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For those of you who never got to experience the joy of timed picture writing, basically the teacher would put a picture up on the overhead and we each had to write a "detailed, descriptive, creative story" in thirty minutes or less. Picture prompts were my favorite. We did dozens of them before every round of standardised tests, I guess because boosting kids' creative writing skills is an easy way to boost state test scores. Anyway, I found a story I wrote for a picture prompt assignment when I was thirteen (so ten years ago).
---
[there used to be a picture of a silhouetted kid jumping in a park here]
I ran out of the building that Friday. I had new sneakers and was immensely delighted. I ran up the alley and hopped the fence into the next street.
I kept running. Up the street, past silent houses and empty benches. I passed a group of friends, and waved. I pounded my way over the cobblestones, blood thumping through my body.
I loved to run. The exhiliration [sic], the even breathing, the tranquility of being the only one in control of yourself and knowing that nothing can stand in your way. You are your own person when you're running. My feet hit the ground with smooth, even strokes, like an artist at his canvas.
Still running, I faced the boulevard. The houses on my right were alive, unlike the ones I had passed just a few minutes ago. These houses were brick -- they were high and proud-looking. They were blurred by my speed.
I approached the park. The long road that wound through it curved off to my left. I gathered all my strength for that final stretch of ground to cover. I sped up, my heart jumping furiously in my chest. The first frost of November was on the ground. I ran along the path, past barren winter trees, past benches, past the lone lamp post.
As I came to the place where the birds always sat, I hurled myself into the air with all my might. For one brief moment, I was airborne and flying free, the beautiful white creatures flapping all around me.
My feet hit the ground, and I walked home, smiling to myself.
---
It makes me a jerk to admit this, but I'm impressed by my eighth-grade A-gettin' self. Even if I sacrificed my simple style sensibilities to meet the "descriptive" part of the assignment (I hate unnecessary description, and always have, possibly because I suck at it). I'm even more impressed that my misspelling of "exhilaration" is the only spelling/grammar mistake in the whole thing.
Man, I miss being the best creative writer around. I miss impressing people with simple things like this. I'm tried of writing big adult stories with big adult drama. I wanna look at a picture for thirty minutes, bullshit about it (badly), and get a big fat A! That was the life.
---
[there used to be a picture of a silhouetted kid jumping in a park here]
I ran out of the building that Friday. I had new sneakers and was immensely delighted. I ran up the alley and hopped the fence into the next street.
I kept running. Up the street, past silent houses and empty benches. I passed a group of friends, and waved. I pounded my way over the cobblestones, blood thumping through my body.
I loved to run. The exhiliration [sic], the even breathing, the tranquility of being the only one in control of yourself and knowing that nothing can stand in your way. You are your own person when you're running. My feet hit the ground with smooth, even strokes, like an artist at his canvas.
Still running, I faced the boulevard. The houses on my right were alive, unlike the ones I had passed just a few minutes ago. These houses were brick -- they were high and proud-looking. They were blurred by my speed.
I approached the park. The long road that wound through it curved off to my left. I gathered all my strength for that final stretch of ground to cover. I sped up, my heart jumping furiously in my chest. The first frost of November was on the ground. I ran along the path, past barren winter trees, past benches, past the lone lamp post.
As I came to the place where the birds always sat, I hurled myself into the air with all my might. For one brief moment, I was airborne and flying free, the beautiful white creatures flapping all around me.
My feet hit the ground, and I walked home, smiling to myself.
---
It makes me a jerk to admit this, but I'm impressed by my eighth-grade A-gettin' self. Even if I sacrificed my simple style sensibilities to meet the "descriptive" part of the assignment (I hate unnecessary description, and always have, possibly because I suck at it). I'm even more impressed that my misspelling of "exhilaration" is the only spelling/grammar mistake in the whole thing.
Man, I miss being the best creative writer around. I miss impressing people with simple things like this. I'm tried of writing big adult stories with big adult drama. I wanna look at a picture for thirty minutes, bullshit about it (badly), and get a big fat A! That was the life.
