Date:
23 Apr 2001
Time:
15:03:18
Remote User:
 

Comments

Erin, Your PP1 is amazing! I can really picture whats going on in your words and I can see theirs something more oBEHIND your words. Excellent job!! -Cai


Date:
01 Jun 2001
Time:
12:09:15
Remote User:
 

Comments

nice! your work is awesome, erin your a sweet heart! stay that way always! :) nikki


Date:
11 Jun 2001
Time:
20:32:56
Remote User:
 

Comments

Erin, Your work blows my mind it's great! Your criminal mind story is kind of strange though. Do you think you could have said "like" anymore times than you did!!!!! It's too bad you didn't put all your work on the web. My grading scale is P-Poor, G-Good, E-Excellent. I give you work a G! -JD


Date:
11 Jun 2001
Time:
20:33:14
Remote User:
 

Comments

Erin, Your work blows my mind it's great! Your criminal mind story is kind of strange though. Do you think you could have said "like" anymore times than you did!!!!! It's too bad you didn't put all your work on the web. My grading scale is P-Poor, G-Good, E-Excellent. I give you work a G! -JD


Date:
14 Jun 2001
Time:
18:27:52
Remote User:
 

Comments

Hi. Mr. McGonegal here. This is your portfolio evaluation. Do you remember what I use for an evaluation scale? An "AW" for AWARD WINNING, a "P" for PUBLISHABLE, or a "p" for PASSING. Your first piece: P. Your second piece: P. Your third piece: p. Your fourth piece:AW . I'm upset that "Where I'm from" didn't make it here! Send it to me, and I'll upload it. Overall, your portfolio represented some of the good work you did this quarter. It was a pleasure writing with you this quarter, and I hope you will keep writing and stop by trueteacher.com to see what your successors are writing for "found poems," "criminal mind" stories, and travelogues. Best, Mr. M.

My Portfolio

 

Sign my guest book after you read my writing.

 
 

Waterfalling Indigo

encompassing dusk.

shattered 
lullabies, pebbling THE 
shoreline.

stretched botanical.

shaded 
dreams are shattered
creation?

stone on a lilypad.

THE solitary 
radiant iris
somehow reflects
REFUGE. 

 

 

 

 

 

“Inside the Criminal Mind”

On trial!  I’m innocent!  Sure, he’s dead now, but if you knew the guy you’d want to kill him too.  He’s one of those people.  You know, like the ones that are “only alive because it’s illegal to shoot them”?  Well, I did shoot him.  The world’s a better place without him; one less man makes everyone happier.

I mean, like, it’s not like he just got on my nerves or something.  He’s a man; that itself is a crime.  I mean, like, what’s a man’s purpose in life anyway?  What good are they to women?  Like, of course!  Reproduction.  I mean, like every intelligent woman knows that.  It just like, made so much sense to kill him.  Like, if I’m pregnant than he’s done his job, right?

Yeah, so like, what’s the purpose of keeping people like him anyway?  Yeah, so like, that’s what I’m thinking when I put a bullet in his head.  So like, now I’m in trouble on account of an old decaying piece of paper all the way in Washington, D.C., that’s floating in helium and written by a bunch of old men two-hundred years ago?  I mean, like, talk about chauvinistic society?

And what good could a man do my daughter?  Support checks, maybe.  Yeah, like, if I ever needed a man’s help!  I am female, the stronger sex.  And like, so much more intelligent, too.

It was like, so his time anyway.  Why keep him anymore?

 


 

 

 

 

I was living with a woman who suddenly began to stink.  So I took a walk to the library to do some research.  I remembered an email a friend sent me about how we all needed to freeze our bananas because they’d caused cancer of the earlobes.  Had we bought any bananas lately?

An old lady with bad breath and turquoise argyle socks up to her knees helped me find the medical section.  Lots of encyclopedias and books on how to lose weight, but nothing I was particularly interested in.  Would I be better off to call a physician?

MY head was down, counting the cement blocks of the sidewalk and I was thinking seriously about loberian cancer; what did I really know about this?  Does she really have this?  My mind always had a tendency to take off on its own, and so unlocking the door to our apartment I was thinking simply of offering her deodorant and not dwelling on what it could be.

Poisonous clouds of toxic green gas drifting in little spirals throughout the living room and kitchen, and apparently was seeping from the crack under her bedroom door.

That smell, how was it produced?  Why?  So quickly I didn’t think I was at the library very long.  Had she been something like that all day?  Don’t people notice things like these?  My rumpled forehead at the time displayed my depth of thought concerning the land of hygiene practices it would require to produce those kind of rank, putrid little bunches of cirrus and cumulus.

A dishtowel from the kitchen served as a gas mask, and oven-mits and rubber gloves.  I sneaked to the door and opened it as a good detective should: slowly and silently.

She lay silently asleep.  Her face was red and tear-stained and a drool-soaked pillow was the result of a stuffy nose.  “Poor thing,” I thought.  “She’s been crying.”  Do tears stink?  Something green and attached to the side of her head caught my attention: her earlobes!  They appeared as though pickled, green gas was flowing like steam from the little holes in the skin of her ears.  Images of spiraling bananas danced through my brain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fifteen Minutes of Fame

Martha Stewart looked out her open second story window to the beauiful and serene world of her sixteenth birthday. She sighed. She smiled. Just before sunrise the sky was a wild painting of smeared pastels and bright stars that retreated one by one. A chickadee slept on a small branch of the tree outside her window, drinking in the lilac scent from each new bud as it opened.

As if sensing her eyes upon him, a chickadee's eyes opened quickly and mechanically in a crazed sort of fashion. He opened his beak, also very machine-like, and released a series of shrill, high pitched blasphemies. In the same manner, the chichadee's wings opened and flapped rhythmically up and down to an opressing, unseen beat.

She searched desperately through the trees nearby for others, other chickadees that would dare follow suit at that dark hour of morning. The surrounding trees were empty, desolate of the devilish winged cretins.

She rubbed her eyes as if to double check her calculations. Her vision cleared and the innocent lilac seemed to come to life as a thousand mechanical chickadees materialized and imitated their overlord in perfect unison like an obedient aerobics class.

The evil chickadees, like happy meal toys, together formed a massive choir of obscenity-hurling look-alikes. Already, her body temperature had cllimbed several degrees, and the veins in her forehead were clearly visible.

The solution came to her in a vision just then. What a revolation! She threw her pansy-print down comforter to the foot of her bed and her feet hit the floor i an unnatural positions as she made a wild attempt to stand on her feet and run. She ran through the upstairs hallway to the little room at the end of her hallway, bashing into several walls along the way down as the corridor changed direction. There it was, gleaming and beautiful. The first beams of sunlight twinkled against the metal of the radiant double barrel. She tore open the top drawer of her dresser nearby with much haste, and fumbled with the ammunition until she managed to place two sucessfully. She dropped two more handfuls into the pockets of her ankle-length white nightie.

She marched grinningly back to her morning filled bedroom, and greeted the now swarming mass of demon chickadees with a sinister crackle. She took aim and pulled the trigger vengefully.