The Seven Chairs

This short story is from another in class assignment, where we had to create a story based off a Harris Burdick image. Our story had to have the same title as the picture, and include the subheading somewhere in the story (it’s underlined). This started out as a really cool idea in my head, but I don’t think it transferred well to paper, and now I’m not sure if I even like it. Oh vell, here it is anyway:

                Shaking his head in confusion, Detective Wablowski slowly looked through the files again. He just couldn’t figure out these disappearances! Seven nuns. All gone. Seven disappearances in one week. The first two to vanish were never seen again. So was the fourth. Later, he found out that the sixth somehow appeared in Iceland, the third and seventh were found on the Great Wall of China, and the fifth one ended up in France. But he didn’t figure all this out until later. For now, he was stuck in a perpetual state of wonder and confusion.

                He reopened the first file—the possible scene of the crime. Where all seven were last seen. The grand Church of Monte Cristo. This was the home and place of worship and service for all seven nuns. Besides that, they all had nothing in common. Different ages, ethnicities, and origins. So this church must be the link. He had to visit it again.

                Half an hour later, the detective was walking through the front doors of the church of Monte Cristo. It was so big and grand. He saw a priest coming toward him with a welcoming smile.

                “Good morning,” he said.

                “Good morning to you too,” the detective replied. “I was hoping you could aid me in the investigation into the seven nuns that disappeared last week. As you may have heard, this is the last place all seven of them were seen.”

                “Yes, all of them worshipped and resided here. They are dearly missed.”

                “I am sure,” Wablowski replied. “I was wondering if you could show me exactly where in this church they were all seen.”

                “Surprisingly, they were all seen going into a room upstairs. It was converted into a store room some time ago. Before that, it belonged to another nun. Sadly, she too disappeared ten years ago. We never found out how.”

                “Thank you, and can you show me this mysterious room?” the detective asked.

                “Certainly,” the priest said. “This way.” He led the detective down a corridor, then up a dark, winding set of stairs. Soon, the priest stopped in front of a large wooden door, motioning Wablowski forward.

                The detective cautiously stepped up to the door, and an immediate sense of foreboding overwhelmed him. Shaking, his hand reached out toward the handle and clasped it gently. He slowly turned the doorknob and stepped inside this mysterious room.

                He walked merely five steps into the room and stopped, as if suddenly struck by lightning. Despite the strange and ominous foreboding that overtook him earlier, there was nothing in the room, just some dust in the corners and a large chandelier swinging from the ceiling.

                “Hmmm…That’s certainly strange,” the priest said nervously. “I swear the last time I was in here this room was full of old chairs. I guess all of them were removed recently.” He then started to anxiously run his fingers through his graying hair. Detective Wablowski took note.

                “And who saw all of the nuns enter this room?” he asked.

                “Well … I guess that would be me.” The priest answered hesitatingly.

                “And you thought that would not have helped if you mentioned that earlier?” the detective questioned. “I’m afraid I’ll have to take you back to the station for questioning.”

                “No! Don’t take me!” the priest shouted. “I’ll tell you everything!”

                “Alright then, let’s hear it.”

                “Well, it all started with the nun who lived in this very room, naught ten years ago. She was special, or should I say different. She said she could commune directly with God. All of us hope for that gift, but in her, it seemed fake. However, one day she brought a chair from this very room out into the center of the church, where the ceilings were highest, and told us to watch, watch as she made her ascent to God. Granted all of us there were men and women of faith, but this seemed preposterous even to us. Despite our disbelief, she sat calmly on the old chair, which immediately began to rise up. It wasn’t attached to any string, at least that I could see. And when she was about to hit the ceiling, we all heard a faint pop, and she was gone. We still don’t know where she ended up."

                “Well that sure is an interesting story, but how does it relate to the current disappearances?” Wablowski asked.

                “When we went up to her room after she disappeared, there were seven more chairs waiting. All exactly the same as the one she disappeared on. We kept them locked up here for a while, and through the years, more nuns came to join us. Eventually, we had seven nuns destined to join God’s side, and serve Him well, and we thought, ‘What better way to send them up to God than by these chairs?’ We tested it with the first nun; she disappeared too. The others were clamoring to be the next, so we sent them off to join Him as soon as they were ready. I know they are at His side now, and serve Him well. I know it.”

An Annoying Someone

This is a poem I wrote when I was in first grade (or sometime around then). It has been ingrained in my memory for all these years, though I don’t know why. I guess I thought it was the bomb diggity because I actually rhymed. But anywhoo, here it is:

An annoying someone always behind you.

An annoying someone always beside you.

An annoying someone everywhere you go.

If you don’t tell them, they’ll never ever know.

Chris and Pat Story

This short story is from an in class writing assignment for my creative writing class. The prompt was to create a story about two characters--Chris and Pat--who were arguing, but both end up being wrong. Chris and Pat were two somewhat androgynous characters from Saturday Night Live who never revealed their genders. I decided to keep this ambiguity in my story, and I told it through a first person point of view. I hope you like it.


                I could feel the heat emanating from their eyes—thankfully their glares were directed at each other, not me. Even though we’ve know each other since we were all in diapers, we all—that is, Chris, Pat, and I—fight constantly. I like to think of it as sibling rivalry. This time, however, the argument was getting out of hand.

                “I’m right, and you know it!” Chris shouted at Pat from across the table. Chris then reached for the closest sup of coffee on the table, sipping it slowly and waiting for Pat to respond. They were starting  to cause a scene in this small coffee shop, but luckily there were only a few people besides ourselves. We went here on my suggestion, hoping that a warm drink and a respite from the pouring rain would lead to calmer mood. Obviously, I was mistaken.

                “No, you’re not!” Pat finally shouted. “Superman is clearly the best superhero in existence!”

                Anddddddddd we’re off! I thought. This particular argument has survived throughout the years, hibernating for a bit but never truly dying down. Now, well into our twenties, our love of superheroes has never faded. Neither has this particular debate.

                “He has every power imaginable,” Pat continued, fingers anxiously tapping the table. “And he only has one weakness, which is found on another planet!”

                “But he’s not nearly as cool as Spiderman!” Chris retorted, close to jumping of the chair. “Spiderman is a normal guy with radioactive spider powers trying to save the day, not some freak from outer space!”

                At this, I gave an exasperated sigh—how utterly wrong they both were! I wasn’t going to get involved in this perpetual argument—someone has to have a cool head. But I was nearing my breaking point. A fifteen year argument is too long; I had to shut them up.

                “Enough!” I shouted. Chris and Pat both turned toward me, alarmed, for I very rarely raised my voice. “This has gone on for far too long, and both of you are utterly wrong! Superman and Spiderman both pale in comparison to the best superhero of all—Batman! He doesn’t need special powers from a radioactive spider or another planet—he fights crime with his wit and talent. He is the true superhero!”

                Chris and Pat stared at me, and then slowly turned toward each other. First they looked aghast, but soon a dawning realization crossed their faces. Finally, this argument would come to an end! But I wasn’t so naïve as to think another one wouldn’t take its place—we could never get along perfectly. I know we will overcome it, though, for nothing can break the true bond of sisterhood.

The Chair Speaks

And now, here is yet another poem. Yay! This one is delving complex psyche of an ordinary table chair, describing its pain and suffering through a first person point of view. No one really thinks about the complicated feelings of inanimate objects, and I hope this poem leads you to do just that.
 Oh, the horror, the horror!
Not again, please, no!
I’m begging you, please,                                                  
Just listen to me.

I’m always here, day after day,
Waiting for you.
But I dread your return
Because then, I can no longer breathe,
For you sit on my face.

No, I am not just another table,
Here for your convenience.
I am a chair, and you are sitting on my face.

Yet despite my protests, here I stay,
For although I have legs,
I can’t move and run away.

I can’t take it anymore, I’m about to scream.
I am ready to tell you
All my pain, my suffering.
But alas, I cannot,
For I am nothing.
I am just a chair with no voice.
I have no way to tell you how I feel.

Anger

"Anger" is an emotional prose poem, in which I personalized Anger and gave it a gender. I further described his motivation and power. This poem was first in paragraph form, but I changed it to stanzas because I thought it worked better. And now, let me introduce you to Anger. He's a little angry.




Anger is quick and rash.

He can attack even the mildest of victims,
Overpowering their calculating rationality
And sometimes even fear.

He is a fiery red dragon,
Standing tall on his back legs,
Ready to break down the castle door.

We often try to ignore him or
Hide him behind calm expressions and little white lies.
But anger can never truly disappear.
He just lies in wait,
Preparing to break through all of your defenses
With a battering ram.

Anger can possess you and transform you,
Turning you into your worst nightmare.

To conquer him, you must look into his eyes and
ROAR.

Leave Your Red Roses

"Leave Your Red Roses" is a love poem I wrote for my Creative Writing class. I guess it could also be an anti-love poem. However you want to view it, I hope you like it as much as I do. I alluded to a few famous love poems throughout this, like Shakespeare's "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?", Amy Lowell's "A Lover", and ee cummings "i carry your heart with me". Enjoy.

Leave your red roses and blue violets at the door.
Forget your chocolates, I don’t want them anymore.
No sir, no bouquets of flowers for me,
Because I am, and will remain, free.

And no, please don’t compare me to a summer’s day,
For they are hot and humid and soon decay.
I want to be free, free from all this false love,
Free from those pet names that you think of.

I know this fleeting passion cannot stay,
I know that your eyes will soon stray.
You say you will give me the time,
But I am sure you’re just thinking of another rhyme.
Another rhyme, for me? I do not know.
Perhaps it’s for the young lady who just said hello.

Yes, I can see you looking at her,
And you think I cannot infer
Your prolonged stare of adoration?
Go, just go get her. She will give you an exclamation
Of her joy.

Perhaps when you have caught the green lantern of the firefly,
You can write me a letter to see by.
And then I will know that you truly carry my heart with you.
Maybe I will do the same. Just maybe.

10 Ways of Looking at a Hand

This poem is from another assignment in my Creative Writing class. For this one, we started with a normal, everyday object. I chose a hand. Then, we passed a paper around the room, having a different person write each stanza. After the final stanza was written, I edited little, for I thought it was already pretty good. There’s metaphors, similes, and imagery galore! Yay!

I.  Out of all the great minds of this world,
All the masterpieces, essays, and paintings,
A pair of hands is behind them all.

II.  The hand is like
A limitless tool
In the biggest workshop.

III.  3 fingers of the hand held high
Are all it takes
To light a babes mind
With the essence of knowledge.

IV.  I do not know which hand to chose,
The right one or the left.

V.  A mystery of evolution,
A perfectly sculpted tool.
The hand’s facts are ancient,
Ancient and deep.

VI.  Shaking, the hand approached the fruit.
With one movement
Came the creation of sin.

VII.  Without a hand,
He would be nothing.
A fish will never know
What it’s like to hold a hand.

VIII.  A hand:
The slayer, the weapon, the helper.
Having a weapon is a myth
When the real weapon is a piece of you.

IX.  A hand carries so many different meanings.
Some are as dainty as Snow White’s,
Some are as worn down as Cinderella’s.

X.  Hands can tell your future
In love, life, and happiness.
Hundreds of lines
Formed
To tell a story.

Cool Poem, Bro

My friend and I wrote this poem for an assignment where we had to define poetry. Naturally, we decided to have fun and relate everything to superheroes, especially Batman. Batman is awesome. We used multiple metaphors throughout to convey our definition and how cool our poem is. Chaaaaa braskies.

Poetry is Batman,

Gliding through the dark in a flowing cape,

Sneaking in alleyways, searching for meaning

(Or drug dealers,

Whichever comes first).

Poetry is Spiderman,

Swinging between skyscrapers,

Just trying to get to class on time,

And maybe save the city too.

Poetry is a nightmarish smile,

Scarily stretched across a joker’s face.

“Do you wanna know how I got these scars?”

Poetry is Aquaman,

Protector of the oceans,

Communicating with sea creatures

While breathing underwater.

Poetry is Magneto,

Wreaking havoc by throwing cars and s*@t.

WITH HIS MIND!

And that is a cool poem, bro.

Hey, You!

Hey, you! Yeah, you! Congratulations on discovering my fantabulous blog! It's pretty awesome, I know. Anywhoooo, my name is Claire, and as you can tell, this is my blog. I'm going to post awesome stuff on here, just for you! This awesome stuff will most likely consist of poems, short stories, and other works of mine, maybe someone else's works as well. I hope you enjoy it! Toodaloo!