As a way to get my inner juices flowing- oh. Oh no. That's not what I- I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.
Let me try that again.
As a way to get into a creative mood, I decided to try playing some creative writing games and turn them into blog posts. I found a website that gives teachers ideas for assignments that could help inspire their students during the writing process. I am going to do these activities occasionally. Just to prove to myself that I can, dammit.
The first one is called Color Coded.
"Ask students to write a short story that begins with the word "blue" and in which the first world of every paragraph is a color. Use the "color word" only once in each paragraph, but suggest the color as many times as possible."
I'm giving myself 30 minutes to do this and 10 extra minutes to edit out what will inevitably make no sense. (Full disclosure, I had about 10 minutes to think about this while I typed the beginning of this post)
Here we go.
Blue was perfectly aware of Weensie's predicament. The old man held a cinder block tied securely to his frigid penis and said "Yes, Sir" to Frank when the depressed father yelled at him, but he held his freezing tongue when it came to speaking up for Weensie. Frankly, the old man was a navy-blooded, cold-hearted racist. He looked out at the midnight sky through his azure colored eyes, and smirked to himself as his icy fingers released the cinder-block.
White took over Weesie's eyes as they bugged out and ghostly terror ripped through him. The moment Weensie felt that tug on his helpless penis, he knew that Cracker was laughing at him. The men in freshly starched medical coats cringed when he was brought into the hospital. Weensie's penis was now marred by a bleached head of colorless flesh, not to mention the tendon damage that occurred when he was jerked from the roof. After the rope was removed and the blood began to rush in the right direction, Weensie grew extremely pale, before involuntarily creaming himself. Quite thoroughly.
Red, a haze of red, surged through Frank as he watched Weensie's post-injury ejaculation. Anger thrust its way inside of him, like the Kool-Aid man does into a house. His blood boiled. His heart raced. It wasn't fair that Weensie was given the gift of orgasm when he hadn't had sex with his wife since Valentine's Day. She wasn't exactly pleased with the evening, but Frank was proud of the scarlet hearts he had painted on his body. How was he supposed to know the painted rose on his penis would give her hives?
Honestly, who doesn't think Old School when they see the word 'blue'?
This was harder than I thought it would be, especially the white paragraph, but with only thirty minutes, I felt like I couldn't change directions midway through. I'm happiest with the last paragraph, but overall I'd call this exercise a success. Certainly a fun way to get into a creative flow!