therevolutionwriter

[therevolutionwriter]

Writing Prompt: The Bag

You were riding your bike home after a pleasant day at a friend’s house. On your way, you pass a very full looking garbage bag. It smells awful, worse than your run-of-the-mill garbage, and is sitting on the sidewalk in your way. 

[therevolutionwriter]

On “Cringe” Writers

It’s been a few years since anyone’s called me a cringe writer, so I figure that I’m distant enough from the topic to talk about it now. 

I’m fairly sure that we all know what a “cringe” writer consists of. If you’ve been a part of the writing community for any amount of time, you’ve likely encountered one or perhaps been considered one. For those who don’t know, a cringe writer is usually referred to as an overly emotional, often grammatically incorrect, and, well, cringeworthy writer. 

As with anything, there are varying opinions on such writers. Many rush to defend them, many more wish they’d be exiled from writing. As for me, what I have to say about them is purely my opinion, and you can easily brush it off, but I’d appreciate it if you’d stop to listen.

I really do wish you all wouldn’t call them cringe writers. It’s demeaning, and even if in some cases it may be accurate, using it as an umbrella term for any writer that’s in their early teens (as such writers are often referred to) or that uses a lot of emotion is wrong. 

I’m currently in an Advanced Placement Literature class. There, we break down a lot of writing and see what works and what doesn’t. Which is precisely what I believe we should do for our fellow writers. 

Rather than condemn them with the title of a cringe writer, why not seek to give productive feedback? (And yes, I have also encountered those writers who  refuse to accept any feedback that isn’t excessive praise. To them, I say that you need to let your walls down a bit. It may sting to hear that your story isn’t the next Hunger Games, but listening to what others have to say is almost always a good thing, and will help you improve your writing tremendously.)

The way I see it, anyone who writes immediately becomes a part of something much larger than themselves. They join centuries worth of people who decided that putting pencil to paper was meaningful, and help to keep alive the legacy that is writing. So please, anyone who reads this, don’t shun anyone’s writing. Help them improve it. We as writers are all a part of that legacy. Why put it to shame by killing our fellow legends? We are a family, bonded not by blood, but by ink, that  nevertheless flows through our veins and unites us. So be proud. Write. Inspire. 

[therevolutionwriter]

Dominoes

Hey everyone! This is just another little story I wrote, based on the same prompt as the last. Any feedback or opinion on which is better would be adored!

           It started off corny. It was something silly, like something out of a cheap rom-com. If you’d seen her that day, and had previously known my sister, you’d have to agree that from the back they looked like twins that day. Dirty blonde hair, round shoulders, faded black jeans. Of course, there were subtle differences, although I wouldn’t notice them until much later. Her version of dirty blonde was just a bit filthier, her sleeves ending a stitch higher on her shoulders, and my sister always wore Levi’s, while she wore Hype.

        If you’ve ever had a younger sibling, you know the type of thought that went through my mind. Us older siblings have a reputation for being indifferent and on the border of mean. What we never tell you is that it’s all in good fun, and that secretly the younger sibling enjoys it to a degree (even if sometimes they don’t realize that they do.).

        We hadn’t seen each other in roughly two weeks, if my memory hasn’t decayed as badly as some say it has. The opportunity to pull a jumpscare like something out of those old horror games was irresistible. So I snuck up on my tiptoes, looking like something out of the saturday cartoons. My hands pushed on her shoulders and I yelled in my most obnoxious child-like voice: “BOO!”

She jumped in shock (looking almost as if someone had literally taken a wire and shocked her), and turned to face me. My cheeks almost  immediately began to hurt from the smiling, from the roaring laughter being emitted from my lips. My stomach followed suit, until I got a better look at her. My stomach switched gears and began to do flips, and my cheeks began to burn.

This girl was a total stranger.

She considered me with a look I can only describe as being somewhere between curious and confused, with an undeniable hint of what-the-heck-are-you-doing added in. To my surprise, she then grinned, eyebrows still furrowed, and let out a cautious laugh, her nose crinkling the whole time.

“What was that?” She asked, one eyebrow raised with interest (That eyebrow raising would later be something she’d try to teach me. I’d fail, of course.)

I stumbled over my tongue, searching desperately for words. What should one say after something like this? Should I laugh too? Walk away? After realizing that my silence was making the conversation more awkward than it already was, I managed to think of a sentence.

“You looked like my sister. Sorry.”

It’s strange what can start something big. How a chance encounter (especially cheap rom-comesque ones) can trigger long chains of events. Our fate was one of dominoes, and that day the first one fell.

As far as we knew, we had nothing in common,  nothing but this one experience; this one strange, silly, childish experience. Of course, it didn’t take much more than that. We got lunch together, sandwiches from a corner store (I only remember that from the spilling of vinegar on my sandwich onto what was, at the time, my favorite hoodie). In some ways, it was a bit less like a cheesy romance novel than it had started out as. We weren’t obsessed with each other at first sight. That first lunch was void of flirtatious chatter, no subtle touches, no lingering eye contact. All we knew was that we were both in college, both came from families with high expectations, and both enjoyed sandwiches (I also found out that she doesn’t enjoy vinegar, although she’d always finish my sandwiches for me anyways.) We were friends, and that’s all. We made a habit of going out to lunch, and for a long time, that’s what our relationship consisted of.

It wasn’t until after about a year that…”something” happened. We got our sandwiches and sat down, as was the custom by then. I then went to the bathroom. I was only about a minute, and when I came back she was already halfway done with her sub. She urged me to hurry up and eat. I nodded and took what my five year old would now call a “big boy bite”. I didn’t notice at first. There was the crunch of the lettuce, zing of the vinegar, fleshy turkey taste. But there was something else. Something creamy, although definitely not my usual mustard. Smooth, but gross, something like lotion.

And that’s exactly what it was. She saw my face turn and screeched with laughter, turning heads in the store as she giddily sputtered out:

“T-THAT’S...THAT’S LOTION!”

I gagged at the words and began to spit the stuff out. I found myself laughing along with her, despite being genuinely disappointed that such a good sandwich had been wasted. And so began a more rapid falling of the dominoes. It was our little game, our inside joke. The things we did varied. One day, I gave her a sip of “water” (white vinegar). Another, she gave me a water bottle full of rum (and peroxide). And of course, to make time for the game we began to hang out at more than just lunch. Weekends, days off, anything that fit into our schedules. Some of my friends called her my girlfriend, whereas we didn’t call each other anything. Still, people perceived sparks between us, especially when she moved in with me.

I don’t remember whose idea it was to move in together, or if we even discussed it at all. All I have are vague recollections of her just being there one day, and me being okay with it. And of course, like a stereotypical dare-gone-wrong movie, our game intensified. She left a spider on my face while I was sleeping, I left baby powder in her favorite beanie. She hid my homework, I stole her makeup. And so on, of course. It was always fun, and while inevitably it went too far at times, we always made amends.

It was the night before April Fool’s Day. As you can imagine, at this time of year it was critical to get in the most hilarious and absurd pranks. I was sure I had her beat at dinnertime, after all, who could handle ghost pepper sauce? Meals were always a cherished time for trickery, and giving her a burger with some of the hottest sauce known to man seemed as good a prank as any. That was, of course, until I bit into my own burger, and after a moment felt as though I’d been French kissing a dragon. She’d been a step ahead, and had switched our burgers.

I went to bed that night with a sore tongue and even sorer attitude. The next day, I knew my reputation in this game was dependent upon my next move. I stayed up that night, staring at the ceiling and trying to block out the sound of the city outside. I listened for snoring, soft snores that she denied making but that I knew she did anyways. And by the time I heard them, my plan had been formulated.

It seemed simple, but far from innocent. I knew that she always left first in the morning, much earlier than I did (5:00, to be exact). The hallway outside of our apartment was hard and smooth, already just a bit slippery. I stayed up until 4:45, and then snuck out, restraining myself from giggling at my genius. I poured the vegetable oil just outside the door, and then set up my phone’s camera, ready for it to capture the moment she would slip and slide just as she set her foot out the door. My trap set, I went to my bed and pretended to sleep.

She awoke at 5:00. She took her shower, she got dressed, just like any other morning. She attempted to wake me in vain, also just like any other morning. I smiled to myself as I heard her gentle footsteps padding towards the door. As expected, there was a loud bump. What was not expected was the two voices screaming. Hers I knew, but the other voice had age to it, a sort of depth that she lacked. I rushed and ran up to the door, one part curious and two parts terrified. There, in the doorway, was her, her hand over her mouth like that dramatic scene from every tragic movie I’ve watched since. On the outside was an older woman, a mother as I’d soon find out. And at their feet, a near black pool of scarlet oozing out of his head, was a little boy. A very still little boy.

The rest, as they say, is history. I have a record now. When I got out, she was not there to greet me. At the court I can still feel the sting of that mother’s slap, the bark of her words. It almost stung as much as the rum I’d taken to afterwards. And of course, I’ve moved on with my life. Found someone, started a family. Even managed to get a job (ironically, at a corner store). But that’s not to say it’s behind me. It never will be, of course. Previously, I hadn’t believed in fate, but how else could such a strange chance encounter have led to that? That one mistake, that silly trick, it tempted fate’s hand to begin the tipping. And when that last domino fell, so did I.

[therevolutionwriter]

A Bad Man: Short Story

Hey guys! Entering a short story contest in a few days, if anyone could give me feedback that’d be awesome!

I thought it was Errol. I swear I did. The tall, lanky posture, looking akin to a spooky-scary-skeleton. The short, nappy head hair. But what really sold me was the jacket. I mean, no one but Errol wears that sickly green jacket, right?

I hadn’t spoken to him in a number of weeks. It was one of those friendships that slowly fades, sinking like a ship, only kept afloat by the occasional sighting in the streets. I had his number, of course, but with work and school I barely even had time to talk to my family, let alone loose friends. Yet we’d shared so many memories, so many laughs and underage beers, it seemed as though letting that friendship die out just wasn’t something that could be done. Not without it bothering me for years, at least.

So when I saw him, strolling down the street in the seedy area of the city that night, I figured what better way to revive a laughter-filled relationship than with a laugh. It was purely impulse, something done on a whim. I tiptoed up to him, looking like a cartoon character from the saturday shows, grabbed his shoulders, and yelled into his ear in my most obnoxious child-like voice: “BOO!”

He didn’t jump with surprise, like I’d imagined. Instead, he turned very slowly, almost like a villain looking back on the havoc they’ve wreaked, only with a sour, ugly fury in his face. His face was much more aged than Errol’s, with a thin beard just as nappy as his head hovering on his face. His eyes were large and glossy, and by the time that I realized that this, in fact, was not Errol, they were locked onto my own.

I stepped back. In retrospect I realize I should’ve apologized, but in that moment I was fixated on his glare, my mind still scrambling to comprehend that this man was not by good friend Errol. We stood there for about a minute, his eyes still boring into my skull, and a silence in the air so tense it could be balanced on like a tightrope. Then his grizzly eyebrows furrowed, and he squinted at me.

“Boo?” He said, it seeming more a statement than a question.

Unsure of what to do I nodded, and immediately thought what an idiot I must’ve seemed like. I turned,and began to walk away, until I felt a hand firm on my shoulder. I glanced down at it, and saw scarred knuckles and broken skin clutching me. I turned with an embarrassed  smile and opened my mouth to apologize. The turn of my face was met with a large cracking noise, pain, and the taste of scarlet in my mouth.

Upon realizing I was on the ground and that he must have hit me, I managed to look up at him, my head swimming and my stomach doing backflips. A silver barrel greeted my eyes.

He stood above, still squinting.

“Who the fuck do you think I am?” he said.

I was momentarily intrigued by his voice. Slightly gravelly, but smooth enough to understand. And surprisingly, rather monotone, not even a faint whisper of anger behind his words. I spit out a bit of dark crimson, and spoke.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were somebody else.”

His stance was awkward. He stood while leaning slightly back, his legs spread out and that lethal squint still on his face.

“Lemme tell you who I am.”

I began to rise, and he grabbed my face, his fingers harsh and unforgiving as they squeezed my cheeks to the point that I felt sure it would bruise. He poked the gun at the edge of my lips.

“I’m a bad man.” he whispered.

I began to question how I’d managed to get myself into this. Questioned what I was doing catching the bus on this side of town anyways, why I’d gone a different route today. Why wasn’t I home already? Or at least on the bus, leaning on a frigid seat?

I was suddenly aware of the absence of the pressure on my face, and watched as he slid the pistol back into his pocket, turned, and walked away, once again seeming so innocently like Errol.

Later, I’d refuse to explain the bruises on my face. Later, I’d think of this man and not know whether to bawl or giggle. But at that moment, with pain fresh on my cheeks and my heart doing parkour in my chest, I only sat there a moment and stared, pondering his identity, wondering if he was, in fact what he said he was.

Later, I’d wonder if I should’ve called the police. Much later, years, I’d tell the story to my children. And later, that night, I’d lay in my firm bed, staring up at the ceiling, remembering that phrase and trying to replicate it on my feminine lips, and failing.

“I’m a bad man.”

[therevolutionwriter]

Writing Prompt: Time Travel

Hey all! Rev here with a writing prompt to get those creative juices flooding out of your ears and onto the page where they belong! And here it is: You have been selected to be the first human to test time travel, travelling exactly one hour into the future and being told to report what you see. When you step out of the travel pod, however, the laboratory is destroyed and there is not a human in sight. 

I’m looking forward to seeing what y’all come up with!

[therevolutionwriter]

Hello From the Other Side!

Hello everyone, and welcome to my blog! Of course, I imagine you’ll want to know about me before you commit to searching for any of my content. If I like you, I’ll tell you my real name, but for now, you may call me Rev. I’m a writer, activist, thinker, and lots of other nice (and not so nice) things. So what is my blog about? Mainly, I’ll be posting creative writing, thought provoking paragraphs, writing prompts, and if I’m in one of those moods perhaps even some quotes. All I’m trying to do is change the world one word at a time. Feel free to join me.