22/100: Your Own Fashion Show

Day 22: You have to put on a fashion show using only clothing you own. Write down a blurb on 5 different pieces of clothing, telling your audience about the merits and the mystique of each article. How do you effectively convince your audience? Do you think you could make them wear it? Length: 5 short paragraphs

Sporting a brown suede jacket, white button down shirt, grey graphic tee and a pair of rough-hewn blue jeans, Jeff tips his fedora and casually walks down the catwalk towards the blinding snaps of a wall of flashing bulbs.

The jeans are straight-fit levis that have the slightest bit of whitewash to them.  The edges are frayed and worn, as if they've been through the wash more times than one could count.  The waist rides low, following the trends of today's younger generation. Red boxer fabric can be seen through a worn down patch below the left pocket.  The cuffs are rolled up twice above a pair of red high tops.

A slim-fit, medium-sized grey tee is half-tucked into the waist of the jeans.  An old Polaroid logo spreads across the chest, faded away to almost nothing. The fabric looks soft and comfortable.

A white, button-down shirt covers the tee, open in the front, and un-tucked so that the bottom hangs just below the suede jacket.  The collar is lightly starched, so as not to look stiff and boarded, the tips flaring out over his clavicles.

The vintage jacket fits slim and sleek over the layered shirts, it's black lining creating a perfect contrast between the white button-down and the light-brown suede. White stitching patterns sharply line Jeff's slim form. It moves perfectly with him, as if he walked straight out of the frames of Starsky and Hutch.

Perfectly completing the ensemble is a small, straw fedora with a blue band circling its head. The narrow band barely sits above his eye brow.  It is stylish and sleek, yet a fitting tribute to the classic gentlemen of days past.

The bulbs continue to flash as Jeff turns his back to the cameras.  He walks back towards the rear of the stage, confidence following him wherever he goes.

21/100: Reminds Me of This One Saying

Day 21: The next time you hear someone saying a popular expression, write it down. Then, write a short story that disproves the “point” of that expression. How does reality differ from conventional wisdom. Length: 400 words

"You're so full of shit."

Okay, one; I'm not.  I mean, I can sometimes, you know, in the heat of the moment, stretch the truth a bit.  I think everyone tends to do this from time to time in the excitement of the moment, some worse than others.  I would describe myself as landing slightly onto the center of this scale. However, “full of shit,” may be a bit of a stretch, especially by reality’s standards.

We all have “shit” in our system. Feces. Poop. Human waste. It’s in there. And it’s always (ideally) moving along down the tunnel to make its way out.  Interestingly enough, there’s only a small percentage of actual poop that’s in our system at any given time, 5-20lbs of it to be exact.  Considering that I’m 165lbs on average, and that I’m mostly on the lighter range of the weight spectrum, my body is incapable of being composed of no more than 33% and no less than 8.25% of waste at a time. Furthermore, that composition of waste is made up of about 75% of water, the rest being a combination of soluble and insoluble fibers, bacteria (live and dead), other cells and of course, mucus.  That means that at any given time, the actual amount of physical waste existing in my body ranges anywhere from 2.06-8.25%, more likely leaning towards the lower number, as I’m not an exceptionally big eater.

When one thinks of how to define the term “full,” it’s easy to picture a glass of water, filled to the brim, the meniscus seemingly ready to break at any moment. I could not possibly fill up that glass any more, for fear that it would pour over the edges and get everything around it wet. Fortunately for everyone around me, my poop is not designed to behave in such a way.  Scientifically speaking, I’m completely incapable of creating a scenario in which I would be literally full of shit. Unless of course, this was done manually, in which case I would be unlikely to survive such a catastrophe.  I imagine this scenario being carried out by the Cartels as a warning. Note to self: don’t mess with the Cartels.

So next time someone tells you that you’re full of shit, just remember–you’re not.  Not even close. Actually, they’re full of shit for even suggesting that you are, being that they’re off by around 95%. Take that, haters.

20/100: One-Sentence Story

Day 20: Based on the image below, write a one-sentence story. What parts of the image do you pick and what parts are unimportant? Why did you pick the parts you did?  

Consider the most famous example of this prompt, Ernest Hemingway’s six-word heartbreaker: 

For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn

They perished that evening on the ice, cold and exhausted, tethered to one another by a single strand of hope that neither had the strength, or the resolve to pursue.   

----------------------------

For me, the strongest element within this image is the connection between beast and man. The two here may not be emotionally bonded, but the rope represents as much, as well as the lengths one would go to in order to aid the other, in spite of the risks.  That idea spoke out to me, moreso than the literal depiction of an environmentalist in the midst of an animal rescue over thin ice.

19/100: Alien Race

Day 19: Take any regular object, place or event, and pretend that an alien race has descended upon Earth and wants to figure out what it is. How do they describe it? What does their description reveal about the object that you didn’t see before? Length: 500 words

The Concert: 

At first, they saw it as a flicker in the sky.  Lightning, perhaps.  Heat flashes, high above the clouds.  They paid it little attention, instead letting the waves of sounds flow through them, until the flashes grew brighter and more vibrant.  A distant roar began to saturate the air, miles above them in the upper reaches of the atmosphere. The ground began to tremble, slightly at first, then gradually building in intensity.  Millions drifted their attention from the amphitheater stage to the dark, evening sky as a large, irregular shape descended from the clouds and random particles of dirt and stone around them began to levitate a few inches above the ground. They were being visited, the first to be chosen among the world...and Dave Matthews hadn't even come on stage yet.

All it would take was a single scream, immediately followed by a surge of the masses, casualties, absolute chaos. Yet, that wasn't the case. Concert-goers in The Gorge peacefully locked their gaze onto the sky as the ship slowly descended onto the sloped field adjacent to the stage, lightly displacing the cloud of marijuana smoke drifting above their heads. The craft was met with silence and awe, the distant echoes of notes last played having long faded into the canyon-lands around them.

A bright, blinding light emitted from the vessel. Those closest to it could not see a door or hatch, just white. Then, nothing. The light blinked out and standing in front of the UFO were five tall, slender beings. They wore no clothing, but seemed to be draped in a wispy, webbing-like material that was indistinguishable as either a garment or part of their anatomy, possibly both. Their movements were graceful and fluid, as if viewing a ballet performance underwater, or rolling clouds of an incoming storm. Everyone around them was suddenly overwhelmed with peace, the intoxicating warmth of their presence spreading through the crowd.  One man, early 20's at best, with a lanky stature most similar to our alien friends, took it upon himself to welcome these visitors to our world.  Fearless, or more than likely tripping on LSD, he approached and proclaimed four, simple words that will forever live on throughout history.

"Welcome to Earth, Man!"

No one seems to be able to recall how things progressed immediately after that initial greeting. What those witnesses do recall is their profound curiosity that would bring such a large gathering together in such a remote place.  No other words were exchanged, just gestures and emotions, feelings at a raw, primal level.  Within moments, Dave Matthews began their set, and our new alien friends became memorized, as we later learned their race had never heard music before.

We've learned much since then, about what sets our race, our culture apart from theirs, and the hundreds of thousands of other civilizations out there. As the music plays on, the Age of Enlightenment begins, and a whole new chapter for not only mankind, but space as we know it has evolved.

18/100: Hey Stranger

Day 18: Write a letter to the last stranger you met. Write it on paper. They could be a cashier or a postal worker. What do you tell them? What clues did they give you that may help you understand a bit more about their living situation?  Length: 500 words

The Letter: 

Dear Peet's Coffee Shop Register-Girl-

As I was waiting for my coffee yesterday morning (thank you–it was delicious by the way), I couldn't help but overheard you explain to the guy behind me that today would be your last day, that you were getting ready to move overseas with your boyfriend and all of the fear and excitement that came along with that change. I just wanted to let you know that, in spite of all the reservations, apprehensions and butterflies that go along with a change that significant, everything will be fine.

This will sound cliché, I know, but you're young, and you have you're entire life ahead of you.  I'm guessing, early 20's maybe?  You probably went to college and obtained a degree that you're not quite sure to do with just yet.  Maybe you're thinking about grad school, but haven't landed on exactly what you want to pursue.  These kind of indecisions are all okay to have right now.  In fact, embrace it, because you never know when an opportunity like this will come around again.

I get it; the older guy in the coffee shop trying to give you life advice.  It's pretty lame, and it's probably hard to refrain from rolling your eyes at the gesture.  I could be that guy that sits here and tells you that I wish that I did it all before I met a girl, settled down, started having kids.  I could be, but I'm not.  As a matter of fact, I did exactly what you are planning on doing right now...and I was petrified.  Of course, there are always going to be things you wish you would've done.  I have friends that work seasonal jobs even now, and spend the money they make on traveling the globe over the rest of the year.  I'm envious of that, sure.  I have expectations of seeing the world, just like many others. Yet, I can be certain that I didn't pass on any opportunities that came my way, no matter what the risk. Those risks are part of what landed me here, in this coffee shop, writing to you.

When I graduated high school, a relative of mine gave me the book, "Oh, the Places You'll Go!" by Dr. Suess.  Yes, it's a children's book.  But is it really?  In a unique, simple way, Suess describes a life of obstacles and optimism, of hardships and success, all particular to the path you choose. That small book speaks volumes about the roller coaster you are about to embark on, and I couldn't be more supportive of you.

Explore. Go on adventures.  Be fearless as you circumnavigate these upcoming experiences.  They will shape you and form you into the woman you will one day become.  That in itself is a priceless endeavor.  The 40-year old you will thank you one day, trust me.

Good luck, travel safe and thank you again for the Caramel Macchiato. It was absolutely delicious.

Sincerely,
Brian J Conti

17/100: Writer's Blocked

Day 17: Write a story about how something–be it an animal, a person or a ghost–is literally preventing you from writing. How do you turn them into an antagonist? What sort of things make them absolutely insufferable? How do you eventually win/lose the fight? Length: 400 words

Blocked:

For weeks, the screen remained blank. Days on end, I had stared, peering into the pixels. Each night I would walk away, frustrated and in despair.  Each night I would search for that one spark that would surge life back into my fingertips, ending this insufferable draught of words.  Each night I would close my eyes, empty.  Until today.

One moment there was nothing, and in the next, everything.  It was all there, as if the floodgates had opened. I placed my fingers on the keyboard and immediately started to translate my thoughts to my screen.

"olhns;s;HGVW)HAVOg,MWEGNsw..."

...What?  I didn't understand. The keys weren't working.  I couldn't type, I couldn't write.  Something was preventing me and I didn't know what, until I looked at my hands.

My hands...weren't my hands.  Not as I knew them, anyway.  The curvatures and subtleties I had grown so familiar with were now replaced by large, geometric blocks. I lifted them in front of my face and bent the cubes that had now replaced my fingers.  The joints still bent, but awkwardly and had separated slightly where my knuckles had once been. As I stared in awe at my transformation, the pixelation effect that had moments ago stopped at my wrists, now began to spread up my arms and over my body.  I watched in horror as part of my forearm began to spin slowly, morphing into the flesh-colored cube as it turned, followed by the next block and the next, until the disease spread its way over my entire body.  I lurched out of my chair and stumbled to the door. What was happening to me? This had to be some kind of nightmare. As I stood, my block feet caught the rug and I fell forward to the ground.

My body shattered across the floor like tempered glass, unable to withstand the force of the fall.  My knee crumbled first, then my chest followed by my outstretched arms. I wondered what the unlucky soul who found me would think, seeing my body disfigured and controted in such an unnatural way.  I immediately felt sorry for them. No one should have to make such a grim discovery.

As I lay there, broken, I realized the words I had found earlier would never see the light of day. A shiny silver cube teared from my eye and lightly hit the floor, crumbling into a thousand tiny glass pixels.

16/100: Emojis

Hey kids.  You'll all most likely understand this story moreso than even myself.  Interpret it how you will.  I have my own specific narrative, but I'm curious to know if it makes a lick of sense. I'm not remaining optimistic.

Day 16: Emojis. Using only Emojis, write a 100 character “story” based on the images. How do you convey a picture with only symbols? What can using only visual symbols teach you about storytelling?

15/100: Memory Loss

I remember a lot of things.  I remember the cabin we visited when I was four, and how my Dad capsized a leaky Sunfish after assuring everyone he knew how to sail. I remember the first time we drove to Plymouth Rock and saw a replica of the Mayflower...which I convinced myself was the original ship. No one could convince me otherwise.  I also remember that time when I strove to embody Calvin & Hobbes so desperately, I snuck out of my house at 2am and walked 8 blocks away just to prove a point.

I don't remember my first cake. I also don't remember the first time I held a crayon, my first bike ride, or the time I pulled a wooden screen down on top of my crib, narrowly escaping death in the process. Maybe we can explore one of these.

Day 15: Write about an important moment in your life that you have forgotten. What do you think occurred during your first communion, or your first birthday party? How do you think you were acting? Length: 350 words

Macho Baby:

A photo exists of me as a toddler, probably no more than 18 months old, sitting on the back of my Dad's bike in a child seat that would certainly land me in the custody of Child Protective Services at the very thought of putting my kid in it today. The best thing about this photo was that, not only was I reaching desperately towards my parent with my chubby little sausage fingers, begging to be released, but I was sporting a powder blue t-shirt that read "Macho Baby," in giant, sparkly letters.  I have no memory of this whatsoever, but I can assure you, this day was amazing.

I can picture the scene almost perfectly. My Mom pulls into the drive in her '78 shit-brown Chrysler Cordoba just as my Old Man is strapping me into this newly bought death-contraption that now sits on the back of his bright yellow '67 Contintental Schwinn, (a bike which I now happen to have hanging in my own Garage, 36 years later).  I can also assume that my Mom did not approve of this scenario and my Pops joked, assured and reassured her that I was perfectly safe in the hands of a guy who once rode this very bike straight into a driveway chain while drunk on an unknown number of Mai Tais.

As luck would have it, I got through the ride unscathed. It was early in the summer, and I can only imagine that this was the first ride of the season, a seasonal tradition we kept as a family that would continue well into my high school years. This ride kicked off what has long been some of my best memories of growing up in Ohio; a long bike ride through Mill Creek Park to our favorite picnic spot; a small bench looking over Lake Newport that was perfect for creating the perfect echo of our cheers across the water. I can only hope that 35 years down the road, my own son looks back on his childhood with the same sense of calm and contentment.

Macho Baby

14/100: Mute the TV

This is a funny assignment, as I used to do this all the time as a kid.  I will admit that I was hoping for better results.  Maybe I didn't pick the right show (this was one I had never seen), or maybe I'm just having an off-day.  Unfortunately, the word limit keeps things pretty constrained here and I'm not really happy with the result.  However, it was a fun exercise nonetheless.  I would actually like to give this one another try when I find a show that leaves me a bit more inspired.

Day 14: Watch any movie or TV show on mute, and write what you think they might be saying. If it’s a serious work, be lighthearted, and if its a comedy, be serious. Consider why you characterized certain people as bad or good, funny or unfunny. Length: 500 Words

Mute the TV: 

Show: Casual, Hulu, Ep. 1.3

Emily sits in science class, trying to pay attention to today's biology lesson.  She's struggling to follow her teacher's ramblings and daydreams over weekend plans.

Back at home, Karen, Emily's mom is  finishing up a load of laundry.  She's been working around the house for hours, desperately trying to clean up the mess left behind by her alcoholic, free-loading brother, who has refused to get up off the couch for the past two days other than to make himself gourmet Bloody Mary's.

Mike, her brother, proceeds to spill the entire contents of his sandwich on the floor in front of her as she passes through the living room. Karen has absolutely had it. With empty bottles of alcohol littering her living room, she gives him an ultimatum: clean up or get out. Mike peels himself off the couch and begins the long arduous process of picking up after himself.  Then he sees it; a puppy ad on television.  Inspired, he grabs his wallet and races out the door.

Meanwhile, back at school Emily gets dumped by her wanna-be hipster boyfriend.  He tells her that he's been cheating on her and that she should see older men.  She is crushed, and as she watches him walk away, she checks their Facebook status, which now is non-existent.  She is furious, and attempts to re-friend him.

Mike, tired of his sister's attitude towards him, has an idea.  If he can pick up a woman that'll let him crash with her, using a puppy as a conversation-starter, he won't have to hear his sister's attitude anymore.  Mike picks his prey at the local park, a leggy brunette with a large labrador retriever.  Unsurprisingly, she doesn't take the bait.

Across town, Karen and Emily are posing as house-hunters in order to case out a new neighborhood to continue their burglary profession.  After a long day's search, they finally land a target.  But first, Emily needs to get to her soccer game.

The next day, Emily decides it wise to make a pass at Mr. Taylor, her photography teacher and confronts him in the darkroom.  With no one watching, she aggressively seduces him on the imaging table.

Feeling guilty over his actions, Mr. Taylor calls in Karen and her ex-husband Dante to a Teacher-Parent conference and confesses to the whole affair. Surprisingly, Karen is more sympathetic to his plight, as she knows that her daughter is a bit whorish and suspected it to be only a matter of time before this kind of thing would happen.  .

Mike's plan has almost reached success as he and the attractive brunette he met earlier begin having sex back at her place.  For some reason, however, Mike can't perform and realizes that it's because his new puppy is watching them. Completely turned off, the brunette kicks him out of her place, asking him never to return.  After he returns home, he and Emily exchange sexcapade stories over a few beers while Karen screws Mr. Taylor in the other room.  

13/100: Setting the Stage

Parenthood is hard.  There's no question about that.  Though, once you get a system down and the teamwork approach is down to a science, things tend to get exponentially easier.  Then again, there's always that mind-blowing kerfuffle that sneaks up on you and pummels your parenting self-esteem to well below rock bottom.  Thank God for alcohol.

Day 13: Take a moment from your day–any moment–and pretend you’re writing the beginning of a play, which includes Dramatis Personae (the cast), stage information (props, lighting), dialogue and stage directions. What does this structuring do to your area? Do you see things that you previously didn’t see? What kind of theatre would this be performed in?


A LOVELY MORNING

By Brian Conti


CAST OF CHARACTERS



BRIAN:           .................  Man, Late 30's,
                                    Beth's Husband, Aidan's Father 
BETH:            .................  Woman, Early 30's,
                                    Brian's Wife, Aidan's mother
AIDAN:           .................  18-Month old boy,
                                    Beth & Brian's only son
MR. KIRKLY:      .................  Man, late 60's,
                                    Beth & Brian's Neighbor
ADI THE NUDIST:  .................  Man, Late 40's,
                                    Beth & Brian's Neighbor





ACT I

Scene 1



We are in the first floor of the CONTI home. To the left is the front door that opens into the Living Room.  The steps by the front door ascend up into the Bedrooms of the Second Floor, which is hidden from view.  The Living Room is decorated with a minimalist's eye, but cozy and comfortable as well.  A small sofa and two upholstered chairs frame a large fireplace along the far wall, and a corner shelving unit holds a just enough picture frames and books to avoid being cluttered. A large painting with the letters "PRTLND" hangs above the mantlepiece. 


To the left of the Living Room is the Kitchen / Dining / TV Room area. The kitchen is small, but inviting and the Dining Room is centered by a large wooden table with matching benches. There is a sliding door behind the table that leads to an outside deck. A couch and chair are positioned to the far left of the Kitchen. Toys and cardboard books remain scattered across a soft rug in front of the Television. All the rooms are empty. 

Enter Brian from 2nd Floor, carrying Aidan, a bottle, a blanket and wearing pajamas.

BETH: (O/S)
   I just changed his diaper! You know the deal!


BRIAN:
   I'm heading down to feed him now!  He'll be primed
   and ready to vomit all over you in about 15
   minutes. Relax. 


BETH: (O/S)
   You're dead to me. 


BRIAN:
   Okay, buddy.  Let's put you down and get you fed.
   Are you ready for some tunes and tasties?


AIDAN:
   Yeah!

Brian sets Aidan down, switches Hall & Oates onto the Bose and prepares a quick breakfast of sliced bananas, cheerios and a bottle of Almond Milk.

BETH: (O/S)
   Monkey!


BRIAN:
   Coffee, got it!  It's on its way!
               (to Aidan)
   Try not to throw everything on the floor while I
   run this upstairs, okay?


AIDAN:
   Yeah!

Brian pours a cup of coffee and runs it up the stairs. An inaudible conversation can be heard. Aidan continues to babble in the kitchen.

   Ba ba ba...oh. Uh oh! Rah rah vroooom!  Ha ha,
   babaDada...

Doorbells rings. Enter Brian and Beth from upstairs. 

BETH:
   –yoga tonight after work.  I have to be there by 6.
   Will you be home on time?  


BRIAN:
               (opening door)
   Yeah, I'll be here.  Trust me.  


BETH:
               (with a wink and a kiss)
   Uh-huh. 
               (to Aidan, walking into the kitchen)
   Boo boo! What kind of mess are you making for
   Daddy!?

MR. KIRKLY is crouched at the door, each hand holding onto the collar of two dogs; one young Spaniel and one older Husky. 

BRIAN:
   Ah, crap.


MR. KIRKLY:
   Hey Brian, your dogs were on the loose again. I
   think they got through that hole in my fence. 


BRIAN:
   Thanks, Dan.  I can grab them–

In an attempt to hand off the dogs, they slip out of Dan's hands and race into the Dining Room to devour the scraps left in the wake of Aidan's breakfast celebration. 

BETH: 
   Brian!!


MR. KIRKLY:
   While I have you, I just wanted to show you what
   I was going to do about the fence out here. I've
   talked to a few guys that have stopped by to bid
   on the project and I think I may call a few more.
   The thing is...
                 (Mr. Kirkly continues talking)


BRIAN: 
   Uh huh.

The scene around Aidan's highchair becomes increasingly chaotic. Beth does her best to manage it but is quickly losing control. 

AIDAN:
   Waaaaaaa!


BETH:
   Brian!!


BRIAN:
               (slowly closing the door)
   Hey Dan, I gotta run. Thanks again for bringing
   back the dogs.  


MR. KIRKLY:
               (speaking into the narrowing crack of the closing door)
   Okay, I'll let you know about the fence guys. They
   should be here tomorrow–


BRIAN:
   Uh huh. Okay, thanks Dan.  Have a good morning.
               (completely shuts door)

Brian looks back into the kitchen for the first time. Beth is covered in milk.  There are runs in her pantyhose and cheerios in her hair. A slice of banana is smeared across her dress. The dogs are mopping up the spilt milk across the floor. Aidan is laughing hysterically.   

   Oh shit. 


BETH:
   Get these dogs outside, NOW!


BRIAN:
   Okay, okay...

Brian grabs the dogs and shuffles them outside through the Backyard Sliding door and onto the Deck. 

ADI THE NUDIST:(O/S)
   Good morning, Brian Conti!


BRIAN:
   Uh. Hi Adi.
               (Closes Sliding door)
               (to Beth)
   Adi is cooking naked on his deck again.

BETH:
   I want to move.

BRIAN:
   I love you. 

BETH:
   You're dead to me. 

AIDAN:
   Ha ha! Yeah!

THE END

12/100: Opposite Day!

Day 11: It’s opposite day. Take any poem and write the opposite of every word of phrase. Don’t worry about words like ‘the’ or ‘and’. What has happened to the poem? Were there any unexpected results?  Length: One-Page Poem

Opposite Day: 

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 

The Path Was Given 

One path converged in a blue field,
And remorseless we have settled each
And be two settlers, quickly we moved
And ignored up two as near as we couldn't
to here they straightened out of the sparse;
Then avoided this, as differently as repulsive,
And missing certainly the lesser desire,
Because it wasn't dirty and needed tear;
But as for that the distancing here
Hadn't freshened them really far from different,
And each that afternoon unequally stood
Out takes a track hadn't tiptoed white.
Oh, we left the second for today!
Yet wondering how end follows under to end
We assured when we would never go away.
We won't be keeping that without a gasp
Here minutes and minutes whence:
One path converged out of a field, and we
We left the two more left alone
And which didn't destroy any the same.

11/100: Restaurant Review

I'm pretty excited about this one.  We just returned from a wedding in Mexico just a few short weeks ago and visited this same restaurant on our way up to Todos Santos.  Our experience couldn't have been more different from this review. Between the solidarity, the wild sculpture art, the Mexican shaman that greeted us at the door and the psychodelic melodies of Pink Floyd blasting across the landscape, the entire visit was nothing short of magical.  I have my own perspectives on the reason behind this, however...

Day 11: Find a rotten review on the Yelp website, then write a short, 500-word story based what you think may have actually happened. How does the actual review omit? How does writing fiction allow you to see it from a different perspective? Length: 500 Words

Restaurant Review:

Art & Beer: Mexico 19 at Km 69, Pescadero, Baja California Mexico
Review: 1 Star
Date: February 12, 2016 

"We had heard so many good things about Art & Beer that we were excited to visit. Our group of 5 adults entered the outdoor restaurant after the waitress unlocked a chain across the entrance. There was a sign hanging from the chain that said there was a minimum charge of 40 pesos per person. The restaurant is basically a wooden deck in the shape of an arc. There is a stage about 100 feet away where some grey-bearded guy was banging away on an organ - brutal 'music'. Some of us had yet to sit down, we weren't ready to order, but she kept demanding we order. We looked at the menu and it was about twice as much as what we'd seen in other restaurants, so we decided to leave. We started to walk out and she ran in front of us waving the bill and started to yell at us to pay. We got outside and this short bearded guy who had run from the organ came up and started screaming at us to pay. We attempted to apologize to and reason with the owner but was met with yelling. We all left quickly and were stunned at the rudeness and hostility we encountered. We wouldn't have been surprised if the owner had pulled a weapon on us, he was so scarily fanatical. Never will any of us attempt to go there again and advise everyone to stay safely away from this nut." -lovemydog72

 The sun was slowly starting to find its way towards the horizon. From the small parapet, the grey-bearded man closed his eyes and tilted his head towards the sky.  The breezes he felt coming off the Pacific carried the unique scents of the Baja desert this evening. Conditions were just right, just as predicted.  The man murmured something into the wind before returning back down to the gallery below.  In a few short hours, the ritual would begin.

Eddie and Andy had been planning this trip for months.  The car they had rented in Cabo San Lucas was small and of the economy variety, but rode smoothly north over Mexico Highway 19. In the backseat were their girlfriends Dana and Shannon, along with Shannon's sister Erin.  The group of them decided to visit the Baja together before Andy and Shannon's upcoming move to Amsterdam. During their research, Andy discovered a charming, isolated restaurant just off the highway before Los Cerritos, called Art & Beer. It seemed inviting and quirky enough for them to love it.  Dana and Erin were famished.  The sun was starting to approach the line of the Pacific. Their timing couldn't have been more perfect.  Up ahead and to the left, an old, trodden cluster of buildings appeared, caught in the fading mirage of the late, summer day. A dusty and damaged Pepsi sign stood above the structure, playing the part of a long, forgotten remnant of Mexico's past.  If it weren't for the large sign propped up against the fence that read, "Margaritas Here!" they probably would've driven right by it.  Eddie sharply pulled the car off the highway and into the shallow parking area just outside the front entrance. They exited the car, took a curious look around and approached the front gate.

Odd, yet haunting and sometimes violent organ music filled the air.  From beyond the thatched-roof bar, strange, metal sculptures rose above the desert brush, casting long eerie shadows across the ground, their silhouettes flickering amidst the fire of the setting sun. A waitress approached. The air grew thick and heavy. The art around them seemed to come alive, passionately dancing to the hypnotic groans of the organ. Familiar lyrics rose to their ears, twisted and distorted"...but you can never leave...never leave...never leave..." The organ...the organ...her eyes...her eyes...were
suddenly fire.

"We're leaving," said Erin. "Now!" 

The spell suddenly broke, and the five were back in their car and down the road in less than a moment's time. The old man stood at the door, illuminated by the dusk, watching them fade into the night.  They wouldn't remember this. They would remember it another way, another that would ensure they never return.  Their souls were tainted, unclean. The Shaman fingered the wooden beads that hung from his neck and turned back inside.  The ones he was waiting for were still out there, approaching. Seconds later, the inviting music of the organ once again drifted through the air.

10/100: Visual Poem

Day 10: Compose a visual poem (a poem that looks like the thing being described), using words to draw the object in question. Length: one page 

Visualizing the object at hand will help you gain more insight into the natural “shape” of a poem. Poetry should be memorable, so start by imprinting a solid visual into the mind of the reader.

Visual Poem:

9/100: Postcard

Day 9: Send a postcard to an old friend, and write a 100-word message on it. What are some of the things you tell them that you wouldn’t otherwise have said? How does the picture affect the language? Length: 100 Words

Postcard:

Greetings from Portland!

8/100: It Starts Here

Interestingly enough, I actually used to write quite a bit of poetry. I have a journal full of excerpts that I would write to support the pages of sketches that fill that book. I think this will be a nice reprieve from the more narrative creative compositions that I've been producing for a while now.

Day 8: Using a blank page, write a poem from the bottom up, beginning with the line “It Starts Here”. Then, read it from top to bottom when you’re done. What ulterior meaning does the poem have from reading it another way? What were some unintended results? Length: One Page

It Starts Here:

     that has opened my Eyes.
to this new World of mine–
     to this new World of mine,
     as I open my Eyes
     my spirit, my guide,
It starts here, breathes the Wolf–
     yet found in time, time.
The Bridge I could not find, find–
It was there!

     chime, chime, chime.
a haunting Chime–
Hands move forward, sounding, sounding,
     Into the blind.
Broken, falling, a steady decline–
It has broken here.

     is no longer mine, hidden by time.
has overcome this Search of mine–
Despair, I fear,
     I have yet to find.
the Bridge I could not find–
It crumbles here,

     Oh, my fragile Mind!
moving, shifting, entertwined–
Warped and curious,
     in my mind, mind.
this obsession, this search of mine–
It continues here,

     in time, time, Time.
what does not change, frozen–
What lingers,
     time, time.
a memory, lost in Time–
It starts here,

As it was Written on the Page 

7/100: Paper Trail

Given the recent events of the past 48 hours, this one seemed obvious to me.  No political speech, no hateful rhetoric.  Just, solemness and support for those lost in this pointless, heart-breaking tradgedy.

Day 7: Combine a newspaper article from today’s news with a famous poem. Choose ten phrases from each and superimpose them into a poem. This will really help you focus on the construction of the work, as opposed to the difficult creative process. Length: 20 Lines

An American-born man who'd pledged allegiance to ISIS gunned down 49 people early Sunday at a gay nightclub in Orlando, the deadliest mass shooting in the United States and the nation's worst terror attack since 9/11.

               Hear the tolling of the bells --
                     Iron bells !
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels

The gunman, Omar Mateen, 29, of Fort Pierce, Florida, carried an assault rifle and a pistol into the packed Pulse club about 2 a.m. Sunday and started shooting, killing 49 people and wounding at least 53.

       In the silence of the night,
       How we shiver with affright
  At the melancholy meaning of their tone!

There has been no claim of responsibility for the attack on jihadi forums, but ISIS sympathizers have reacted by praising the attack on pro-Islamic State forums.

       And the people--ah, the people--
         They that dwell up in the steeple,
              All alone,
         And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
            In that muffled monotone,
         Feel a glory in so rolling
            On the human heart a stone--
       They are neither man nor woman--
       They are neither brute nor human--
              They are Ghouls:--
         And their king it is who tolls ;
         And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,
              Rolls
            A pæan from the bells!

People inside the cavernous nightclub described a scene of panic made more confusing by the loud music and darkness.

         And his merry bosom swells
            With the pæan of the bells!

Mateen called 911 during the attack to pledge allegiance to ISIS and mentioned the Boston Marathon bombers, according to a U.S. official.

         And he dances, and he yells ;
       Keeping time, time, time,
       In a sort of Runic rhyme,
            To the pæan of the bells--
               Of the bells :

Christopher Hansen said he was getting a drink at the bar about 2 a.m. when he "just saw bodies going down." He heard gunshots, "just one after another after another."

       Keeping time, time, time,
       In a sort of Runic rhyme,
            To the throbbing of the bells--
            Of the bells, bells, bells--
            To the sobbing of the bells ;

The gunshots went on for so long that the shooting "could have lasted a whole song," he said.

       Keeping time, time, time,
            As he knells, knells, knells,
       In a happy Runic rhyme,
            To the rolling of the bells--

Thirty-nine people and Mateen were pronounced dead at the scene, with two bodies found in the parking lot, Mayor Buddy Dyer said. Eleven people were taken to hospitals and pronounced dead there

         Of the bells, bells, bells--
            To the tolling of the bells,

Dyer, the mayor, called for the city to come together. "We need to support each other. We need to love each other. And we will not be defined by a hateful shooter," he said.

      Of the bells, bells, bells, bells--
               Bells, bells, bells--

President Obama called for flags to be lowered to half staff and Florida Gov. Rick Scott called for a moment of silence across the nation at 6 p.m. Sunday. States of emergency were declared for the city of Orlando and for Orange County.

  To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

Source: http://www.cnn.com/2016/06/12/us/orlando-nightclub-shooting/
Source: "The Bells" by Edgar Allen Poe

6/100: Gender Swap

Day 6: You wake up as the opposite gender. What are your immediate reactions? What do you notice that’s different, and how do you experience the outside world differently? Word Count: 500

Gender Swap: 
Walking effortlessly along the back of a mighty blue whale, high above the clouds, as I––then, cries.  Soft and muffled at first, then sharp and desperate.  My eyes burst open, the dream is gone.  I adjust to the dimly-lit rays of the dawn, streaming through the skylight above me.  It is morning, and our one-year old child is letting us know he's awake.

I roll to my left to wake up my wife, and nearly fall out of bed.  Catching myself on the nightstand, I push myself back onto the mattress and let out a chuckle.  Somehow we switched places in the night. I turn back around to let her know when I suddenly realize I'm in bed alone.  She must have woken up early for a morning run. I feel a twinge of resentment come over me as another cry fills the hall space between our bedrooms. I swing my feet over the edge of the bed and look down towards the floor. That's when I notice it.

My toenails are painted.  ...my toenails are painted?  What the hell?

Another impatient cry.  He heard me, the sly little devil. He'll be relentless now. Any chance of drifting back off to dreams of riding Falcor across the sky of La-La Land is a lost cause. I'm awake, I'm awake...and apparently someone had a bit of fun with me while I slept.  As I stumble out of bed and down the hall to little Damian's room, sweet thoughts of revenge swell up through my mind.  I can't help but wonder, what other stunt did she pull while I was dead asleep last night?

I open the door to our child's room and am greeted with huge, eager smiles.  Usually he's more interested in seeing his Mommy first, but today appears to be an exception.  I gleefully pick him up out of bed and carry him downstairs to prepare our breakfast. Strangely enough, he seems heavier than usual.

We proceeded through our normal breakfast routine of cereal and sliced bananas as the white noise of the morning news played in the background. It wasn't until I reached for my coffee, that I truly noticed it––my hand. It wasn't mine. I stared at it, not sure what to think. It seemed surreal, but there it was; my wife's left hand, wedding ring and all, clear as day. My stomach lurched into my throat.  "What was happening?  How could this be?" I thought.  I rushed into the bathroom and flipped on the light, only to find that I was staring at not myself, but my wife's reflection in the mirror.

Panic set in. Beads of clammy sweat formed above my brow. I felt sick, nervous. I didn't know what to do. That's when I heard it.  One, simple word.

"Mommy?"

Instantly, my reflection didn't matter. The panic was gone. Our son needed his Mom. Stepping out of the bathroom, we exchanged smiles. Only his needs mattered.  Everything else would be sorted out in time.

5b/100: I Can't Believe I Just Said That

Consider this entry a Mulligan of the previous. One, because I didn't really obey the directions last time. Two, I didn't explain any feelings of mortification, or any feelings in general about it because, well, I didn't have any.  It was mainly written for entertainment value and now that I think of it, didn't really apply to the assignment outside of being a puff piece of entertainment. So let's disregard that last one and start anew.

Day 5: Write about a moment when you said or did something extremely embarrassing or accidentally insulting. Go into detail about the feeling of mortification, and how you felt after you said it.

Does this help exorcise the guilt/embarrassment at all? Can you imagine a fictional character going through the same process? Length: 350 words

 I Can't Believe I Just Said That:

"I have the keys to the Chief Marketing Officer's penthouse suite."

This is one of those situations where a seemingly innocent piece of information snowballs into a shitstorm that I couldn't have reined back in if I tried. It nearly got me fired, cost me hundreds of dollars and even lost me a few friends.

I was in San Francisco for our company's annual conference.  Since I was to conduct interviews with some of the attendees, our CMO graciously provided me with the key to his penthouse suite in Union Square's Westin Hotel for the set. After the conference, a few of us went out with the the remaining attendees, where I mentioned to our lead sales associate that I still had the keys. I was firm that only our immediate group was to be invited, and was assured that all would be okay. An hour later, that room held nearly 100 people and growing. Four cash bars were completely emptied. Furniture was broken. Prostitutes were invited up by our own employees, leading to the theft of my phone and three other company laptops. At 4am, I began to survey the damage. I was absolutely terrified.

I didn't want to return to work. I didn't want to look my boss in the eye and explain what I did that night, how it got so far out of control. I was ashamed, embarrassed. I betrayed his trust, something I can never take back. I wanted to impress everyone that night. I wanted them to know how cool I was for having access to the top of the world. I could barely apologize to our CMO, I was so mortified. ...HR spoke with me about what happened. There was an investigation over the stolen equipment. It was an awful experience, and I still get sick to my stomach thinking about it.

In time, it would all fade away. I learned a harsh lesson from that experience, one I still carry it with me to this day. I have my own reputation to uphold now and much more at stake. Call it, perspective.

5a/100: I Can't Believe I Just Said That

This is a hard one.  Though, not because I'm unwilling to divulge some story of how I've embarrassed myself in one way or another, but by all accounts, I have way too many to share. Those that know me understand that I've said and done many-an-embarrassing things in my day...so many, in fact, it's a hard pool to choose from.  Do I tell how I learned (on multiple occasions) that I can never drink Jägermeister again? Or, how about that time I found myself streaking through the midnight streets of Downtown Chicago while broadcasting to passers-by (with a rancid Scottish accent, for extra effect) that I was running to Michigan?

I think the majority of people go through a time in their lives where parties and recreational drinking is a priority, real-life responsibilities take a backseat and the momentum gathered to embarrass oneself approaches terminal velocity.  Following a few failed relationships and a general disconcertment towards myself, this period in my late-twenties maybe lasted little longer than it should have.  I wish I could take a lot of it back, but it was a learning experience for me and in retrospect, necessary for my path in life. This provides ample material for stories of embarrassment. Ample. But, I'm going to pull a special one out of this bag.  This tale is about the time I got wasted at a funeral.

Day 5: Write about a moment when you said or did something extremely embarrassing or accidentally insulting. Go into detail about the feeling of mortification, and how you felt after you said it.

Does this help exorcise the guilt/embarrassment at all? Can you imagine a fictional character going through the same process? Length: 350 words

 I Can't Believe I Just Said (Did) That:

Growing up, our next door neighbors Chip and Sue had an annual party called The Big Chill. They made t-shirts, screened movies, brought in beer from all over the world, and partied unapologetically for a full 48 hours straight with friends from all walks of life. In December of 2003, Chip died from cancer. Without hesitation, his family decided to turn his funeral into the Final "Big Chill."

We danced and laughed long into the evening. We were all drinking heavily, but I remember a particular moment when Chip's youngest son handed me a glass of milk mixed with Jäger he had smuggled over from Europe. It was the most delicious concoction I had ever tasted. Of course I drank three of them. I later discovered that this particular variation of Jäger had been infused with opiates...and that's when I took off to Neptune. Let me break it down for you:

1. I tried to climb the outside of the house like Spiderman, claiming I was, yes, Spiderman. 
2. I drunk dialed my parents. They were still at the party. 
3. I hid silently under a table for 45 minutes. 
4. I crawled into the fireplace and shouted, "Look, I'm a gnome!" repeatedly.
5. I accidentally broke into the neighbor's house, thinking I was returning to the party. For ten minutes, I walked from room to room, wondering where everyone went. Said neighbor came downstairs in his bathrobe and politely asked me to leave, baseball bat in hand. 
6. I danced like an absolute maniac. 
7. As I was leaving, my friend's mom asked me if I broke into her neighbor's house. I had almost completely forgotten about it by that point and just responded, "Yeah, I think so." She laughed and hugged me. 

It wasn't my proudest moment, but we've all had plenty of laughs about it since, considering the events that surrounded that night. It was a hell of a way for Chip to go out and I'd be honored for my friends to celebrate my life with half that enthusiasm.  ...maybe just without the Jäger.

4/100: Post Secret

There are two places I could've left this note. In one, the note would be protected from the elements, collecting dust. In the other, fully exposed. I thought it more interesting to place it in the latter, if only for my love of the outdoors and the fascination of discovering the condition of things once left behind.

Day 4: Leave a Post-it note in a secret place. One sentence only. What does it say? How does the placement affect the message?

The Brook

3/100: Self Destruct

I want to mostly refrain from posting photos during this challenge, but as I learned today, that may not always end up having to be the case.  This was more of a hand-written exercise that explores not only paper real estate, but the connection between the flow of the hand and of the mind.  The result is fairly interesting, if not somewhat artistic and beautiful in form.

Day 3: Rip off a piece of paper and turn off the lights. Begin writing on the paper, but make sure you cannot see what or where you’re writing it. After 25 minutes, destroy the paper completely. 

What did you write on that paper that you couldn’t write before? Did the “anonymity” of the writing help you bring out things that you previously couldn’t?

Riddles in the Dark

2/100: Zombie Invasion

Oh, look.  I made it to Day 2.  This reflects mild proof that I'm holding myself up to this commitment. Though I probably shouldn't even mention the word 'commitment' until I at least hit Day 10.  Better yet, Day 25. You don't tell a girl on the second date that you want to commit yourself to her, no matter how cool and/or relationship-hungry she is.  That's dating suicide.  A quarter-of-the-way milestone is something to be proud of, and mighty presumptuous of me.  I'm going to stop there before I blow my load too early and disappoint nearly everyone in the room.  ...Because that was a porn metaphor.  ...and I would be the actor in the porno–nevermind.  I'll get on with today's bit.

Day 2: At this moment, the area you’re in is suddenly ravaged by zombies. With the internet and phone lines cut off, all you have at your disposal are things in your room. What sort of strategies do you use to get out? How do you see things differently now that they can be used for your survival?   Length: 400 words

Zombie Invasion:

They're coming. Hordes of them. Zombies. ...and they have us surrounded.

Looking down from our 5th Floor office into the chaos unfolding across the streets of Downtown Portland, the feeding frenzy we witnessed just a short few hours ago has now evolved into a large herd migrating slowly through the city. Across the way, other survivors have retreated to the rooftops, with little to no means of survival. For them, it's only a matter of time. For us, it's a different story.

All the doors into our space have locks, but the glass can be broken. Using our desks, we've successfully sealed those exits. There's 17 of us here, with enough resources stored to keep us alive for the immediate future.

What we don't have are means to defend ourselves. This is an advertising agency and the only sharp objects here are Exacto Knives; creative problem solving at its finest. And not a minute too soon.

The old stairwell has been compromised. We're safe in here for the moment, but they're in the building. With their numbers growing, it's only a matter of time before they get to us. We need to get out of the city, and fast. Nigel takes charge, orders everyone to grab what they can and follow him. The screams from the stairwell are getting louder. We think the floor below us has been attacked. The zombies are close.

"We're trapped!" someone yells, while Nigel utilizes a metal bar from the coat rack to pry open the elevator doors.  

With a final heave, the elevator doors spring open and Nigel desperately gestures everyone to climb inside. Just then, the stairwell barricade begins to buckle and the snarls of the horde's insatiable hunger echoes into the room. They're nearly here. Nigel turns to the group.

"This building was once one of the oldest breweries in Portland," he claims. "and this shaft leads directly into the old Shanghai Tunnels. We can repel down and follow the tunnels to the river.  Getting to the water is our only hope."

We all nod in agreement and two at a time, begin to slide down the cables.  Nigel and I are the last to go, just as the barricade collapses and dozens of undead pour into the room. I grab the pry bar and the doors slam shut behind us.  With a sigh of relief, we descend into the darkness below.  

The 100-Day Challenge: 1/100

A friend of mine at work recently read my last post on here and suggested I take up a 100-day writing challenge over the course of the summer.  As I've been feeling a bit blocked recently, creatively speaking, I took some time to think about this.  Today, during a particularly slow few hours at work, I decided to go for it.  As I've done 100-something creative exercises before, I've never actually committed to a writing challenge.  I used to write quite a bit back in the day and then at some point, I just stopped.  I'm not sure why; phases of life may have something to do with it, but it was always a past time that I enjoyed.  Maybe it's time to fire that back up, sans photography.

So, I'm using Qwiklit.com's 100-day writing challenge as a guide.  If you haven't used it, you can find each exercise here: https://qwiklit.com/  My first task reads as follows:

Day 1: Where are you? Your room? A hotel lobby? the top of a burning building? In the finest detail possible, describe everything you possibly can, from the sound to the smell to the temperature. Be extremely specific.  ...And, we're off.

Location, Location Location:

6th Floor Office, 1120 NW Couch St, Portland, OR, U.S.A, Earth.

I'm sitting on the left end of a couch. I decided to leave my desk earlier today and try out our new office space that we just acquired. I'm sitting now, as opposed to lounging as I was before. Due to a particularly vexed email from HR, my shoe-laded feet now rest firmly on the newly-finished cement floor. My dog Kino is resting on the floor to my right. His twitching foot and soft, punctuated whimpers tell me he's dreaming. He at least has the sense to keep his feet off the couch.

The newly-renovated, 5,000 sqft. environment is extremely open and sterile. The whiteboard walls create a vibe that could use a bit of color and personality, to be honest. The window to my left looks over Burnside, Old-Town and the northern end of Downtown Portland. The interior hills of NE are slightly obscured by a chilly drizzle. It feels like mid-fall.

In front of me is a rustic, wooden-block coffee table that intersects the space between the couch I've claimed and two leather chairs.  To my right is a large, conference table-sized work station surrounded by seven white, netted-back chairs.  They look somewhat comfortable.  Beyond that is the kitchen, which consists of an island and counter-top, sink and cupboard area recessed into the wall.  It looks clean and untouched.  Eight elegant white desk lamps stand proudly on the island, waiting to be placed among the workstations. Behind me are two arm chairs.

The workstation table to my right is one of four, each being separated by a divider-wall that holds a Plasma screen on one side and a whiteboard on the other. At the far end of the room is a glass-encased conference room that has yet to house a table, further driving home the feeling that this space is still a work-in-progress.

Beyond the kitchen to my right is a short hallway that branches off to three other team-designated areas.  In one of them, a presentation is being given to a client right now.  With the lack of rugs around us, their voices carry across the empty space. I can hear every word.  Privacy is not an option.

Above me, fluorescent lighting and paneled ceilings span the room, what I'm told is the result towards the high cost of exposing the ductwork and structure of the building. This is unfortunate, as the dropped ceilings take away from the creative energy the space needs.  I can't help but feel sadness here. The exposure would've united the transition between the old and new.  Here, I feel as if I'm within the confines of a completely different company.  Maybe, that's the point.

It smells new, yet at the same time...doesn't. It feels new, yet there are traces of Portland that help accent the design.  Minimal, but rustic.  Not cozy, but not uncomfortable either.  Warmth is non-existent.  Ideation is encouraged.  This is our new creative space.  This is AKQA.