Creative Writing Challenge: Moving Through Time

This is a Grad school creative writing assignment. The challenge was to write something in the world of the film Minority Report. This something would have to show the passage of time. This is a bit of an experiment for me. I tried to write with a voice very different from my normal one. I wrote from the perspective of a “precog” who lives with Dr. Iris Hineman, aka “the old one.”

…

Dolls Eye. Baneberry. Carnivorous vines that enjoy the strips of red meat that this one tosses near the estate wall. It lines us all around except the gates in the north and south. Of course those gates are always closed. We don't go out there. The elderly one used to leave, but no more. Now the gate hinges rust. Every month they scream when the man brings the cans and frozen foods. I hate that noise. The man is boring. I like him. No dreams come of him. No pain. He makes safe choices. Drives slow. Exercises regularly.

A vine snaps at this one's leg. We dodge it as it happens, easily. We always know when pain is coming. This body floats around it. Our hand tosses meat strips to the next group of Dolls Eyes. They snatch at the ground, their mouth-like, thorn-filled maws snag up steak bits amongst the rotting autumn leaves. Then they curl back up in the cracks and broken pieces of the stone wall.

We're inside. Benevolent plants snatch at this one's hair as we deliver tea. Dandelion. We find it disgusting but we drink it with the old one. She adds heaps of sugar, but it makes us gag. It's worse with sugar. It just sits beside the bitter. But drinking it with the old one, the woman, Dr. Iris, settles the place. Settles her demons. Makes her feel less guilt. For this one. And the others who see things further away.

We drink dandelion tea. We tend to plants. We trim, we rake, we compost. The winter is always calm and quiet. Our dreams are stable. We steer the old one toward agreement, peace, safety. Quiet winter.

…

Spring is vicious. Vibrant colors and sunshine burn out eyes. The old one is cheerful, but only because she cannot see the death surrounding us constantly. Birds peck the eyes out of their competition. Male squirrels tear out each other's throats in displays of dominance. Spring is violent. We long for the sleep of winter.

Long into the spring blooms, a man comes. Short, dark haired, desperate. This one hides behind a tree as he passes. He means no violence. He seeks answers. He must be avoided. We cannot save him from his turbulent future. There is too much pain there. We must skip the tea. She will drink it with him. He will trouble her. But he is here and there is nothing we can do about it. We only saw him coming briefly before he arrived. No time.

He has been pierced by the thorns of the Dolls Eyes. She will heal him. She has the antidote. She will point him to the ones who are like me. It doesn't matter. He will not hurt them. He is a creature of good despite his capacity for violence. At least that is what this one thinks.

We toss strips of meat to the disturbed vines. We are careful not to be seen. Spring is violent. It is a season of avoidance.

…

The intensity of green lightens for summer. Nothing is as wet. The rush of spring is over and parenthood ages. This one's mind is calmer with the decrease in violence.

We spend more time outside. We drink dandelion tea less. The old one stays in her room more. This means more work for us. We trim more plants. We re-pot more. The old one's experiments languish, but they are not our responsibility. We care. We maintain. We do not experiment. We are an experiment. 

The news screens we glance at occasionally show the others have been freed. No more "precogs" worshipped. No more "precriminals." The old one says they have gone to live a secluded life like this one. Away from people who can make them dream violence. This one doesn't dream violence. We simply see violence. But we are useless. We only see what happens an instant before it does. Enough to move. Enough to suffer.

This one should be with the others. We would be symbiotic. Like the ant and the aphid. But this one must wait. Summer persists.

…

Autumn falls. Leaves fall. The old one falls. This one travels. It is torture. Until finally this one arrives in a tundra. It is different from the swamps of the old one's home. There are different plants to tend and cultivate. They will be this one's choice. We will avoid the predatory plants the old one favored. This one prefers plants that bear fruit and vegetables.

We do bring with us a fern. It is native to our old swamp home. We tell the others about it. We tell them of the old one. We never speak of our dreams. This one steers the others around dangers and we live in fall. Constant fall to the sleep of winter.

Creative Writing Challenge: Character Perspective

This is a Grad school creative writing assignment. We were challenged to write an existing story from a different character’s perspective. We did this for a short film by Ted Chung called 1000 Words.

Here is the story I wrote.

…

I love my new job.

I loved my old job, but my new job is exactly what I wanted for my next step. I’m back in Boston. Back near my family. My new job has great benefits and I even received a small raise in addition to help paying for moving costs. Accounting might not be a glamorous profession, but I enjoy the small puzzles that comprise my job.

I close the door of my new, preowned Toyota Corolla and tramp up the cracked cement sidewalk of my newly-rented townhouse, stopping to pull a bundle of ads and bills out of my mailbox. It’s nice to drive around again. Los Angeles was a horrible city for commuting, and if one plans to take the commuter train, one had better live within walking distance. I step over an old, drenched newspaper, still in the bag. It didn’t rain today. I should clean it up, but I’ll get to it on trash day.

The front of my house is narrow and brick. I’m not in the city proper, of course, but I’m quite close to my new job. It’s an easy 15 minute drive one-way. Short enough that I might be able to get a dog. I could come home and walk it over lunch. I walk up the three steps to my front door and spot a small cardboard box covered in large writing. 

Nasim Pedrad

431 Dunsmuir Ave. #102

Los Angeles, CA  90036

Please forward

I tuck the informational packet explaining my new healthcare insurance under my arm and pick up the box. Odd to see something forwarded from my old place. Especially something with a hand-written label. Perhaps I forgot something at work and they decided to mail it to me?

The package, too, gets tucked under my arm, and I juggle my keys in one hand, trying to select the proper one. Guilt gnaws my stomach slightly when I see the old apartment key, never returned to my landlord. He did say he was going to change the locks for the whole building. Not that I was even in town anymore to break into my old place. It would never be worth it, at any rate. The area was nice, but the building never drew in anyone who owned things worth stealing. It wasn’t nice enough. The air conditioning unit was cheap and the place didn’t even have central heating. Not that my Boston-born constitution ever wanted it in sunny southern California.

Entering the townhouse, I kick off my comfortable clogs by the door. I’ll wear them tomorrow. No reason to bother putting them away. I nudge the door closed and turn the deadbolt into place. The hall light flickers on when I flip its switch. I’ll have to get that fixed. The new landlords were an elderly couple, and they owned a couple of the townhomes in this row. We have a deal that any repairs I make to the house could be pre-approved, and then the cost would be taken out of my rent for the month. The arrangement works well for me. I don’t mind home repair, and my brother is a contractor. Anything more major I know he can handle. Like the wiring for an overhead flickery light, for example.

I head into the small, but recently updated kitchen. The paperwork, package, and mail gets dumped onto the Formica top of my repurposed chrome-edged diner table. I fill a glass of water in the sink and snatch up a snack bag of cheddar jalapeno Cheetos. They’re my Achilles heel. Can’t get enough of them. I plop down on the red pleather diner chair as was becoming my habit and sorted through my mail. Boring stuff first. Most of it goes in the recycling bin that lives beside my chair, expressly for this purpose. Couple new pre-qualified offers for credit cards. I do need to open another one eventually, but that requires more research than is sent in an advertising mailer.

I stab my ancient old letter opener into the tape on the small package, slicing through the hand-written label. I flip it open, revealing a bed of bubble wrap. Lying neatly in the center of the box is my camera. The one I’d left on a commuter train weeks ago and had accepted as a permanent loss. Someone had found it and returned it. For a moment I am stunned, barely believing. I pull the camera from its plastic bed, and search the box. No note. I turn the camera on. The battery is almost dead.

Quickly, I go to the gallery and flip through the pictures. The ones I had taken that day are still there, starting with a selfie I took at work to remember my last day. I review through the images of the absolutely delicious but hideously-decorated cake, then images of myself and my friends. I keep going and pause. I had forgotten.

On that final commuter ride I made a choice I had completely forgotten about. I decided to take a picture of a cute guy who rode my train. Well, I took several pictures. In my defense, he was asleep. At first. Then, when he woke up and didn’t notice me, I took several more pictures.

He had ridden my train the first time on the very day that I learned I got the job in Boston. Then, for two months, he appeared on the train every Wednesday for my commute home. It killed me for the rest of my time in the city that I couldn’t meet him and maybe ask him out. He was cute and he seemed funny and laidback. He was personable and sometimes chatted with people on the train.

I sighed. I’d find someone in Boston. Probably. Mechanically, I went forward to another photo in the gallery, expecting to loop back around to the beginning. What I saw made me freeze. It was a selfie, but not the selfie of me from my first day of work.

It was the cute guy from the train. In his hand, in the same handwriting as the address label, was a phone number. His phone number? It must be…

The battery indicator flashes red. I scramble to my feet and reach for the notepad beside my landline. I scribble down the phone number in the picture, then I stare into the man’s dark eyes. His expression is neutral, but the shape of his face always seems to suggest a smile. The battery indicator flashes angrily, but the image doesn’t go away. He’s not just cute, he’s handsome. Decidedly so. Does he want me to call him? Will he tell me off for taking pictures of him?

I remember the final day I’d seen him. How he’d finally looked at me. How we’d made eye contact and he’d quickly looked away. Maybe he was just shy. Outgoing people could be shy, couldn’t they? What is the worst that could happen? That he tells me off? I can just hang up and never hear from him again. But what if the best thing happened?

I pick up the landline’s cordless receiver and dial the number.