Tag Archives: creative

Chop Chop!

The date at 6.  The clock at 5.  Everyone waiting for me to arrive like festivities barred behind brittle little braces and I’m the Straw that breaks its back.  I want to be there.  I want more time with you all.  But painful is the prodding that produces this person to patiently mosey around from my private cove.  The lines on the clock face tick lines on my face, and all I hear is –

 

Chop Chop!

 

My private cove where my actions are my own and not the production of string pulls on my marionette.  My door like scissors that cut me loose into my own sanctuary.  I drop my masquerade in a jar by the door and may work on my dreams in peace.  And pieces they become for two eyes of my own for I share them with no one; not for my sake, I just wear a particular prescription.  My farsighted lenses I paint over with roses save me from the Grims that speak with no filter.  So I stay here with myself.  I lie in bed and let my aspirations float up into the ceiling fan – and pieces they become.

 

Chop Chop!

Jaded Diamond

It’s been three years since they said it would be over in three months.

It’s been three years since I wasn’t warned to bear the brunt.

It’s been three years since I couldn’t munch-crunch on brunch-

Only ever wanting to confront the bunched up grunts with a punch,

And a punt in their scrunched up guts.

But I was too weak – too tamed to maim the brains I blame,

For my guts lacerated like a hollow candy-cane.

So all my aggression, depression, pressurized this compression,

That I prayed would turn my lump of coal into a diamond – that’s my confession.

Kept tryin’ to turn it into a positive,

But I’m positive – it sure was causative.

 

The result was no diamond.  I’m jaded.

My ‘care-free’ faded.  My Mr. Brightside shaded.

And to not be angry at the God who forgave me;

I hope He’ll save me from these drugs I keep taking.

‘Cuz I know that I’m destined for more than monthly injections,

For this lower intestine.

And you know I’m bestin’,

To alchemize this jade into perfection.

It’s predestined progression- not even a question of reaching succession.

I’m working to the top.

Until then- can’t stop.

Twisted Tuesday – Hieroglyphs

Trying out a writing exercise.  Might do this every week or so.  So, the basic idea is to start with a general statement or phrase; something relatively short and simple.  Then you do your best to make it into a written puzzle.  You’ll see what I mean.  In the future, I may not show all the steps, I may just show the final outcome.  ❤

Start:

People say they can’t enjoy my writing because it’s too convoluted: they don’t know all the words, they don’t pick up on the meaning, they don’t see themes.  “Your writing is for smart people,” and “don’t make the reader struggle,” is what I hear, but I don’t want to sacrifice my style for the sake of popularity.  I guess I’ll keep writing for myself.

kTMnBpR9c

My personal hieroglyphics scare away those with no Rosetta Stone.  The squiggles and scribbles and scrabbles and doodles are the epidermis of a freshly presented game that no one has the guts to cut open.  The trail to my secret place hiding beneath the entrails of the wild animals I throw into the lion’s dens, but me and them looks through ion’s lens; we see different things when my eye’s on them.  A positive charge looks negative when our eyes are focused.  I just don’t want you to see mud pits when I’m trying to bundle all my greenest grass into the smallest box I can, even when December’s parchment lists are penning for blue skies.  I guess I’ll just keep two-stepping on my own turf.

kTMnBpR9c

A sharpened tongue etches hieroglyphics on a common fear without my dear Rosetta’s key to lock them away.  Squiggles, scribbles, scrabbles, and doodles compose the epidermis of my freshly presented game no one has the guts to cut open.  A scabrous trail to my purple pump and unrelenting gray mat hidden beneath the entrails of wild animals I throw into the lion’s dens, but me and them look through ion’s lens; we see different when my eye’s on them.  A half-filled glass can be tipped either way with glasses on.  You see mud pits when I’m bundling my greenest grass into the smallest box, even when December’s parchment lists are penning for blue skies.  I’ll keep two-stepping on my own turf.

Your Painted Reflection

All the effort in the world won’t matter if you’re not inspired

Flat greens stretching past visible limitations chained to auburn by unseen growth, a curved azure dappled by bleached veils: a perfect art exhibit.  She sat under a large willow, branches extending down to kiss the grass a very formal hello, dreaming of lovely strokes of various hues which she would unite in her paintings.  As she often did to generate inspiration, she climbed up onto a sturdy branch, perfectly protruding through a chasm in the hanging leaves of the willow (exactly how she had painted it), and looked out upon the array of beautiful scenery.  Everything was artistically molded to its own uniqueness, but from the view atop a mountainous willow, through the void in the hanging green, all the individuality blended into one distinct foundation.  All of this the girl had painted with her enchanted brush on her cursed canvas which was then reproduced, in the exact figure and decorated in every specific detail the girl had painted, in the specific area she had painted it.

She climbed back down into the shadow of the willow, enthused by her own creations.  She picked the enchanting paintbrush up off the grass and walked to the easel, its canvas taunting its vacuity once again.  She began painting a large tree: the bark colored dark brown, covered in a turquoise veneer of moss.  In the center of the trunk she painted an imprint of a hand engraved in the bark; the exclusive signature.  She painted it with birds, each gathering beach grass and pine needles to build a nest.  Then, with foxgloves in bloom; her new creation of beauty, wet across the canvas.  When she had finished painting, she stepped back to marvel at her originality; perfection expressed through a thousand smears of paint and acrylic.  Above her view of the canvas, soaring through the sky came birds, each gathering beach grass and pine needles to build a nest.  As she observed the birds above her, she noticed branches reaching up in the sky, colored a dark brown, covered in a turquoise veneer of moss, as if they were trying to catch the birds just so they could be the lucky limbs to hold their home.  She peered around the side of the canvas to reveal foxgloves in bloom, sprouting from the ground near the newly placed tree.  All these things, matched precisely how the artist herself had imagined, now resided in a beautiful array of scenery.  Its uniqueness artistically molded, but from atop a mountainous willow, through the void in the hanging green, its individuality blended into one distinct foundation.  She walked over to the tree and placed her hand in the trunk she had painted, into the signature of the tree, as if she were signing it.

Where do you get your inspiration

                She walked along the edge of the pond, gazing down into the moving water.  Her distorted reflection stared back at her, as if it were her own self-portrait.  She hated the portrait waving in the pond; she had not been able to paint it herself.  In her own world of artistic creations, she felt as if she didn’t belong.  A duck in the pond ruffled its feathers, distorting the unoriginal portrait, weaved through the lily pads, and climbed up onto the grass.  She watched it as it came across another duck, which quacked in acknowledgement of a companion.  Loneliness crept in through her persisting thoughts, so much so that she converted loneliness to anger.  She screamed, causing the ducks to fly away, and ran across the grounds.  She ran past trees of blue she had painted while loving the sky, past boulders of purple she had painted while loving the night, past creatures of green she had painted while loving the grass, and past flowers of white she had painted while loving the clouds.

Everything is a diary

                When she finally calmed, she walked back to the willow.  In the shade, underneath the hanging greens, she held her enchanting paintbrush and walked to the easel, its canvas taunting its vacuity once again.  She tried to paint herself a companion, someone to love and ease the loneliness that so often crept into her persisting thoughts.  She painted this person by integrating the things she loved: eyes of curved azure, teeth as bleached as clouds, skin as soft as clay.  As she stepped away from the canvas, she realized she had painted herself.  Looking into her own self-portrait, she hated it.  She had tried to create a lover many times before; someone who loved the same things she did.  So she would paint the things she loved: eyes of green grass, of blue skies, of auburn ground; hair of bronzed grains, of gray rainclouds, of crimson rose petals.  Every time it would be a self-portrait.  And after she had finished her portrait, she would look around to see if it had spawned like her other creations, but it never had. She would stare at her painted reflection until it eventually rippled into an undistinguishable smear and then disappeared: the canvas taunting its vacuity once again.

As the sun set in the sky, deep colors of scarlet, orange, and lavender filled the sky.  She lay down next to the trunk of the willow, beneath the hanging greens, and closed her eyes.  Sleep was always hard for her to achieve.  Loneliness crept in through her persisting thoughts: the duck with its twin, the birds of a flock, and the flowers of a garden all made her jealous.  She opened her eyes to the night sky, unoccupied by the moon.  It was a night where she could see more with her eyes closed than open.  She imagined another person next to her, who she could love; someone to share the beauty she had created and to assist in her admirations.  She imagined this person lying next to her, arm around her waist, holding her tight so she would always remember she was not alone.  She imagined the warmth of a companion until she fell asleep.

Pain can be a gift

She woke to sunshine illuminating her surroundings: flat greens stretching past visible limitations chained to auburn by unseen growth, a curved azure dappled by bleached veils.  She looked up at the willow branch perfectly protruding through a chasm in the hanging leaves, then over at the large tree with bark colored dark brown, covered in a turquoise veneer of moss, an imprint of a hand its unique signature.  She stared at the tree with the imprint of a hand, recognizing that it was her hand she had designed it to hold.  Suddenly she was paralyzed by the realization that everything she had painted had been a self-portrait.  Every tree, every animal, every flower, revealed something about herself.  Then another comprehension crept into her persisting thoughts.

She needed to become angry.  She thought of the last time she was mad: near the pond with the two ducks, when she felt lonely.  She thought that if emotion can create a physical action, then duplicating the physical action can re-create the emotion, so she ran across the grounds, past trees of blue she had painted while loving the sky, past boulders of purple she had painted while loving the night, past creature of green she had painted while loving the grass, and past flowers of white she had painted while loving the clouds.  She ran back to the willow and angrily stood in the shadow, underneath the hanging greens.  She picked the enchanting paintbrush up off the grass and walked to the easel, its canvas taunting its vacuity one last time.  She painted a person with hair blonde like the feathers of the two ducks that caused her feelings of loneliness, the eyes dark like those of a bird flying in its flock, and the skin white like the canvas taunting its vacuity.  She painted this person sitting by the pond, staring at its own reflection, feeling lonely.  She furiously painted everything she hated.  When she had finished, she ripped the canvas in half and buried it in the dirt.  She threw her paintbrush at the large tree with the signature hand of the artist, and knocked down the easel.  She turned and walked toward the pond.

Sitting next to the pond, staring down at its own reflection, she saw her painted companion.  He had hair blonde like the feathers of the two ducks that caused her feelings of loneliness, the eyes dark like those of a bird flying in its flock, and the skin white like the canvas taunting its vacuity.  She walked over and sat down next to him.  He put his arm around her waist, holding her tight so she would always remember she was not alone.   They sat and stared down into their reflection.  Neither one had been able to create themselves, and in this way they were both unique.  They looked at their waving self-portrait and loved it.  A duck in the pond ruffled its feathers, distorting the new portrait, weaved through the lily pads, and climbed up onto the grass.  They watched it as it came across another duck, which quacked in acknowledgement of a companion.

Duck

Friday Fictioneers – Rolling Stone

© Copyright – Rachel Bjerke
© Copyright – Rachel Bjerke

In a town that stood still, I was the boy who couldn’t.  People were born, raised, taught, married, worked, and died in the same town without ever seeing the outside world.  There were never new streets, signs, roads, businesses or houses, only new generations.

I couldn’t do it.

I can’t have my history repeat itself because I haven’t forgotten it yet.  I can’t forget being in L.A., Taipei, Vienna, or Amsterdam while my only connections to that small town died.  I’ve had many apartments, hotel rooms, houses, but I was gone when I lost my home.  But you know what they say; “A rolling stone gathers no moss.”




The Illustrator

His hand was starting to cramp.  He had been drawing all night.  He loved being an Illustrator, but the long nights wore on him and his creativity drew thin for the night.  He had been given a large piece of circular poster board and told to draw as many different characters as he could.  He was filling one of the only remaining empty spaces when the cramp in his hand shot a painful twitch down his fingers.  The character was now disfigured.  He breathed a distressed sigh and pulled out his eraser, but when he brought it down to the board-

“Hey!”

He jumped, almost flinging his eraser across the room.  He collected himself and began his assessment.  He surveyed the room for the source of the interjection, but did not find it until-

“Down here!” said the character he had just been drawing.

The illustrator gave his head a gently shake and wiped his eyes.  It had been a long day at work.  Hallucinating just meant it was time for bed.

“Don’t erase me!”

The Illustrator leaned down closer to the drawn figure.  “But you are misshapen.  Your body has become twisted.  It has encircled and consumed all of you.  I must erase you so I can draw a new person.”  The Illustrator paused after saying ‘person’.  It was such a sentient, even human, term to describe such an entity.  The strangeness of the word did not surprise him, but rather his comfortableness with using it.  He loved illustrating and therefore he loved his creations.

“I am OK with my abnormalities if it means I can stay,” said the caricature.

The Illustrator paused and humbly considered this predicament.  Despite almighty position in this circumstance, he felt pity.  He pondered a resolution that would satisfy his love and his creation’s fear.

“How about this: I erase you now so I can make room for a new character, but I promise to redraw you, this time flawless.  I will frame you and hang you on my wall.”

Adulthood

“Ooh, a dog,” said the girl.

“Eww, a dog,” said the woman.


“Ooh, a worm,” said the boy.

“Eww, a worm,” said the man.


“Eww, a job,” said the boy.

“Ooh, a job,” said the man.


“Eww, a job,” said the girl.

“Ooh, a job,” said the woman.


“Eww, a girl,” said the boy.

“Ooh, a girl,” said the man.


“Ooh, a boy,” said the girl.

“Eww, a boy,” said the woman.


Feel free to add your own “ooh” and “eww”s down below in the comments.