Writing://CC Exercise Death of Narrator 1.20.2009

In Which our Hero, BA Boucher, attempts to write about a guy who dies but still speaks. He fails...

Lazy Tuesday. Just a normal day, new president, old job. Here's an old exercise from the CC forums I did today:

Write a story as a narration but make the narrator himself die somehow and then continue the story creatively till a suitable end. Creatively I say because the narrator has died in the middle of story and now the story has to be narrated without a narrator. But how? Be creative!
Writer: Kenie

I saw a movie once.

I know big deal right? No this one was cool, it was like this insurance guy talking into a old school tape recorder. Only it wasn't like on cassette or anything, it was totally like the Flintstones. Anyshits, this guy is confessing all this ill shit he did with this chick.

Yeah that was cool.

So I'm most probably dead right now. Or going to be soon. I recorded a couple of files to play after this one. Those are the goodbye tapes. This is more like a commentary track on how it feels. Fuck man, it's just cold.

Cold and empty.

Look man, no need for me to bum you out even more. Let's just say that the end is fucking heavy dude.

Oh shit! I think they are here. I've got to go, remember play the tapes in order. Hey man, I lo...

**

Remember that time we tickle Patrick so hard he shit himself?

That was cool.

Hey this is Tape 1 side two and I've a confession to make. I made these tapes in advance and mailed them to you. Problem is I didn't have your address. So I made some calls. Gloria is not happy with you at all...

***

Welcome to tape 4.

Like I was saying. You need to watch who it is you are messing with. They know, dude, they know...

***

Tape 2 back in school.

So Gloria was telling me you turned me in....

***

Boop! Tape six

Not necessary to run. Before they come for me I'm going to tell them every...

***

Tape ten is in

You deserve everything you assho...

***

Tape one side one

I love you dad

That was kind of cool actually

Writing://CC Exercise Elf and Dwarf 1.19.2009

Wherein our hero, BA Boucher attempts to recreate the single lamest joke in the world and fails.
I don't get along with my father at all. In fact we haven't spoken in almost a decade. However, before the age of ten he was my best friend. Time has done what it can to erase most of the good memories but every so often. I remember vividly this really lame joke he told me at eight years old. I've co-opted the memory for the below exercise:

In 500 words or less, show us what happens when a party of fantasy cliches walks into a tavern only to learn that all Quests have been canceled due to the weather. Now what are they supposed to do while saving the world is put on hold?

Writer: Mercwriter

An Elf and a Dwarf walk into a bar.
You'd think the elf would've ducked.


Two nuns walk into a bar. You think the second one would've ducked. That bust my crap up as a kid.

Writing:// Boy meets Girl Exercise 1/08/0009

Wherein our hero, BA Boucher, attempts to discover what a man raised among men would say about the first woman ever seen, and ultimately fails

Hello again. Critique Circle is the best place on the web that I've found that keeps up the writing muscle. What with the forums, exercises, and critiquing. Here's another episode of CC exercises.

For whatever reason, somebody has grown to adulthood living entirely among members of their own gender. They have never spoken to or seen a member of the opposite gender, or even learned that another gender existed. Unexpectedly, they meet someone from the opposite gender.

Writer: Cookiemobs

"Hey Rob!"

"What Johnny?" He said this through teary eyes.

"That dude with the chest tumors didn't think my fart was funny!"

"What the hell?"

"I don't know what that means, but let's beat it to death with a claw hammer."

"Hells yeah, after that let's drink beer!"

Yep, spend a hell of a lot of time with that one.

Move along

Writing:// Emotional Intensity Exercise 01/06/09

Wherein our hero, BA Boucher, is tasked to write about an intense emotion, and fails intensely

Because I had fun yesterday posting an older exercise that was laughed out of the room, and also because I was bored at work, I did another exercise at the always interesting Critique Circle.

This one started as something in my head, then became about a guy with diarrhea.

That might be a pull quote for my autobiography, "He Eats Ninjas and Shits Pirates."

Write a short piece demonstrating a character feeling an intense emotion—anger, sorrow, love, regret, etc. The catch is, you can't mention the emotion or any synonym of it anywhere in the writing. Put the emotion you're going for in the title and then show it, without telling. The most convincing emotion wins.
Writer: Kenrandall

Guilt

The novel is bent and warped. A cycle of steam, cold, heat, and humidity as taken the pages and started the process of turning it into pulp. It's only taken a week to finish this one. My fingers are becoming black, leaving prints on the porcelain. They should have no problem figuring out the who done it this time. Colombo be damned.

It probably isn't wise to be here still. I can't make myself leave. I've been successful in avoiding the garage, but the smell...

Not that I spent much time out of this room. My stomach is attempting to burst. I've lost the shame of destroying her bathroom with my, well let's just say...liquids.

She was so beautiful.

I remember once seeing a small girl on the street corner selling roses. One by one her sunny smile made her nickel after nickel. All but one she sold, that one she kept in a bag by her feet. I asked her why not sell that rose? She told me that it was a funny color, not like the rest. I offered to buy it from her for a dime, she refused me. Everyone got the same beautiful rose, but the one that was special was going to be for her mother.

She was so special, my wife

I've developed a hemorrhoid from my bowels hovering between chaos and agony. I'm out of toilet paper again. I'll have to get some more but we kept the extra in the garage.

The smell...

My legs are leaden down the hallway, half from atrophy, half from dread. My vision narrows as I search for something to focus on other than the garage door. A photo from Disneyland, her favorite blanket, a coffee cup with lipstick on the rim. My stomach turns.

I collapse to my knees when I touch the handle of the door. It swings open more from mental force than motion of my arm.

She is smiling.

I slip on the liquids that used to be inside her. I fall on my stomach, fill my pants, and come face to face with her.

She is smiling.

I am crying.

Our smells entwine and I fall asleep.

I'll let you know the grade later, but after a re-read it's looking pretty grim.

Writing:// Suicide Exercise 9.02.2008

Wherein our hero, BA Boucher, writes about killing himself, he ultimately fails

I frequent a site called Critique Circle. It's a fun, alarmingly workable site that allows for different writers to come together and tear into the soft flesh of your still unripe work. In all seriousness, it is well put together and the other writers are for the most part patient, giving, and helpful. Some don't know what the hell they are talking about but that's par for the course.

The forums are a different beast.

One thing the site does well is exercises. A simple topic where you write a fast 500 words and then you are judged by everyone and eventually left disappointed in yourself and your spell checker.

Here's one I did for suicide. And this is the reason why I should never write about suicide

You are committing suicide. How? Why? Will anyone be there to stop you?

Try to keep it below 500 words, or just over —- no extremely long entries.
Writer: Candle

There's a pressure in my head. A thumping. A thunder. Every time They see me and open Their mouths I feel my mind filling with weight.

It's jealousy They feel, it has to be. What else could it be? I see the judging in Their eyes, Their disappointed half smiles when They find Themselves lacking to my measure stick. It's almost worth living for.

If it wasn't for this pain behind my eyes and ears and gums and nostrils. My tongue is thick and listless from the viscosity. This damn pain!

I went to every shrink in the book. Quacks every last one of Them. "Hello, sir, please tell me of your pain." Not five minutes in and I feel the piercing stab of Their eyes.

My head has begun to tip to the left because my neck isn't strong enough for the growing weight of my once beautiful head.

I have to make it stop.

Two choices, One pistol. Them or Me?

I spread plastic tarps over my expensive Italian sofas. For the mess, one part blood, one part steam.

I polish my shoes.

Dry clean my suit.

Clean my gun.

I shower, shave, and dress. Immaculate.

As the gun skips across my veneers my wife enters the room. She sees me in the the middle of a plastic room with a gun in my mouth.

Her face shows concern.

I loosen my grip on the gun.

Her face shows disappointment.

The gun leaves my mouth.

She asks me why? Then, there it is, that look, She becomes Them.

The gun throws a bullet into her condescending smile.

The barrel is still hot and burns my tongue.

I take one last look at Heaven...Even God looks down on me.

The gun fires.

I got a 1.88 out of 4. That's what I get for five minutes when I should have been working on a presentation report.

Maybe I should do more of these