again though I have to say that the Mellow Fellow Yellow does appear to be doing some passive aggressive stirring. Though I am a bit worried that Blue’s comments on reviewing things is going to upset Green Monster. Oh well only time will tell I suppose.

Now this week try and place two concepts in a piece of writing that seem totally unrelated and see what sort of imagery this creates.

And Blue did steal my exercises – he often borrows an idea but this time it was out and out theft.

Two mice pondered the world

It was as bright as elastic

At that moment it pinged

Blue Monster, Yellow was being nice! It’s a term of endearment and means you are good and nice, also would you please mind not stealing my writing exercises – think up your own please!

Anyway I think this week we should all spend 10 minutes writing about vanity.

I remember the red oozing down my face and the shock that it was cold, that I felt cold and I swooned, and sat down heavily. The room seemed to tilt and I waited, transfixed, wondering if this time I had really done it. If I had through stupidity killed myself, and the marshmallow thoughts I was now consumed by where dying concussed thoughts.

There was a smell of tin or thunder or electricity and I thought that my blood would run into the electric sockets and fry me where I sat with the hard plastic of them pushing into me.

I looked at the shoe in my hand the redness of it and the dark dampness where my blood had soaked the heel, the vicious spike that had fallen out of the crate I was trying to remove from the wardrobe.

I had always been told as a child that vanity was dangerous and I had always laughed. This time I smiled a crooked little smile and felt drowsy.

You know I can’t help but notice that even when Blue Monster is trying to be nice he is still some how arrogant – oh well at least he is trying.

I have noticed recently that light has a different quality on different days here on this planet so I thought that we could use this to great effect in our writing.

So write for 10 minutes on the light through the window.

The light coming through the window is milky white and the light insipid, the girl sits at an equally dirty grey laptop writing, wondering when the lunch bell will ring and release her from the torment of getting those sticky thoughts she can not abide down on the screen page. The screen page is also a dull white infused with that slightly grating light that hurts the eyes, it is draining, the colours of the world have tarnished in its glow. Headache sets in and she longs for sleep but she may not as she is just killing time.

Time, it seems is, not so easy to kill, though it was the killer that had taken so many away. That is the reason why she sits and stares and types meaningless nothing. The funeral is at least three hours away and there is nothing but her own mind for company – a mind that in substance and actuality is the pearlised grey of the sleet clouds that roll lazily over the world outside her window.

Her mind feels like the clouds nebulous and stark in soaring latitudes that pummel the ground with a ferocious torrent. The girl longs for the golden warmth of autumn sun but the harsh sun of the summer never came and the world is still locked in the winter-esque throes. Warm and damp and above all grey. The azure blue was but a memory the world has dimmed, and the girl waits.

And waits but still the clouds slowly shuffle across the blanketed sky and she awaits the rituals of death that have no meaning for her.

She would cry if the greyness would leave, but it will not; perhaps this is a good thing as beneath it is the black and red of angry despair and such a soul as hers that has been drained of its colour could not take their strength nor vibrancy.

Blue’s writing is getting shorter and shorter I note, and also of a more and more dubious nature.

Still, my friend Green Monster will be joining us soon with a sparkly new blog. I believe that he tends to review science fiction, horror and the like, which is cool.

This week write anything you like about a weather phenomena and try to anthropomorphise it, i.e. give it human characteristics.

Rita Rainbow

Rita the Rainbow skipped across the hillside chasing the rain shadow; she wanted a shower but the rain always just ran away from her. Behind her the sun smiled shyly and pretended not to be watching every time Rita looked up at her.

After a while Rita began to get tired and the hills were running out. Instead a vast array of Blue Ocean lay before her. It looked so lovely and she was sure she could bathe in it. And so she jumped and she dived and she splashed into the glittering water and to her surprise Rita the Rainbow broke into hundreds of small darting rainbows and these swam around happily.

Later on they missed being a rainbow and swam together around a small island. Some of the fish stopped swimming but other swam around and around and they found they were a rainbow once more. And so the Coral Sea was born.