There are two kinds of people in the world: those who make excuses and those who get results. An excuse person will find any excuse for why a job was not done, and a results person will find any reason why it can be done. Be a creator, not a reactor. — Alan Cohen, A Deep Breath Of Life

Archive for the ‘My Writing’ Category


Pantomime in writing, and pantomime in acting are different. In writing, a pantomime is basically a chunk of words used to describe a person, situation, feeling, etc. Pantomimes don’t include dialogue, and they often use exaggerated descriptions. See the example below, which I wrote using a prompt. The prompt was: a mother is nervously waiting for her daughter to come home, it is 3:00am, and she is smoking. Here it is:

Her mother paced the living room, accidentally knocking over a small glass vase, but she paid it no mind. She glanced at the clock; two minutes had passed. She took a seat, and rocked, taking long puffs from her cigarette. A moment later she jumped to her feet, and thrust her face against an opening in the blinds. Still not here. Her mother snuffed out her half-cigarette and proceeded to light another stick of tar inhaling deeply. She tapped her fingers lightly against the surfaces she passed, counting to 60 as she went. She glanced at her watch; two more minutes. As the silence grew stronger around her, the louder blood pumped within. Her mother soon found herself eye-to-eye with photographs of her, all the way from pre-school. She bit her lip, and hustled to the window for one last look; a street lamp flickered down the road, then ceased to glow altogether.


The Two-faced Man

Flash fiction is a short piece of writing, generally 250 words, so it doesn’t give a lot of time to build the characters, plot, and setting. Flash fiction typically focuses on one aspect and describes it in depth. The end of flash fiction pieces usually sport a twist. Here is an example of a character-driven flash fic.

“Mr. Groundhog should be here by now!”
“Maybe he ran into difficulty?”
“Mr. Groundhog is dead! Mr. Groundhog is dead!” the words drifted over the crowd, first in a murmur, which turned into a yell.
“Dead? How can this be?” A man in a green and black kilt, and matching cap jumped up. “We must find this wretched murderer!”

     The man looked high and low, through wilderness and town, but he didn’t notice anyone acting suspiciously. He decided to take a break at the Inn, and was just stepping inside when a man dressed in identical attire stepped out.
     “Why are you dressed like me?”
     “Uh… why are you dressed like me? Sheriff! Sheriff!” the impersonator hollered, waving his hand at a plump man who stood across the street, a few doors down. 
     “What have you done with Mr. Groundhog’s body? Tell me now!” the man growled, as he frisked the impersonator. He pulled out a vial of pink-tinged liquid, which was thin and translucent.
     “Sir, sir! Get away from there, I tell you, get back!” the pudgy sheriff had jaunted across the street, and clamped the man’s wrists in shackles. “And what’s this? Poison! You killed Mr. Groundhog! What are you doing talking to yourself anyhow, sir?”


Here’s a poem I wrote (can you guess who it’d dedicated to? <3) Riley and I have been dating going on 21 months! We have our ups and our downs, but all in all I can’t see myself with anyone better, and at the end of the day I’m as happy as I could be. Here’s a poem to help you understand…
Although it may sound sappy,
when in your arms I am ease;
I feel free, un-judged, and happy,
I feel whole, I feel complete.
You hold my hand each time I fall,
and you always care for me;
you fill my heart with strength,
and when I’m blind you help me see.
Every breath you share with me
helps me feel like I belong,
and with your heartfelt melody,
I could sing the sweetest song.
You look into my eyes, and kiss me;
suddenly stress disappears,
but when it all just bubbles up,
you wipe away my tears.
Your ambition is contagious,
and it makes me want to dream;
I can be ambitious too,
it’s easier than it seems.
I must return the favors,
not out of guilt, but choice;
you make me want to help you out,
when I hear your martyr voice.
Although it may sound sappy,
I thrived when we did meet,
I felt calm, at home, and blissful,
I felt whole, I felt complete.


Monologues are typically the best way to reveal something about a character, by allowing them to talk and talk, spilling their thoughts. Monologues are emotion driven, and are usually full of either fear, sadness, excitement, etc. Monologues usually involve only one character, or the supporting  character has a maximum of two lines, like below.  Here is a not very creative monologue I wrote in creative writing, so you can see what I’m talking about.
     “His hands, you should really feel them; not like any man’s I ever knew, I’ll tell you that. So smooth, and warm, like his smile – did I mention that he’s Portuguese?”
     “Oh gosh, that smile, Steph! And the way he walks is a mixture between Greek god and that guy off that runway show, the one with the perfect tush? Yeah, just like that. His biceps are so huge, I doubt that I’ll ever see a watermelon that size! I bet your mouth is just watering, isn’t it? Mine was too, no lies! And the way he rubbed his knee against mine, but pretended like he wasn’t paying attention? That’s the oldest trick in the book! I almost burst out laughing, but then he looked at me and, oh gosh, Steph, I caught a look at his eyes. That perfect crystal blue color, like a smurf that ate too much cotton candy. I looked away fast, you bet I did, but then he leaned in all close. I can still smell it; gasoline and freshly-mown grass! I want to just bottle him up and take him everywhere I go! But he promised to sit with me tomorrow, can you believe it? I’m still in shock – and I don’t have anything to wear! I’ll have to go shopping, but, wait, do you remember that little dress from the Zipper Depot? That’d be perfect!” Pause. “Say, can I borrow forty dollars?”

The Baby Girl

Here is an older poem of mine (about 2008) that I found in my email and decided I’d post. If, by the end, you have any questions or comments, feel free to leave a message! Here she is:

She hides her pain behind a smile
For soon after a while
She feels her life slip away
And there’s nothing she can do to make it stay.
Fate, karma, call it what you like
But this young girl, didn’t learn to ride a bike,
She stays inside, covered in fluff
The doctor said she can’t afford to play rough.
So this young girl, is bedridden, now
And her parents, they just can’t allow,
For her to live life normal anymore,
But still this young girl, died at age four.
Everyone said she was sweet as honey,
Nothing could add up to her, not even money,
She was carefree and beautiful, not rude a bit
Funny how one little thing can change all of it.
Everyone told stories, of all her angel days,
Some even swore, they saw her glowing rays
Well now for sure she’s safe and happy,
Looking over everyone, especially her family.
Her halo bright and beautiful, just above her head,
She’s running, playing, in their hearts, for sure she isn’t dead.
She’s making up her years in heaven, city beyond the cloud,
Watching every day go by, Protect My Family, she vowed.

Tribute to Grandpa

These are some words that define you;
Your faith is admired, and your courage is true.
The nights are short, and the days are long,
And everyone’s singing an empty song,
But soon the song will fill with words,
because the melody is all that hurts.
Listen close and you’ll hear the chime-
How was playing your fiddle for the last time?
You played beautifully and the music still flows,
Sweet and easy in each of our souls.
The prairie breathes quiet with the absence of your voice,
I guess I grew accustomed to hearing that noise.
Sometimes I hear words you used to say,
Your angelic voice saying, “It’ll be okay.”
The times flew by between you and I,
And when I think of the memories, I smile, not cry,
I smile for all the days that we shared,
And I smile to know how much you cared.
To laugh and share jokes, oh, I wish that we could,
If I could be with you forever, you know that I would.
All that knew you are touched by your name,
I take pride in knowing you’ll always be the same.
Nobody could have loved you as much as I do,
But if they had wings, they’d fly to you;
If I had wings, I’d fly there too. 


Here’s a clip of another story of mine! If you’d like to see the entire story, just let me know! I’d be more than glad to share it with you. Enjoy!

I scratched my arm, dragging my brittle fingers across it.

When she sat so close, with her face so close to my face, it made me flare up inside. Her poop-colored eyes stared at me, and my matching eyes stared back.

I got teased when I was a child, for having poop colored eyes. I try to forget those taunts and jeers; that was the past, but it’s hard with her here every day, reminding me.

I scrawled loopy writing across a page of the newspaper, noticing the way I dotted and crossed my letters. There was a certain consistency about it. “Always the same old thing,” that seemed to describe my life perfectly.

I felt my eyebrows sink inwards, and the wood of my pencil snapped, freeing the graphite bar inside. Her writing was the same: the same size; the same style. Like myself, she also lived a brutally repetitive life.

I sighed, curling my fingers into a tight ball.

“I’m going out. Would you watch little Tony?” she wanders over to me, bobbing a gurgling baby boy, a smile placed on her face. She has a familiar smile. A smile that tells people that everything is great; this woman has her life on track.

Tony’s face scrunched up, and the sound a siren wailed out of his mouth.

I felt a brick of contempt lodge itself rigidly against my spleen. The pressure gave me a weak feeling and stirred my insides. I wanted to open my mouth and spew my breakfast all over her and her unexpected surprise from within.

Instead I looked up at her with the most placid look I could muster. It was not right for me to indulge in such fantastical thoughts. “I would love to watch Tony for you.”

She laid Tony in the playpen beside me in a bundle. When the door closed I began to hum freely, for I was able to finally be myself.

I peeked into the bundle. He was by far the smallest baby I had ever seen, but who can say small babies don’t cause trouble?

The monster was calling me. After spending the whole day, and the previous night, stuck inside this cluttered apartment, I needed a break. I needed to get away from her more often. Her, with her “holier than thou” attitude.

I lay back in the fluffy mass of pillows and ratty blankets on my bed, thoughts running quickly through my head. The thoughts came, and went. I had several epiphanies during that time, but soon dizziness was cast upon my vulnerable body.

I got a glass of water and slammed it back, only to be replaced by other. The water slid through my insides, landing in a freezing puddle. I could feel every muscle moving around in my body, and I didn’t like that. I wanted to feel the warm embrace of the monster. I wanted to feel the rush that used to come with it.

I felt a warm sensation rise up through my body, but it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. I wanted to hit something like it were a punching bag and I was a pro-boxer. I just wanted to make the uncomfortable feeling stop.

I caught my reflection in a hanging mirror and tensed. There she is, I thought. Her face was lost in a mass of big brown freckles. Small freckles are what I would consider cute; anything else just manipulates your face and turns you ugly. Big brown freckles can make anyone ugly.

I glared at her. She glared back.

I imagined myself shoving my mouth into her socket, sucking all the disgusting habits and ugly bits out of her. Of course I couldn’t suck all of it out, but I could try.

Over time there would be less and less of her. That thought sent a shiver down my spine. Whether it was a good or bad shiver? I didn’t know.

I could sense a plan beginning to form but I distracted myself from it. I knew if I allowed it to take roots in my brain; if I watered it with TLC, soon it would be very strong indeed.