Slam Poem: I Remember the Zoo

I remember the zoo…

I am still young, my story hardly begun, as I weave among the forest of legs.

And these soft trunks, they obscure the beasts whose voices lure, assure me of great wonder ahead.

A light begins to shine behind, my confines, and my heart excites,

So with haste, I race to the front where the forest is replaced with a jungle that shakes,

And its branches and vines are entwined in designs that climb in my eager mind.

Sounds erupt in the air, from the creatures who spare no room for silence and I dare not deny their song.

I roar with them.

Soar with them.

And yet I am torn from them as the forest swarms again;

And I can feel their scorn borne of experience

And inflicted on those who contradicted what was predicted in day dreams.

But these dreams are like me, and unlike the bereaved, they can see and believe in colours that breathe.

And yet these dreams dream to leave unaware of how they with grieve the fleeting sheen through which they now see

For I yearn to return to the time without concern and a curiosity that still burned for the wild;

When I could still see the jungle,

How with life it quivered. Shivered. Delivered its identity.

How I would reach to breach the glass and wish to remain there for my life to pass

I remember the zoo…

Do you?

Quote Dialogue

A: Is Sean coming with us tonight?

B: I doubt it, the last time I talked to him was “too busy to breathe”.

A: Still? What does he have to do?

 B: Some school stuff, some shifts at Tony’s, you know how it is.

A: I have that too! I still find a couple hours to spend at the movies with friends.

B: Well, he doesn’t have it all wrong, I mean his marks are miles better than ours, and he’s got a lot more in the bank.

A: What’s the point of having the money if you’re never going to spend it?

B: Now he’ll have some for when he needs it

A: He needs it now! For this! With us!

B: He’s only thinking about the future

A: [sigh] People here are funny. They work so hard at living they forget how to live.

Everyday task and the human experience

The wind created by speeding cars whipped my hair into my face. I stood by the edge of the road, waiting for my bus to arrive. It was always late, and I would always panic once the clock hit quarter after. I wondered if the bus was always on time and I was just too stubborn to change my schedule.

I could see the bus in the distance. It pulled up slowly and I hopped on. The driver printed out a transfer ticket for me. I didn’t need it, but not wanting to be rude or wasteful I thanked him and took it anyways. I’m not sure how this wasted less, but it made me feel better.

The bus was crowded and I was left to stand in the aisle, people packed in behind me. I turned down the volume of my music, not sure if everyone else could hear it, and worried they may be bothered by it if they could.

Photo Logline

A girl awakes to the sound of her recently deceased older sister’s voice on the phone. In trying to free her sister who has become trapped within the house, she too becomes trapped. The sisters struggle for freedom against a family that think their youngest has lost her mind, and the appearance of a dark presence that brings with it a dark family secret.

Logline

Accustomed to her life on top, Violet is devastated when a sour relationship with her boss lands her in a new city where she is left to wade through the waste in her heels. Confidant in her powers she plans to seduce her newest boss, but her advances are rejected. Crushed by this, Violet has a new plan, one to seek revenge the new man in her life and teach him that no one rejects her, but it doesn’t go as smoothly as she would hope.

Inspired by article

His hands were rough against his head as he ran it through his hair. The sun beat through the open window, casting a square of light against the floor. He held his hands in the light and inspected them, running his eyes over the familiar scars, white lines that ran up each appendage, and the smooth scar tissue that had replaced the tips of his fingers.

The family he was now living with wasn’t home; they had gone to the prison to visit their son. They would only have an hour of time with the boy. In his opinion it seemed more painful to visit them like that that to not see them at all. When you got there, they would greet you with a smile, but their eyes would be sunken, they would move slowly, the way a man does after his body has been abused, drained of any hop in any step. You sit down with them, but you can’t say anything, not the things you want to say; the guards stand close – sealing your lips. After each visit you leave angry and ashamed, as if it is your fault that you live under this regime, that it is your fault that you son waved a flag before the guard. Perhaps he just thought this though because he did not have a brother to visit, taking solace in the thought that if he was dead he could be subjected to no more.

A wail brought his attention from the thought that ran along the scars on his hands. He looked out the window. In front of the sun bleached buildings, drained of colour, and in most cases life, a man walked down the street, he held in his hands the body of a young boy, his vacant eyes staring through the window. A woman staggered behind them calling to the heavens, injustice running down her cheeks. The man too was weeping as he marched. The sorrowful procession walked past this home, crossing the browned patches in the dust of past violence.

People emerged from their home to witness the scene, a rage growing among them. He joined them, through the wall of heat that hit him at the door. The sun blared down, accentuating the heaviness of the moment. The dry dust blew around the crowd, nagging at their senses. Two men began to march in the direction the body had come from. Slowly the brigade grew. He went with them, walking on the enemy. They passed the barren landscape around them, the heat rising off the ground.

Through the haze the saw the officers, leaning against the beaten up pickup truck, their guns leaning against their legs. At the sight of them they became alert, three brutes with smug grins pulled across their faces. He wasn’t sure if this would become violent, but if it did he was ready. He had been fighting for years, this would just bring this day into the realm of all the others. The mob began to shout, the anger charging from their lips.

From the back of the truck the officers pulled grenades. They launched them into the crowd, and smoke consumed the scene. It was as if the dry earth beneath their feet had risen up, drawn by the chaos in the air. Even with no vision the mass marched forward.

The sound of bullets erupted. 

Atmosphere

I'm not sure if this was even a prompt,

Insidious eyes leered at me – an animal on display. As they closed in around me, the cocktail of their sweat and perfume assaulted my nose and burned my eyes. Through the toxic air I could see their greed. They all wanted something from me, and once they satisfied their hunger, taking what they desired, they would leave me empty and used.

When I had been carted in, all eyes had been on me, the prize of the hour. I was meant to shake the right hands, and say the right names, all at the right times. They pranced about me, flaunting their garish decorations, each one trying to outdo the other.  Though their mouths were contorted into smiles, there was no softness here, just the harsh sharpness of their bared teeth.

 The way they swarmed, the walls must have been closing in, but towering over me they kept my concrete confines out of view. Within the swell of people a woman leaned in, placing a hand on my back, and whispered in my ear what an auspicious night this would be for me. Her words did nothing to quell the shiver that ran through my spine – emanating from her palm. Despite the mass of bodies I could not rid myself of the chill. This room was desolate, void of any warmth.

Subjectivity Fable

Long ago the Emperor came before his people, with his daughter in tow, and announced that she would take the husband of her choice that day. The six bravest men stepped forward from the crowd, waiting to hear her decision. The princess stood before them and spoke with great conviction. She said, “I cannot yet choose between you six, all so equal in courage. So I shall ask you a question, and from this shall decide who is truly the right choice.  The six men leaned in, prepared for the worst, but they then heard was far from expected. “The one I will pick will be the one that tells me what makes my cooking so amazing.” Immediately the six men began to shout out their praise.

“The taste! The taste! Surely it is the blend of spices both hot and sweet that makes this dish so fine!” said the first.

“It’s the smell you see! The delectable smell that makes it a gem among gems!” cried the second.

“No, no!” the third man exclaimed,” Don’t you see? It’s its texture on my tongue, so creamy and smooth.”

“How can you not see? The colours that shine! This dish enchants the eyes!” the fourth firmly stated.

“All good guesses I must say,” began the fifth, “but do you all not hear that crackle and crunch that fills the ears? Certainly this is what makes this meal so grand!”

The young princess stood before the six, but shook her head in sorrow, “You’re all so close, but not quite there. Do any have the answer?”

“I think I might!” cried out the sixth. “I now see it’s quite clear. The thing that makes this dish so fine is all of these things together! This marvel you have placed before us, entices all the senses!”

The young girl smiled wide and nodded her head. She had found her prince at last. 

Dialogue 2

After the sermon, Sunday morning, Peggy-Sue approaches Tallulah.

“Why Tallulah, how nice to see you on this fine morning the Lord has giveth us. Did you enjoy Pastor Brian’s sermon?”

“Morning Miss Peggy-Sue. Why, golly, I always enjoy Pastor Brian’s sermon. He truly is the Lord’s messenger.”

“Indeed. I simply can’t wait for next Sunday’s sermon on relationships and the sin of lust.”

“Oh, will, I suppose I’ll be helpin’ out Miss Hilda with the little ones in Sunday school that week.”

“Why’s that? I though you of all people would want to listen to listen mighty close.”

“Peggy-Sue, you’re so funny. I ain’t got nobody courtin’ me. There’s no need to worry. ‘Sides, my Daddy’d scare them off with his rifle.”

“Really? Well, there’s no sin worse than lusting than lying about it. Moses couldn’t have said it better; thou shalt not lie.”

“I beg your pardon. I don’t understand what you’re talking about. I reckon you got me confused with someone else. Maybe the Miller girls? You know how those floozies go a chasin’ the boys in the yard at recess. Gets Miss Ingalls all fired up.”

“Not unless they’re the ones writin’ Bobby Cate’s name in your notebook.”

“Peggy Sue!”

“Now don’t you be playing all innocent on me. You may be trickin’ everyone, but you ain’t pullin’ the wool over my eyes! I saw you myself, writing Bobby’s name when you should have been listening to the words of Pastor Brian.”

“Why, Peggy-Sue, I’m so angry I could shake you!”

“No you ain’t. Not unless you want everyone in Tyndale Downs to hear your secret.”

Dialogue 1

Eaves dropping

A – Could you imagine if next year your dorm’s partner had weird pictures up everywhere?

B – I’d take them down

C – Spray paint it

B – I would just make that person’s life a living hell for the next year

A – I would have to put red tape right down the middle of the room, and be like: keep your stickers over there, no... Pixie dust on my side of the room

[pause]

A – Are you taking school and then going into the army or...

C – Yeah, I’m going to school and then working. I think it’s like 8 weeks of training...yeah... and they like pay you so that’s a lot of money. There’s a connection with Air Canada that need people who can speak Greek, so I might do that.

[pause]

A – So where do you want to go to school?

C – Nipissing is my first choice

B – Isn't that up north

A – Yeah?

C - Yeah

Beginning

Western, set the scene with an animal doing an odd action

The horse banged his head against the side of the porch. Over and over again the pail handle dinged against the post.  His scavenging for a drop of water had left him muzzled. Changing tactics the horse began scraping at the bucket with his hoof, trying desperately to free his nose from it. The stallion’s voice was muffled by its wooden confines. Shaking his head fervently and stomping in frustration the horse raised a cloud of dirt around him. As he tossed his head back and forth a drop of water was shaken free. As soon as it met the dirt it was consumed in dust, the moisture stolen. He returned to bashing the bucket forcefully, trying to break it. The ringing of the handle against the post matched the church bell announcing the arrival of morning. 

Setting

Describe a train ride

I lurched awake from the sharp jerk of the train. It had pulled me from dreams of home – the place I was getting farther and farther from. I turned to the window to gather my bearings but all I saw was my own face staring back at me. The blackness of the night loomed over my image, which was tinged green and freckled with water stains and fingerprints.  My eyes wandered about the cabin, falling upon the coffee stain on the carpeted floor, the flickering fluorescent light, the uneven cut of the sliding door that kept it from lining up completely with the other side, and the piece of gum nestled in the seam between the seats, dangerously close to my pant leg.

                The compartment was empty except for me and a fly tapping against the window pane. The rest of the train seemed to be dormant, leaving an itchy stillness in the air. I turned once more to the window trying to see beyond myself and into the world that supposedly lay beyond. The subtle blur of flora buzzed by as we moved ahead.

                I decided that sleep was my most beneficial and pleasurable course of action. Careful of the gum on the seat, I slid down into the thinly upholstered seat and leaned my head against the chilled wall. Once settled the hum of the light found my ear. The more I began to hate it the louder it got, filling the room and pounding on my head. There would be no more sleeping tonight. 

Seminar Six: Alicia

Tone: Agony
Character: Kyle, 34 years old, firefighter, 2 kids, recently widowed

He couldn’t look them in the face. Not after the fire. She was there, in their eyes, and he couldn’t bear to see her. The wound was still too fresh, and it burned inside of him, feeding off his guilt. He hadn’t returned to the station yet. How could he go back to work where he was expected to save people, when he couldn’t even save his own wife?

                Their house engulfed in flames was still branded onto the back of his eyelids. Every time he closed his eyes, tried to sleep, the images of the fire would scream at him, scream in her voice.  The blame he had sutured to himself weighed on his limbs. They were too heavy to lift. He dragged himself through the days, desiring nothing more than to collapse into the heap that body was holding together.

                His children had become a source pain. He could only see them through a screen of smoke. Obscured by the billowing grey he found only her in them. How could he possibly take care of them? They had just lost their mother and needed him more than ever and yet he feared them and the agony they brought.

                The pain of his loss ripped at his insides taking everything from him. He couldn’t find the strength to stand, to eat, to move. He was lost in the smoke that was flooding his world. He was suffocating in it, and he knew that soon the fire it was borne of would find him.  

Seminar Five: Dinner Along the Amazon

Write of something taboo

She adjusted her dress before knocking on the door. As she awaited it to be opened she quickly groomed her reflection in the window next to the door. No loose strands of hair could be accepted, this was an important night, and she had to make the right impressions. The door swung open and her darling stood before her, relieved by his presence she let her shoulders relax. However at the appearance of his parents they shot back into an uncomfortably straight position. She smiled warmly and bowed her head politely. She took the moment that her hair shielded her from their gaze to take a steeling breath.  They greeted her eagerly and motioned her through the door.

                At the dinner table, as they all sipped on their drinks. She kept quiet and enjoyed the loving environment. Steve sat beside her, his hand holding hers encouragingly. Across from him sat his bother Mac and his mother Marie. His father held the head of the table. Though she was comfortable with her surroundings she never let her posture falter. There could be no poor impressions left.  She didn’t want to seem shy so she nodded and smiled throughout their conversations, however she reserved herself to only speak when spoken to – she didn’t want to come off too strong.

                As the conversations progressed, she found herself drifting away from the table. It was such a nice house, and such a close and welcoming family that she was getting lost in the joy that flavoured the air. Catching loll of her head she quickly snapped back into her perfected image, and reengaged in the table talk. However, what she heard had her struggling to keep her composure.

                “In my opinion the only way to truly enjoy all the rich flavours of man, is to get a Caucasian steak, and grill it over an open flame, no more than salt in pepper needed to season it – that way the real flavours get a chance to sing.” Mac had said it as if it were nothing. Unable to decide the correct course of action she took a sip of her drink and slowly lowered the glass again – careful to keep her hand steady.

                “I have to disagree, the only way to go is ribs; Latin American are the most flavourful,” Steve countered nonchalantly. She could feel her eyes bulging from their sockets. Quickly she excused herself form the table and went into the bathroom. Placing her hands on either side of the sink she stared herself down in the mirror. She had to gather her thoughts before going back in there. She liked this man, and she had to decide how much she was willing to overlook. “Everyone has different tastes,” she rationed. “I like escargot, I’m sure someone would be disturbed by that. I can’t just make judgements like this over the food someone eats. That’s unfair.” Resolute in her decision to work past this she replaced the strands of her hair, straightened out her dress and rejoined the family outside.

                Luckily the conversations seemed to have found new topics, which was relieving for she wasn’t sure how effectively she would have been able to maintain the proper appearance. The discussions had found its way to commenting on Mac’s past relationships, something that was obviously a running joke within the family. She smiled playfully, and adjusted herself to appear perfectly content.

                “At least my relationship with Ashley ended better that yours with James,” Mac shot at Steve. She nearly choked on the water she was sipping, before daintily dabbing at her mouth with the napkin. She wasn’t sure what this said about her, but she found this news far more disturbing than that of their choices in meat.  

                As she considering if this was perhaps the line that she couldn’t cross, a plate was placed before her. She looked down at the steak, lightly seasoned with salt and pepper. She paused with apprehension, and glanced back up at the smiling faces. Marie watched her hopefully, awaiting her guest’s judgement of her food. It would be rude if I rejected their home cooked meal, she thought, that would leave a horrible impression... 

Seminar Four: Across the Bridge

A comical purgatory
Comedy is certainly not my forte...

She pushed through the door and found that the class had been rearranged. She froze. Each desk sat alone, spaced apart from its neighbours. There was a test today, one that had been forgotten until that moment. She forced herself from the threshold and found a desk that was still unoccupied. The rest of the class flooded in behind her as the bell finished ringing, and she found comfort in their faces. Most were like her: the pause at the door, the widening of the eyes, and the unabashed horror that slowly took over their features as reality set in. The others, the ones that had clearly been aware of the test looked to be in worse shape the rest; they had hair sticking up at all angles and the telling shadows beneath their eyes. The few prodigies traipsed in, they were rested, groomed, and of course had every answer neatly folded in their heads.

                Everyone got settled in their seats, unloading their necessities, dumping the contents of their bag directly onto the desk, and rummaging for the notes that they had never actually taken, to do some last minute studying. She however, held none of these delusions. She chose to focus on getting comfortable in her chair; she knew she had no notes with her, she knew that that half hour of studying she did last week would not bring her within grasp of a passing grade, but she also knew that she, unlike everyone else, had accepted this. Unfortunately her parade was halted by the boy next to her. He was one of the golden ones. His hair and clothes were perfect, there was no toothpaste stains on his shirt, or drool trails beside his mouth. He was calm, and collected, with his row of pencils laid out meticulously at the top left corner of his desk. He was handsome, he was smart, and he, just like all the others like him, was in danger of finding her pencil trust in his temple.  The beaming smile he sent around the class only encouraged this.

                A piece of paper fell before her and brought her attention away from the blinding ball of sunshine.  Here it was – the bane of her day. She quickly glanced over the sheet, flipped through the pages, and gauged the damage this would do. She was doomed. There were no bones being thrown here.

She pulled out her pen none the less and went to write in her name. By the last letter the ink ran dry. She tested it on the corner of the page, scribbling to urge the black out of its tube. When that failed, she started to shake it. The ink shot out and covered the sheet. Annoyed, she began to push around the blob of ink with the tip of her pen, shaping it. “Cat,” she mumbled to herself as she drew in some paws. “I think he wants a hat.”  The creation on the page grew, taking up most of the sheet.  

                A tapping brought her back from her own little world. The boy in front of her was tapping his foot furiously. His whole body was shaking; she wouldn’t have been surprised if the tiles beneath his feet started to crack. Perplexed by the intense anxiety before her she found him more interesting than the test. Finally he managed to shake himself out of his seat, the tremors emanating from him, shaking the pens from the desk of Mr. Golden boy beside her. The kid made his way to the teacher’s desk. He was reluctant to give up his test, but eventually the teacher was able to pry it out of his hands. And so the grading began. The teacher glanced over the sheets. He was taking his time, milking the torture the student was putting himself through. Finally he nodded in approval, and placed the test in a pile to be formally marked later. She thought she could see the kid’s brain explode within his head. The relief almost seemed lethal. He skipped through the door, and into a more relaxing place.

                Realizing that this must mean that she’d wasted more of the time than she thought she quickly returned her attention back to the page before her. However, it wasn’t long before the people around her started to pull at her attention again. The kid on her right, one who seemed to be stuck between genders, the figure said male, but the product filled hair, and foundationed face suggested otherwise. Not even his makeup could cover the panic on his face. He stared at the paper, writing and rewriting his answer. She watched him, witnessing the gears click in his head before he put it down on paper. The cologne that wafted off of him wrapped around her and began to suffocate. What kind of punishment was this? Wasn’t failing the test enough retribution for her apathy towards the class?

                The handle on the door began to turn, it opened without hesitation, and a lazy face appeared in the doorway. Upon noting the desk orientation the student quickly turned on her heel and fled the class. Jealousy blossomed at every seat. Unable to take the blaring fluorescent lights any longer she picked up her sheet and handed her cat to the teacher. He glanced at it, and gave her a weary look. “Meow,” she said frankly, and turned to leave, relishing her ability to move beyond this class. 

Seminar Three: A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings

Incorporate magic realism in a piece of writing

“Again?” I cried in exasperation. Every day I would come home from school, and every day I would find the garden in complete disarray. Those elves would get in there each day and make a mess of everything I did. I drew nearer to the garden. I had built it a makeshift fence after the third week of this – tired of having to replant all of my work. As I bent down I found a gap tucked between the chicken wire and tree branches that made up my garden’s fortress; looks like I’d be needing a mote soon.

My brooding was interrupted when my dog slammed into the garden’s wall opposite me. He began to scratch at the posts, and dig around its edges. Perhaps the elves weren’t to blame for my growing headache. I scowled at Max and shooed him away, but I wasn’t convinced yet. Upon closer examination I found that only the skilled little hands of elves could have peeled back the wire like that. Maybe they had collaborated with Max; perhaps the whole population of my backyard was working against me.  This thought didn’t amuse me.

Why couldn’t my yard have been infested with Keebler elves like Miranda’s down the street? Then I could come home to fresh baked cookies instead of this disaster. Instead I was left with that warm aroma wafting over the houses to mock me.

Not quite willing to rebuild my defence, I sighed in temporary defeat and made my way towards the door – at least inside I was free from their destruction. However, before reaching the door I found my legs out from underneath me and my face meeting with the ground. Breathing past the initial shock and hurt, I was able to hear the tell tale chattering of those infuriating beings. I turned my head and watched as they scurried across the yard, dragging behind them an irrigation hose from the garden, my shoe being carried in tow, hooked on a sprinkler.

I debated hunting them down and retrieving my footwear, perhaps exacting some repeatedly imagined revenge, but upon seeing them crawl up the lilac tree, I decided it just wasn’t worth the humiliation. Eventually they would get bored with their new treasures and leave them abandoned for me to find.

I peeled myself from the grass, and made it to the doorway, taking extra care as I walked. Once inside I took a moment to relish the oasis I had behind these walls: no elves, no chaos, and no garden to worry about. I found my place in an oversized chair and sipped on some tea to tame the anger that was boiling beneath the surface. I glanced out the window and found three little elves hidden within the lilacs leering down at me.

Seminar Two: Dinner Along the Amazon

Do we consciously put ourselves into our writing?

I find that it is a combination of unconscious and conscious thought. The interests and opinions that have developed within a person are due to the life they have lived and the people they have known so far. The things that interest us are what flavour the things we do. Someone wouldn’t write something (willingly) unless it was something that they wanted to explore, something that inspired them – where else would the words come from? Since it is natural to write what interests us I think that the roots of anything someone writes is an unconscious reflection of them. They write about it because they are interested in it, but are most likely not considering how much of themselves they are revealing.  This is most true in unplanned work. When someone just sits down and starts to write they are working completely off of the inspiration that has taken them, there isn’t any planning or second-thinking to take the story away from the person’s self, or to add in the thought, “if I add this, it’ll really show who I am”. When someone writes in the moment every description, connection, and interpretation that is made is coming straight from who they are and what they think.

Even when working with a range of characters the author can still be found in all of them. The villain in stories reflect what the writer sees as villainous, and in turn, the protagonists created show different idealisms that the author holds, and perhaps wishes to embody.

This isn’t to say that one cannot ever be aware or plan to put themselves into their work. Of course someone can decide to write about themselves, or want to create a work of writing that embodies who they are. This would then make the incorporation of themselves into their work a very conscious thing. 

Seminar one: The Veldt

Write about an everyday event, incorperating futuristic elements in an indifferent way.

I sat in class staring blankly at the wall. A movie flickered to life, but it made little difference to me. As pictures danced across the wall a dry commentary started up – it hung heavily on my ears with no real meaning. The picture faltered and died, casting the room in darkness until the teacher smacked the brick with a couple pronounced strikes. The creases in the brick smoothed out and the images lit up the room again. The wall illuminated the sunken faces of the students, none of which were stirring. Noting the indifference of her students, the teacher opened up the vents, releasing the familiar warm air. It wafted over the class, the sweetness falling on my tongue and playing in my lungs. As I enjoyed the subtle tingling in my finger tips I watched as the class rose from their vacant slumbers. However, their new caffeine-buzz only brought their attentions further from the film, as it always did.  

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