Surviving Creative Writing

Soups and Stems

At the age of ten, my best friend 

and I fancied ourselves culinary connoisseurs

of the wild. The Iron Chefs themselves

couldn’t stand up to our creativity 

when it came to the fine art of mixing

just the right amount of dirt

with the right amount of leaves.

We liked it best when it rained - after, really,

once our bikes dried off and we were allowed

to go out again - because our street, a true South

Burlington masterpiece of unfilled potholes and 

mountainous frost heaves, became our kitchen. 

We had no need for cast iron pots or fancy skillets 

when the pavement made bowls filled with water just for us. 

The largest puddles were the ones we claimed.

Then we would split apart in a squeal of wet rubber,

with the smell of sodden grass in our noses,

and dart off to start our collection. Only the 

brightest flowers could be added to our little make-believe

stew, even if that meant being naughty and sneaking around

a neighbor’s garden. We were never caught. 

To the water, we added all sorts of finery. Bits of pine cones,

fresh and old pine needles, sun-colored daisies, lilacs, twigs, dirt

for consistency, a torn-up red tulip petal if we were lucky enough to snatch one. 

Our favorite ingredients were the berries from a hedge

that only grew during certain months, but squished in the 

most sticky, satisfying way when we smashed them up. 

We created inedible food from Mother Earth and we were proud of it.

The next day always found our soups bone-dry and dusty, 

crushed to bits by unkind cars and pedestrian feet. 

Misook has since moved away, leaving behind our legacy 

seeped into the cracks of Cottage Grove Avenue and its shoddy, 

crumbling patchwork. I think of her whenever I take a walk 

and find the perfect puddle, left there as if just for me, 

brimming with the ghosts of flowers and years gone by.

An Ode to Gaming

The sounds of a person playing a video game

can only be compared to a symphony 

of aural delights. 

The joystick is the conductor’s baton

controlling every movement 

of the character on-screen. 

The frantic tapping of the A-button

is the drum keeping the band in steady 4/4 time

while the player grunts and groans out the accompanying chorus.

The B-button soon joins in 

as a counterpoint to A 

and both are smashed together in desperate syncopation. 

Faster and faster the buttons go

until the time signature is all out of whack

and the player’s voice stutters, choking as it climbs higher and higher.

The final phrase is met with a heart-wrenching shudder

of human and controller meeting game-over screen;

the song ends on a crescendo and an expletive. 

~~~

Like the title says! I'm in a creative writing class this year, and I'm striving to get my creative juices pumping. First unit is poetry, and here're the first two I've done! I hope so improve as the semester goes on. <3