Creative Writing, 125 (Joyas Voladoras)

In Joyas Voladoras, Brian Doyle appeals to the rational and emotional sides of the reader to explain the fragility of life and the importance of perspective.  He uses decorative language and metaphor to elaborate his point; he dances in the shallows, adding flavour with small bits of emotion before stripping away the facts to dive into the depths of humanity.

In this piece, he uses nature as a parallel to humans, showing how they are connected as beings of life, hearts beating in a symphony of notes for one grand sonata.  His style keeps the reader engaged, informing them through relative connections of the world they inhabit while progressing into a heavy emotional connection of the eternal will to live and love those around you.  This piece is not about the human condition, but the living condition of anything with a heart beat willing it into life.

Creative Writing, 125 (Bahamas Creative Non-Fiction)

My family loves to drink.  It's a bonding mechanism held over from generations back, probably originating from our Irish heritage.  As a non-drinker, this leaves me in the awkward place of being the most sober person in the room, and the one with the best memory for what events truly transpired the next day.

We were sitting poolside, drinks flowing from the waitress who let my baby-faced brother slide a few months on the age restriction.  Topless women sitting across the pool, my brother's glances getting longer with each drink he consumed.  Someone famous sat down next to us; a rapper judging by his rough style, heavy tattoos, and voluptuous entourage.  My brother nudges me, an excited whisper affirming my suspicions.  We chat, he gets a picture, and we all continue relaxing and consuming under the hot sun.  As the day dwindles we decide to leave and many involved are rather tipsy, weaving and bobbing against an invisible adversary.  My brother has a sloppy grin on his face as I turn just in time to watch one of our party members wobble, stumble, and tip over into a splash landing in the pool.  Raucous laughter rings as the swimmer makes it way out of the water and our group meanders its way back to the room.  

The walk is filled with giggles and horseplay, the swimmer walks like a goat on the side of a cliff, managing to hit every pillar along the way.  Our palest member bemoans their burning ears, the one place he forgot to apply his 50 SPF sunscreen.  My brother, much drunker than he realises, attempts to slide down a four step rail and does a complete back-flip, his relaxed body fueled by the alcohol saving him from cracking his head on the payment.  As the sober member, I have a mild panic attack and help him up with that silly grin still in place as he gracefully catches up with the group. Not until the next day does he sober up enough to feel the sting of a large scrape across his back with no memory of getting up close and personal with the pavement.

Creative Writing, 125 (Icebreaker)

Worst year ever.

Glad it's over.

Do not dwell.

Mood's not right.

Spring blooms soon.

Fuck, it's cold.