straight down the line

I came, I wrote, I conquered: Writing Assignments

For my first assignment I have chosen to make a poem out of Twilight Zone Titles. Here it is!

Night Call,

Little Girl Lost,

Come Wander With Me,

What You Need,

is The Hunt,

for The Midnight Sun,

Sounds And Silences,

You Drive,

Nothing In The Dark,

The Encounter:

The Hitch-Hiker in,

Black Leather Jackets and,

Dead Man’s Shoes,

The Fear,

In His Image,

He’s Alive

Cavender Is Coming.

The assignment can be found here:

For my second writing assignment I have chosen to make a short monologue of a household tool. Can you guess what it is?

Mystery Tool:

Did he HAVE to handle me so aggressively?  I’m practically an antique. There’s no respect anymore, I tell you. Day by day they fondle me with their cold, clammy, sweaty, greasy hands like it’s just no big deal. “I don’t have feelings,” they say, “I’m an ‘inanimate object’,” they say. Well, they have another thing coming. Without me there would be no daily activity, the humans would be confined to the inside like the rest of us tools. Never once have they stopped to admire my shiny, brassy quality or my ornately carved floral details that are slowly being covered in their hand grime.

I’m so unappreciated and abused. Ever day I am exposed not only to the elements but to the filthy humans, and the little humans, who are the worst just by the way, and the furry humans too. I’d leave if I could, don’t think for a second I wouldn’t do it. I often fantasize about packing up all my screws and heading off to bigger and better places. Like the pictures in those thin, shiny books the one human is always looking at. I can just picture myself there, no humans, no dirty, no under appreciated abuse. But I couldn’t just go on my own. I can’t even stand on my own! And that moving rectangle I’m forcibly attached to is the biggest push-over you’ll ever meet. He doesn’t even see anything wrong with being used so violently each day! I think he’s missing a few screws, if you know what I mean. He has to be after being slammed into the stationary rectangles multiple times a day!

I’m telling you if I could just…Oh! They’re coming! And they’re covered in filth…here we go again…

Did you guess what the mystery tool is? Here is a link to the original assignment:


For my last writing assignment of the week I am creating an alternate ending to one of this week’s readings. The reading I have chosen is “A Matter of Procedure”. A link to this story can be found below.

It sickened me how beautiful she was. It especially sickened me when I compared her to my own plainness. There was nothing special about me. I found myself consumed with the thought of her. Her perfect blond, silk hair, her little tennis skirts, the way her laughed sounded like a melody, it consumed me.

That night I couldn’t sleep. I laid awake for most of the night, haunted by the sound of her voice, her laugh, her sent, her blood curdling screams. And then…silence. I slept, but not well. When I woke the next morning the sheets were in knots on the floor. I’d slept horribly. I stumbled into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. I went back to the bedroom while the kettle boiled to clean up a little. As I knelt down to pick the sheets off of the floor, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror by my easel. I didn’t look like me, something has changed. I shook of the usual feelings of self-doubt and continued on my way down to pick up the covers. As I did so, I noticed a bag under the bed that I didn’t recognize. Before I had time to think about it, the kettle started screaming. I rushed to the kitchen to silence the offensive sound. There it was again: the screaming.

There was a loud banging on the front door. It silenced the screams. I got my tea together and walked to the door. It was the chief and a couple of county sheriffs. The chief was just standing there, like a stone statue, cold and unwavering. He was holding a long piece of paper and the sheriffs had their handcuffs out. “What’s happening?” Nobody responded. “You’re under arrest…”

The rest was a blur. I am writing you this from my prison cell in the women’s correctional facility. Annabel was always mocking me with her perfect hair, her perfect body, her perfect life. Everything I knew I would never have. I just wanted to be her. I still hear the blood-curdling screams at night but the silence comes eventually. Just as it did that night. In the silence always comes.

Here is a link to the original assignment:


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