Creative Writing 2: The 5th Street Flight

Today's prompt asked us to create a story based on the following picture. The only restrictions we had placed on our work were that we had to assume the dog was named Barder and that the orange turban gave the boy the power of flight. The following is my original story.

Joey could feel Barder's muscles ripple as they rode on through the storm. For a boy like Joey, this storm was nothing, not after all he had been through. A torrent of wind flurried around him and he looked down at his hands, gripping Barder's soft brown fur. He watched as the snowflakes attacked them like piranhas before melting slightly, spreading out like slow motion rain. "C'mon Barder," he whispered, "We finally got the turban; we're finally free! Lets fly and fly and fly forever so we never have to think of that place again." The orange turban shouted out like a beacon of hope in the fog and Joey forgot the cold as he climbed higher and higher - subsisting purely off the energy that connects a boy and his dog. It was pure magic, like Aladdin or something. The air, the wind whipping around his face, the power and warmth of Barder's body coursing through the fog, it was too exhilarating. Joey felt like he could laugh and cry and sing all at the same time. "This is what freedom feels like," he thought.

Joey hit the ground with a thud. The orange scarf that he stole from Mrs. Pearson had unwound itself from around his head and he had to push it out of his eyes as he sat up to survey the damage. Barder was there in his face, sniffing around like loyal dogs do, and Joey looked back to see the uneven Boston sidewalk where he must have tripped. The snow no longer felt exciting; it was cold and reminded him of the harsh reality that he was all alone. "At least they haven't found us yet," he whispered to Barder with a hint of defeat as they continued walking toward the 5th street bus stop. Be just at that moment he saw the well known black sedan belonging to Mrs. Josten pull around the corner and even that hope was crushed. "Joey! What on earth were you thinking??" cried the plump social worker as she tumbled out of the car. "The Pearsons have been calling me non-stop; you had them worried sick! You can't keep doing this, Joey. People don't adopt kids that run away. You're lucky the Pearsons still want you."

So that was it. This desperate attempt at freedom ended not even an hour after it started. Joey let his thoughts overtake his will to run. "Lucky they still want me? That's what they said about the last 6 families. But that's the problem: They always want you, but they never want you enough."

Creative Writing 1: Alligators in the City

Today in class we had the opportunity to write a creative piece based on one or more pictures from Bill Sullivan's Turnstile Photography Project. The following is the narrative I wrote based on the man pictured below.


The sounds of the dingy subway station sang out like a cacophonous theme song as he pushed his hip against the cold metal bar of the turnstile. Stifling the memory of what he had just done, he reached into his pocket, fishing for a travel-sized bottle of Purell. “Crawling, just crawling with germs,” he muttered to himself as he scuttled up the stairs in such a manner befitting of his meek stature. There was a utility closet on the left, that’s where he usually stopped to collect himself. The door was always locked, but a quick rattle of the doorknob and a slight tug to the left and it would crack open like a smile. He slipped in, unnoticed by the jaded river of businessmen and college students, and gently closed the door with the knob still turned so it wouldn’t make a “click” when it shut. He reached for the light switch – he had done this so many times he remembered exactly where it was. His hand found it immediately, without fumbling. As the dim incandescent bulb flickered to life, he rifled through the contents of his catch of the day. It was stately, Italian leather with an embossed alligator print. The metal clasp reminded him of the one his mother carried when they first moved to America. He was only seven at the time. He remembered how his mother would make him walk with her when she went down to the department store, He had hated it then, but secretly he felt a little proud that she had the means to shop there. “It’s crucial that you maintain your appearance, Haji,” she used to say, “People will already judge you enough because you are not from here; don’t give them another reason to hate you.” That was a long time ago, though, in the days long before she had gotten sick. Oh Lord, if she knew how he was paying for those treatments…he pushed the thought from his mind with a shudder.

By that time, he had emptied the contents of the alligator pocketbook onto the floor: credit cards, gym memberships, some old receipts, worthless. He might be able to pawn the wallet though, “Pity, pity,” he thought. This one was barely worth the guilt. After three years and five months, the fear and adrenaline had subsided, but the guilt, that never went away. He thought back to the woman with the lavender shirt. She had seemed nice enough, preoccupied, such an easy target. But then again, who would suspect a small bumbling Indian man of anything more than absentminded clumsiness. Damn, he hated himself for this. It was too easy. There was a part of him that wanted to hear a “Hey, you there!” or a “Stop that man!” Then maybe, just maybe, he could find the fear within himself to stop. But it never happened – not here in this city or opportunity. It should be called the city of blindness. It’s the lights, really – they just can’t stop looking at the lights. He closed the door behind him, leaving the scattered items on the floor, and rejoined the stream of drones, some blinded by hope and some by the lack of it. He needed $50 by Thursday.