HIGH STAKES: The Heavenly Hellish Mattress

The morning was cold and sunny, the dew gathered on the glass and the knots gathered on my back. I needed a new mattress. My brown filthy excuse for a bed has sponged enough worries from my head, its springs look like winter. So many years sleeping, pounding, resting, sighing, fucking and dying on my bed, I don’t want to send it to the dirtiest hole on earth.
I want someone else to please it, like I did. I want someone else’s worries to make the mattress reek. I carefully carried the crust until the burden of its weight shifted to the back of my truck. I crawled onto the mattress one last time, foolishly hoping for it to convince me not to take it to Goodwill.
The engine rumbled and jittered the springs and each bump in the road brought the mattress a few inches closer to the heavens. God was aware the mattress had lost its life and God was trying to pick it up. But each time God’s claw reached into my truck I sped up. My foot pounded the floor of the car, in tune with my radio.
The wind stabbed the truck, slowing it in its tracks. 95 miles per hour. Pot holes yanked on my wheels. 100 miles per hour. I had to be quick, or else the world would stop. My wife was being awarded a purple heart for her red heart and I didn’t want to miss its beats.
I saw a red silhouette blazing across my windshield. 55 miles per hour. The shape of a boy in the road. 25 miles per hour. The boy grew into a man as my truck grew nearer. 10 miles per hour. The silhouette was dressed in dirt-blue jeans, a tired hat and a smirk. 0 miles per hour.
The man put his claw on the bumper and gently caressed my car until his fingers touched the tip of my window. Black fingernails and wet forehead, a brown filthy excuse for a man. “If this be your truck, I command these feet be driven.”
I wanted to say no, I was going to be late, but something about his gray smile and black eyeballs made me want to help. His mud smothered the clean carpet and his breath spun my steering wheel in his direction. His name was Lu. I knew it was short for something, but I didn’t care. He asked me about my mattress and why I was going so fast. I blamed god.
The road pumped and my hands choked the wheel, only 90 minutes to drop off the mattress and drop off the hitchhiker. Time seemed to race my truck, I needed to be faster, and I needed to win the race. Lu told me not to throw away such a perfectly good thing, and I explained to him I wasn’t. “Donating is the same as throwing it away,” Lu grinned.
 Lu kept asking about the mattress. How much it had originally cost, how much it was probably worth, how well I had kept it, how many times I had slept on it, and if he could keep it instead. A dirty mattress for a dirty man. One man’s trash is another trash’s treasure.
I didn’t want to give it to him, I wanted charity to have it. I wanted some orphan to open it up for Christmas. But Lu was very tempting. He told me I would make it on time if I let him sleep on it. His eyes followed my internal debate and finally convinced me. His black eyeballs convinced me.
The highway kept growing, I was not closer to my brown blonde beauty. Every time I asked Lu if we were closer to his destination he just laughed and changed the topic. His gray smile growing wider with every mile. He was starting to scare me. I asked him where he was headed. He told me he didn’t believe in heads. He wasn’t funny. He was starting to scare me.
Black hair, black eyeballs and black laughter. Lu turned up the radio and turned down his window. I asked him why he was so dirty. The wind shouted over his answer. I shut the world and he leaned his head back to rest and said,
“I blame god.”
My truck froze on the desert highway, Lu scorched and squashed the ground as he stepped out with my mattress.
Satan wanted my brown filthy charity more than god.

REFLECTION: 

This piece was very challenging to write. We, as a class, were given a standard plot that we had to personalize. The given plot was: Character A has to donate a mattress to Goodwill before Character C gives a speech, Character B gets in Character A's way. 

Personalizing such a standard plot was challenging because at first no ideas came to mind. I had to think carefully about a story that would fulfill the assignment's requirements. I loved this challenge because it taught me how to be fluid with static material. 

My mindset has definitely changed a lot since this project. At first I thought creative story writing needed inspiration, but that mindset is long gone.I realized that sometimes you have a deadline that you have to meet whether you have an idea or not. This assignment helped me write a story without waiting around for an idea. Ideas will arise later on, after you commence writing. 

A great skill I learned during the course and progress of this assignment was: how to just write. Sitting down, whenever, and writing about whatever is a pretty great skill. This skill was definitely taught earlier in the semester with the concept of freewriting, but I never knew how to apply those concepts to an assignment with guidelines. 


Below this entire body of text are two images. These images are pictures. These two pictures are of my thought process before the story. I didn't really change the story much from the original draft because by this time I had learned to contemplate ideas before I begin writing. I asked myself questions about the story before I wrote the story because I wanted to create a hypothetical background for each character. I wanted to develop their purposes and relationships before I started the story.

HERE ARE THE OUTLINES/THOUGHT PROCESSES:

HIGH STAKES: Waking, Walking and Working at Night

Sometimes you can hear the streetlamps coming on. That little zap of energy rings in the street, but only restless ears can hear it. I hear that sound every evening, every evening it wakes me. I try to sleep all day but then I hear that noise, that little zap. The streetlamp rises at night.
My name is Tea, I'm a detective. Since you can't see me I'd like to tell you that I am four feet tall and my hair always looks wet. I don’t really talk much, but I do write a lot, so you're not missing out. My barber always tells me that I'm not very talkative, but then again am I supposed to talk to my barber? Am I supposed to talk to anyone? The only person I've had a full conversation with is someone I can't forget.
The night was brown, tinted with dirt and exhaust. Smog and smoke rolled up my pant legs as I walked to the end of Streit Ave. I remember thinking it was cold, and then I remember thinking that was a weird thought since I was wearing a heavy coat, and then I remember thinking that was weird since I live in California.
My steel toe boots smashed the narrow black-bricked road until I came to a stop. Below the stop sign lied a dead poodle. The dog's eyes black as brick and its fur brown as night. I stepped back and examined it from afar.
The dog's skin had been slit in several areas. Regions of its body without skin or fur. Red flesh mudding brown hair, someone had tried to skin this animal for its fur. Was poodle in fashion now?
The wind yelled at me to continue my path. So I did, you don’t argue with the wind, you go with it. I passed row after row of dirty street apartments, dipped in soot and suffering. This part of town was invisible. The smog always clouds its low floors, no streetlamps here. It’s too dark for me, my black coat blends into the surroundings. No moonshine.
Artificial yellow rays guiding my eyes. A purple and pink neon sign leads me to the front door of my favorite coffee shop. It didn't have a name people just called it "The Coffee Shop." An attempt had been made last week to formally christen the place with red spray paint. It was washed off immediately. The owner wants to keep it nameless.
I came in and sat at my favorite bar stool: the fourth one to the right. Greasy menu with greasy items saturated with flavor. I ordered a coffee, and then four more.  The waiter and I were both on our dinner break. We shared each other’s company in silence. Then a door yelled at me to turn its way. So I did.
Under the cotton-shaped coat was a soft, nervous woman with loud, help-seeking eyes. White boots and sun stained hair; she walked toward the stool next to mine: the third one to the right. She tipped her nose and ordered a martini. A martini? At a coffee shop? Another waiter returned in a jiffy. She dipped her lips and took a sip. Her roses leaving a lip stain on the soft spout.
My stomach was filled to the brim with black drink, and then I ordered another to stay longer. The front of her hat swiveled in my direction. She said hello. I said hello. After I told her I was a detective she said "God has brought us two together, I need to use you for something." She began running her teeth and tongue furiously. She wouldn’t stop talking; her mouth jittered like an excited car motor. She tried to steal me, she needed to use me.
The next hour passed and we were at her store. She owned a fur coat shop. Each wall draped in soft fur. Beaver, faux, fox, marten, mink, otter, rabbit, raccoon, sable, skunk, grey wolf coats insulated us. Surrounded by skin, I realized I was stepping in a red murky puddle. Someone had christened her store with death.
I followed her down the green carpeted hallways of the back rooms until she came to a stop. Her breaths slowed and then I could hear a man panting, struggling, crying and yelling. I pulled my gun and pushed the door.
There stood a man covered in dirt, blood and tears. On the floor below lied patches of white fur. White cotton fur stained with red. He was squeezing a knife. I stepped back and pointed my right hand. I ran my left one through my wet hair, pushed it to the right.
His red arm squished me to the floor as he put his other around her neck. He shut the door behind us. His knife barely piercing her skin, she started yelling and begging. He told me we would both die for what we had done to him. He told her he loved her. He said that’s why he had killed the poodle. The fur for her. He had me confused with her lover. He was mad at her, mad at me. He squeezed his knife and I squeezed my trigger. I won.
When his head hit the tile he faded, "Its a story, nobody gets out of here alive."

REFLECTION:

Working with pre-selected words really challenged me. It forced me to think and work with what I had. I was given a list of 9 or more words for this project. I had to incorporate each word into the narrative, while still constructing a personal, unique story.

We were told to write a noir piece, and I enjoyed doing so. Writing a mystery is so much fun! It was great not knowing how the story would end until I ended it. Writing this mystery noir was one of my favorite assignments this semester.

The goal of this assignment was to write a noir piece while incorporating words provided by our professor. Some skills I gained from working towards this goal were: the ability to write a mystery and the ability to write with words that are not mine. It was challenging to write with provided words, since the story in my head didn't always agree with involving them in my story, But I had to manage and I was able to!

Under these words are a few pictures. They show the outline of the story.I wanted to write the story as I went along so I can only pre-determined the theme and structure of the story. I decided on a few main plot elements and improvised the rest. These pictures show the ideas I had for the work as a whole before I wrote it. 

HERE ARE THE PICTURES OF CONCEPTS:

LOW STAKES assignment: Freewrite

The steel became transparent when he sat in front of me.
A man whose skin color is grey, 50 shades of it.
 A man whose peak is blanketed with a snow of dandruff.
A man who hides behind his hat and sunglasses.
A man who is too nervous to look up.
A man who nods his head in agreement with the bus’s jerking.
A man whose shirt stripes shrivel in agony.
A man whose sunglasses have no eyes, whose face has no smile.
A man who looks uneasy, tired, and dipped in dirt.
I felt so close to the dirtiest man alive.

REFLECTION:

This assignment was great because it was a freewrite. Freewriting is my favorite type of writing because you have so much freedom! It was a great experience hearing the words I could write without thinking about them.Freewriting is so flexible and natural that you can write on anything and everything. Freewriting can help you discover your voice, which it helped me do. I really enjoyed it, I really enjoyed this assignment.

I noticed all the cons with my writing now that I am reflecting on this. I've noticed that sometmes I tend to repeat myself when I am writing. I am a bit redundant. I am a bit redundant. I feel like this is one of my failures as a writer. I think this because I feel a writer should be concise and precise. A writer should use his words as if they were scarce resources. A word should only be used if it is completely necessary.

I would improve this bad quality of mine for next semester. I want to become a clearer writer who captures a reader's attention entirely. This can only be done with words. I plan on getting better at deciding which words are vital and which ones are not.

Below this body of text there are some images. These images are first drafts of the work you just read. This was a freewrite that I wrote as I was on the bus home (before I had a car :{.) As I was beginning to write in my journal a very dirty man sat next to me, the dirtiest man in the world. His smell inspired my writing and my vomiting. After I revised my freewrite I decided to make it into a poem. I used my favorite lines of description from the original poem. The poem is what you just read.

HERE IS WHAT I WROTE AS THE DIRTIEST MAN SAT DOWN:

LOW STAKES assignment: Helmoffering

EV
   er
 Y     T
           hIN
                  g


YO
           u
He
    Ar

                IS 
A
          S      oU
                ND      


Everything you hear
Is a sound

Motorcycle sound blazes left, ear, right. 
Wind woos, Venom whistles and 
Seatbelts slap.

I can hear  

A Chinese man speaks
Chinese while the Beatles play. 
The sunlight manages to push 
Through my closed eyes. 

The speed of the
Bus Is loud. 
The lady on 
The GPS thinks she knows-it-all

Music blasting from the 
Neighboring car, 
Sound is a violent 
Drummer pounding on the ear drum

Traffic is terrible, 
Move an inch. Lose an inch. 
Continues..Change when it becomes centimeters. 

A red river of red lights
Each one halted and honking
Angry and paused
Immobile in mobiles

Saddle hurts 
In a car. 
Feat tire with distance. 

Cars left and mint.
Not moving but speeding home. 
My radio is louder than the world. 
This moment is smaller than the universe.
An itch and I don’t want to scratch. I don’t want to miss the moment, 
I don’t want to miss the world. 


Moment: Tnemom, Venom, Mom, Mother, Memento, Mime, Meme, Miming, Mint, Gnome, Womb, New, Ten
Traffic: Ciffart, Cliff, Art, Clifford, Clip, Fart, Stiff, Jip, Jiff, Life
Blazes: Sezalb, Saddle, Seltzer, Alba, Said, Says, Sentiment

REFLECTION:

I really loved this piece. I loved everything about it. I loved the technique used to write it and the thought process behind it. Our instructions were to simply write our thoughts. We had to pour our brains onto paper and then type it. 

It was so great seeing how natural one can be when one lends no thought. This helm-offering is composed of pure thoughts, pure ideas and pure voice. No obstructions, no walls blocked my thoughts from transcending through my pencil.

I thought of this project as word vomit. I was simply spitting thoughts onto paper, hoping that they were good enough to be read. Then we had to go back and edit, reshape and re imagine our work, without changing too much.This assignment helped push me to find my natural writer's voice. I did it all without trying. I very highly recommend this writing exercise to anyone.


Below this last body of text are a few photographs. These are picz of my original helmoffering, before I revised and edited it. Revising was a long process since there weren't too many correlating ideas. It was hard to find a theme with all those different thoughts: HERE ARE THE PICS/Z OF THE ORIGINAL HELMOFFERING:
(I CLOSED MY EYES AND WROTE)
(I CAN WRITE WITH MY EYES CLOSED!)
(I WONDER IF I CASN TYUPE WITJ MYeYES CLpSED)

Critically evaluating the work of others.

REVIEW OF:

War of Kingdoms by Julie Wang

I really enjoyed the opening of the novel because of its beautiful imagery. It really painted a pretty picture. After the beautiful setting was established it made the story seem more realistic. I was able to get involved with the story because the intro really helped bring me into the fictional word. I really liked the following the most, "A pleasant breeze skimmed across the blue waves that gently lapped against the docks and beaches that stretched along the side of the port town, carrying with it a symphony of bird sound."
The author uses vivid phrases to let traders see what is happening. She seems to do this a lot with characters. She tells you what they look like and lets you guess their purpose. Here are three examples of the author showing us who the character is.
1: "sheaf of papers neatly stacked and held close to him and silver-rimmed glasses perched on his nose sighed"
2: "Restraining another sigh and running his free hand rather roughly through pale blonde hair"
3: "a rather bored looking white-haired youth that sat among some of the cargo crates that sat on along one of the docks, waiting"
The character that I find most interesting is the old man. The old man is interesting to me because he is always described sighing.I want to know why this is. What makes him so tired, what makes him so exhausted? The way the author vaguely describes the character makes the old man more interesting and makes me more curious. 
The narrative has a "top" story and a "bottom story." What I have read so far is that there is a boy, who is waiting at the dock. This could be symbolic of him waiting for his manhood. The boy is described as looking "bored" and this resembles how most boys act before they mature. Teens get bored of being immature, so they mature. I feel that the bottom story might be his journey into maturation.
I don't think the setup can really be improved that much. I really enjoyed the way the story bounces around from world to world. It adds excitement to the story since there are so many cliffhangers. It reminds me of War and Peace, one book telling the stories of many.


REFLECTION:

In this piece I found myself reviewing the work of another peer. I was supposed to read her work and then comment on it. My comments had to consist of helpful and friendly feedback.

This showcases my ability to read the work of others critically. I can evaluate the content, writing style and tone of someone's work, which helps me personally. Since I have gotten the opportunity to find flaws in the works of others and help them improve those flaws, I can now channel my experience into my writing. I can now avoid making mistakes, and I can now fix the mistakes I make.

Under this body of writing is a link. This is the link to the original work I reviewed in this critical peer review.

HERE IS THE LINK:    
                                   https://docs.google.com/document/d/1VxmOiTsOEpX419p2BGPLQiBlktVuDBKKeRvjikpxdhs/edit?pli=1