Their Painted Faces - by Bonnie (c)2011

Prompt:  If you could start your life over what would you do differently?

            Maybe I would start wearing makeup at a younger age. I know, I know…most people would probably choose something like:  I would spend more time in the garden or I would judge less and listen more.  But do you have any idea how hard it is to learn to apply makeup when you are in your forties?   

           When I was younger I never had need of it. I was always athletic and fit and looked great in just my skin. Now, even though I am still in fairly good shape, still healthy, I need whatever help I can get to make me look a little more attractive, or at least a little younger. So I have decided to start spackling my face with colour.  Makeup!  Now there’s a minefield.  Who knew it was so complicated?  

            When I was a kid, my sister had one of those Barbie Styling Head toys. Have you ever seen one of these things?  It creeped me out then, and the thought of it still makes me shudder a little.  It’s basically a large, plastic doll’s head cut off at the shoulders and fitted onto a base. Little girls create hairstyles and apply makeup to it.  My sister would spend hours playing with this thing, experimenting with colour schemes and dressing the hair in different styles, but I never really got it. 

            “This look is for when she is going out on the town,” she’d say very seriously, standing back so I would have sufficient room to appraise it properly.  Or, “here she is going to work in an office.”

            I would roll my eyes at her and head outside to play with the boys. War was the name of our game.  It involved sticks and running around trying to use them on each other.

            Even as a teenager I became disoriented whenever I walked into the bathroom at school and found myself confronted by a line of girls jockeying for space in front of the mirrors.  There would be a noxious cloud of hairspray hovering over them as they applied yet another layer of sticky lip gloss onto their pursed lips. 

            I preferred sports, and still do.

            But now I find myself crawling back to those very same girly types I distained, sadly in need of some help.

Twenty year old makeup counter girls explain to me the absolute necessity of concealer and discuss the pros and cons of shades of brown vs. shades of green eye shadow with my skin tone.  I try to focus when they’re talking, honestly I do—but I find myself staring at their painted faces and wondering if I dragged my finger down their skin, would it leave a trail? 

            Maybe if I had spent less time running around in the empty lot behind my house, trying to ambush Mike (who really was a little shit and very deserving of whatever he got), and more dressing up with my sister, I would be having an easier time of this whole aging thing now.

            Maybe, if I had played with the doll’s head I wouldn’t feel so out of touch when I look in a mirror today and wonder about the middle-aged woman staring back at me, or why her hair is such a mess. Would that have staved off the rapid decline of my skin, or the graying of my hair?  Or worse still, the downward migration of my breasts?

            After a day navigating the perfumed makeup counters or the over-priced hair salon that has suddenly become de rigueur, I find myself tying up my sneakers with anxious fingers, desperate for a run, or packing my swim bag and rushing to the pool.  Afterward, in the showers, I notice the sideward glances of teenaged girls. They’re thinking what I was thinking at their age.

            I am never going to look like that. 

            I just smile and turn around to give them a back view of their future horror. And the potions I buy – the lipsticks, the face creams, the powders – just keep accumulating in my bathroom cabinet while I go, go, go.

Talking About Your Fat - by Bonnie Sim (c)2011

A 10-minute free writing exercise

Prompt:  Is it more difficult for you to speak kindly of honestly?

“Do I look fat in this?” Suppose the answer is yes.  Maybe the answer is, “a little bit.” What do I say?  How do I say it?

You know, I wish I could just say, “Yes, you do, just a little.  But never mind about what you look like, stop being so damn insecure!” That’s what I wish I could say.  But that will never happen.  I’m a nice girl.  So it’s obviously more difficult for me to speak honestly than to speak kindly.  But is it really?  I’m terrible at small talk.  I choke on the words because they sound phony.  I don’t think people care what the weather is so much as they care about having a distraction from revealing too much of themselves…truth.

I do it differently.  I don’t talk at all.  I’m against small talk.  I cut straight to the chase, but I won’t tell you you’re fat.

You don’t look fat.

Just big-boned.

Ridiculous.  I won’t say that either.  What the hell is big-boned and why is it better than being fat?  I’d rather be fat.  Who wants big bones?! Sounds like a medical horror to me.  At least fat melts away, or it can.

Whatever.  I won’t tell you you’re fat.  I’ll probably change the subject…tell you I like the colour of your dress and ask you where you found it.

Dishonest.

Kind.

I don’t care about the dress that makes you look fat.  Why would I?  It makes you look fat.  I definitely don’t want to know where it came from.  Or perhaps I do, so I can avoid that place always.

Honest.

Unkind.

Well.  It seems there’s a 50/50 chance you’ll get an honest answer from me.  If it’s not, then at least it will be kind.  Probably not both though… especially if we’re talking about your fat.

Bonnie Sim:  bonniesim@shaw.ca

 

Dark and Stormy Night

This is one of my attempts at the well worn, "It was a dark and stormy night".

It was a dark and stormy night. I imagined all the things that could go wrong as I strolled through the posh neighbourhood with my two small dogs. These were not guard dogs. They were ankle biters who even in their most frenzied state would not frighten too many strangers.

I continued slowly along the rocky shore. “Million dollars homes and no street lights,” I mumbled to the dogs who were oblivious to my increasing anxiety as we made our way further and further from our home. I imagined evil doers lurking among the full leafy shrubbery surrounding each home.

I decided to curtail these silly thoughts as the road curved to the right and I saw a marina to my left. Waves crashed to the shore and the wind picked up as we entered the open space. The “ting, ting, ting” of boats, moored to docks and rocking in the water increased my apprehension but I continued determined to complete our walk before the worst of the storm hit.

Rain began to spit down on us. Still, I paused.This was a good night for a murder. As that thought crossed my mind, I heard a scream coming from the waves. It made me jump slightly and my focus sharpened. I glanced at the dogs. Their little ears were pricked up and one of them growled lowly. Their response confirmed what I hoped was only a part of my overactive imagination.

I heard the scream again. Both dogs responded with full out barking. There on one of the boats I saw two people facing each other. One seemed to be speaking rapidly but the wind carried the words away from my ears. The other one was more animated, gesturing wildly and then she screamed again.

To be continued…

Five Words

Our last meeting ended with a writing exercise to be done at home. We each picked a word and are to write a short piece. The words are: Malaysia, diocese, trees, piano and Batman.

Here's my effort.

Malaysia slowly raised the high powered binoculars to her eyes and peered out the third story hotel window. The dropoff was arranged by Bishop Jonas at the Diocese of the First, and Only, Most Holy Virgin of Mount Gotham Emmanuel. For the purpose of this matter, Bishop Jonas requested that Malaysia use the alias 'Catwoman'. Bishop Jonas was to be called 'Batman' and the carrier 'Robin'.

The clock beemed 1:05. Robin was five minutes late. Malaysia wasn't worried. Operations arranged by Batman often hit snags. She turned from the window and dropped the binoculars on the bed. At the same moment, Robin appeared from behind a patch of maple trees across the street. A leather bag hung at his side. He stopped on the sidewalk and raised his sunglasses above his head to examine the hotel. No sign of Catwoman. He glanced at his watch. Should he wait?

The leather bag contained sensitive information, if Catwoman didn't show, he would have to return it to Batman before midnight. Robin sauntered across the street and noticed a coffee cart on the corner. He decided to buy a coffee and if Catwoman didn't show he would return by the same route he came.

Malaysia decided to go downstairs. She put on the red baseball cap with a kitty logo. This was how Robin was supposed to identify her. She trotted down three flights of stairs to the lobby and stopped at the front door to gaze across the street. Still no one. There was time for a latte. If Robin didn't show in the next ten minutes, she would alert Batman via the Joker.

From a fifth story window in an office building beside Catwoman's hotel, Batman watched the pair bumble around. They both fell into his trap perfectly. Workers hoisted a piano up to the room beside his.

As Robin sipped his coffee, he noticed Malaysia's red kitty cap. He moved beside her, "Who's your favourite superhero?"

"Batman, of course," she replied.

"Would you like to walk?"

Malaysia did not reply but took her latte and stepped away from the coffee cart facing back toward the hotel. She began to walk. Robin strolled beside her.

Still watching from the office window, Batman grinned. They moved in the right direction. It was too easy. He pressed a button on his walkie talkie alerting the piano movers. "Count to 5 and let go."

A poll for artists and writers....

Understanding the Creative Workforce -- A Study of Artists and Arts Practice   

Artists and the creative workforce have been hit hard by the recent government budgets [in BC]. The global economic downturn have effected the revenue streams of many artists, creative workers, and creative industry professionals and personnel.

Despite the downturn, preliminary statistics suggest that the downturn is leaving the cultural sector relatively unscathed, precisely because of the reputed flexibility of cultural/creative workers in finding other jobs. 

In order to better understand the impact of these recent trends on artists and the creative workforce we at the Centre for Policy Studies on Culture and Communities at SFU [Simon Fraser University] are launching a survey of those working in the creative sector.  

This survey--in partnership with Curtin University, Australia-- is part of larger international project that seeks to increase understanding of artists' careers. 

Follow the link below to the survey website for more information on how you can participate in this survey and share your story with us:  

http://www.sfu.ca/cultureandcommunities 

As a way of saying thank-you, we will enter all participants into a draw to win an Apple iPod.  As well, we will make available to you a report highlighting the survey findings, upon request. 

We would like to thank you in advance for your interest in this survey -- The Centre for Policy Studies on Culture and Communities

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Fumie's hometown in Japan - Nara

The Winter of My Discontent - (c)2009 Jordan Devine

Jordan took the freewrite challenge at the Summer Dream Festival in August 2009.
Prompt was: Bring two historical characters together and writ the dialogue for their meeting over lunch or dinner.

The Winter of My Discontent

Scene: A trendy restaurant called Winter. King Richard III sits alone at a table for two, looking nervous. Two full wine glasses sit upon the table. Enter Joan of Arc, trailing her sword behind her.

Richard: Joan?
Joan: Who else? the maitre d' informed me you have reserved the entire
restaurant.
Richard: Yes, yes. These are trying times for England and its king.
Safety first.
Joan Strange, I’ve lived through similar times myself.
Richard: Small world.
Joan: I am Gods messenger.
Richard: (aside) Oh, Christ!
Joan: Majesty, did you say something? And why the grin?
Richard: Oh, I can smile and murmer when I smile…
Joan: And you, Majesty, do you perform Gods Work?
Richard: My life is lived with the Divine Right of Kings. My every
action is Gods Work.
Joan: Humour me, Majesty, recite the Lord’s Prayer.
Richard: Well, now, youre putting me on the spot.
Joan: (aside) Oh Christ! (Joan stands). I knew a blind date
was a mistake.
Richard: No, no, don’t leave. At least try the Malmsey.
Joan: Not likely, Majesty.
Richard: Now is the winter of my discontent.

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Where Have All the Summers Gone? (c)2009 Perry Wilson

Perry took the freewrite challenge at the Summer Dream Festival in August 2009.
Prompt was: You (or your character) have moved into a new house and while lcenaing you find an old photograph (or an old diary) in the basement or attic…

Where Have All The Summers Gone?

“Joe come see." I gave the old book a gentle rub to remove some of the dust and cobwebs.
“What?”Joe stomped down the wooden stairs to the basement of our new house.“Did you find buried treasure?”
“Maybe,” I laughed. “But not the kind you mean. Look.” I handed him the book. “It’s a diary.”
He laid the bok in his lap and let it fall open; it naturally did at about the one-third mark. “Today was a good day—” he read, “the bees seem to be returning.”
“Huh?” I reached for the book. “What do you mean?”“It says right here.”Joe pointed to the faded ink. “See?—bees.”
“Look deeper.”

He flipped back toward the front of the book. “I got the cherry dusted.” He looked up. “I’ve no idea why dusting furniture would be so important.”
I turned back to the shelf where I’d found the book. “Look at these.” A box of squat glass jars and chicken feathers was the only other thing on the shelf.
“There’s string there too.” Joe touched the feathers aside.
“Read more.” I didn’t even know where to start looking for an answer to this mystery.
“The hives are starting to populate, but the bees are sluggish.” He shrugged.
“ It might help if we knew what bees are.” I took the bok and put it back in the box, returning it back to the shelf. “Maybe we’ll have time to do research when we’ve settled in.”

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Maybe Not an Urban Cottage - (c)2009 Sally Reesman

Sally took the freewrite challenge at the Summer Dream Festival in August 2009.
Prompt was: You (or your character) have moved into a new house and while lcenaing you find an old photograph (or an old diary) in the basement or attic…


Maybe Not an Urban Cottage

It was a full time job, pulling and clipping the vines that clung and surrounded their way between the clapboard of the old house. At moments the delicate tendrils would loosen their cling and curl in search of another surface to clasp and grasp their clinging length. While suffocating in their growth, they still loosened their hold with a god swift tag — the edge of grass—stopped short of a wall — of old tree stumps covered in vines like green and growing fountain of vines – ripping these loose – a gray gargoyle plaster—like an Angel of Death—Black wings behind strong sinewed eyes lifting skulls from its feet and rolling them up in its knees.

At first thought it's a garden – gnome — a winged garoyle that is lying among vines that is inconsequential. The more the vines were pulled aside — revealing — more bones — ham bones, mutton bones, chicken bones… It was when I saw —r ooster claw bones … cat bones … and large bones like the haunches of a horse or a large ribcage of what could be a bear or a horse. They had been covered in lime, bleached white, with bits of the marrow exhibiting — yellow and black interior not yet gone back to nature.

It was then — what sort of activities went on in this house of vines—covered in vines so thick that the vines had entered to the interior of the house through the cement foundations — to the eaves of the second floor, burrowing through the chinks of lathe — these suffocating clinging vines — entombing crushing the house – and the limbed bones of small and large animals—removed my impression of an urban cottage.

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