Reverant
09-22-2011, 11:49 AM
So, as some might have noticed, I've posted like three million times in the past week. It's been my outlet between the hours and hours of brain-crushing reading and studying and presentation preparing, as I just can't seem to get any gaming in.
Today, I decided I should take some of that boredom and try to do something useful, so I came up with an idea. Open a blank document, and then just type about whatever the hell you see. Funny, sad, serious, nonsensical, just spill some words out onto the document. I called it "Ready, GO!" because it's all about launching yourself into whatever you got. If you translate GO from Farsi, you get "Ready, SHIT!", so you could also view it as shitting out whatever you have pent up inside.
I actually wanted to do some developing of a story idea about alien polar bears invading Canada, but I found I just couldn't get a place to start. I wanted a writing exercise, though, so I decided to try to describe the room I was in.
I know not the name of the grand hall in which I sit, nor do I recall the name of the building in which it lives. Grand is an apt word. It is wide and spacious, the ceiling is tall, and the decoration is aristocratic. Dark wooden walls with ornately carved features enclose what must have once been a ballroom. Three massive chandeliers hang in a row, their faux electric candles casting a pale light that reflects off the bronze arms that hold them. They are vaguely squid-like, as if a mad king had ordered a retinue of trained octopi to illuminate his banquet hall. Portraits of reserved, long-deceased men, women, and children dot the walls. From the gravity of their expressions and apparent wealth, I assume these portraits were painted after the patrons escaped the Titanic. Their grim, pessimistic attitudes cast an unseen, moody pallor about the grand room.
“I would like to purchase one of your drinks in your refrigerator if they are for sale,” cries an old woman with an ambiguously European accent. She is standing at the tiny Starbucks bar in the corner of the hall. The refrigerator hums its electric song.
“Uh, yeah. They’re for sale. What kind do you want?” asks the barkeepess.
“I would like to have a lemonade, yes,” says the old woman. The mournful stare of the girl in the portrait above the bar says that she too wishes to have a lemonade.
But the desire to taste lemonade is a folly of a thing, a wish unbecoming of the dead and the painted. Surely, those who’ve left the mortal coil would taste something much sweeter? Do the dead still thirst? Wouldn’t the children ask for something they never had in their lifetime, like beer? I asked the portrait if she was thirsty, but she only stared.
So did the people standing next to me. That was awkward.
Today, I decided I should take some of that boredom and try to do something useful, so I came up with an idea. Open a blank document, and then just type about whatever the hell you see. Funny, sad, serious, nonsensical, just spill some words out onto the document. I called it "Ready, GO!" because it's all about launching yourself into whatever you got. If you translate GO from Farsi, you get "Ready, SHIT!", so you could also view it as shitting out whatever you have pent up inside.
I actually wanted to do some developing of a story idea about alien polar bears invading Canada, but I found I just couldn't get a place to start. I wanted a writing exercise, though, so I decided to try to describe the room I was in.
I know not the name of the grand hall in which I sit, nor do I recall the name of the building in which it lives. Grand is an apt word. It is wide and spacious, the ceiling is tall, and the decoration is aristocratic. Dark wooden walls with ornately carved features enclose what must have once been a ballroom. Three massive chandeliers hang in a row, their faux electric candles casting a pale light that reflects off the bronze arms that hold them. They are vaguely squid-like, as if a mad king had ordered a retinue of trained octopi to illuminate his banquet hall. Portraits of reserved, long-deceased men, women, and children dot the walls. From the gravity of their expressions and apparent wealth, I assume these portraits were painted after the patrons escaped the Titanic. Their grim, pessimistic attitudes cast an unseen, moody pallor about the grand room.
“I would like to purchase one of your drinks in your refrigerator if they are for sale,” cries an old woman with an ambiguously European accent. She is standing at the tiny Starbucks bar in the corner of the hall. The refrigerator hums its electric song.
“Uh, yeah. They’re for sale. What kind do you want?” asks the barkeepess.
“I would like to have a lemonade, yes,” says the old woman. The mournful stare of the girl in the portrait above the bar says that she too wishes to have a lemonade.
But the desire to taste lemonade is a folly of a thing, a wish unbecoming of the dead and the painted. Surely, those who’ve left the mortal coil would taste something much sweeter? Do the dead still thirst? Wouldn’t the children ask for something they never had in their lifetime, like beer? I asked the portrait if she was thirsty, but she only stared.
So did the people standing next to me. That was awkward.