The course induction continues to be a thoroughly enjoyable experience.
Our final project for the week of creating a radio show is coming together, as we named the show Something to Declare: Stories of Arrival. As previously stated, it will air on Source FM 96.1 FM on Friday, at two o’clock. Please tune in.
For said show, I have prepared a piece about my dog, Raggs, but I’m obviously not going to post that here, you can wait for that, you eager beavers, you.
Instead, I present to you two more warm-up exercises in the same vein as the ones we did yesterday, as well as a final exercise that the lecturer presented to us by ordering us to ‘tell the story of your shoes’.
Words: Flowers, Milkshake, Awful & Wine
“Those flowers look awful” Jeff argued. I looked down at the flopping mulch in my hand and agreed, although not out loud. I couldn’t give him the satisfaction. God, he’s such a bastard. He knows I’m really trying here; why can’t he just let me do things my way.
But nonetheless, I continued on with my plan. I was to meet up with Sara later in the afternoon, where we would go to her favourite milkshake bar, and then indulge in her favourite pastime of wine tasting with some cheese bites.
“That’s also an awful idea” Jeff chimed in. “Cheese, wine and milkshakes? Why on earth would anyone consume those three things in quick succession? I mean wine and cheese, sure. But then adding milkshakes into the occasion? That’ll just make you feel sick”.
I ignored him and continued out the door.
A few hours later I met with Sara and presented her with the flowers. She looked at them disheartened.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Those flowers” she admitted, “They look awful”.
This wasn’t going well. Maybe she should be going out with Jeff instead of me. The pair definitely seem to think alike, and then they could sit in a little room and critique all my ideas whilst I went out and find someone who may actually appreciated dying flowers and sickening mixtures of fluids and cheese. That’s the dream, and maybe one day I’ll get there.
Words: Profiteroles, Smoothies, Pencil, Reincarnation
This was a bizarre feeling, and one that I didn’t fully understand. The day before, I had been in the desert, the sun scorching down upon me, thinking of smoothies and profiteroles and what life might be like if I were a chicken. Things had become dire, the heat had become too much. I didn’t think I would make it. And I didn’t. I dropped dead right there in the desert, the heat and dehydration had become too much for me.
What followed this was a series of blurred senses, the wind brushing against me, what seemed to be soil encompassing my lower half, and after long periods of time, the feeling of a part of me falling off as the world grew colder. I could not witness any of these things happening, for I no longer had eyes. As far as I could tell, I didn’t have much of anything. No body. No real mind. Just a vestige of my soul having undergone what I can only assume to be reincarnation, and found myself in what I now have decided is a tree. Because it wasn’t truly yesterday I died, but instead many years ago, and my mind has been struggling to remake itself ever since.
And just when I finally was coming to terms with my new existence, something even more strange happened to me. I now believe myself to be a pencil, caught in the grubby little hands of a preschooler.
And finally, The Story of My Shoes:
Who does this guy think he is? Just because he got me fifteen percent off, doesn’t mean I’m a lesser pair of shoes. This jerk. This is clear abuse. If I had a mouth, I would scream the largest range of profanities at him that I could muster. It’s outrageous.
I was there when he was speaking to his new boss, the guy clearly said ‘comfortable shoes that you don’t mind getting dirty’. I remember it like it was yesterday. Come to think of it, it may well have been yesterday; being a shoe, you don’t have much of a mind for time-keeping. It’s a depressing existence.
It was bad enough when I spent my life in a boxes, eagerly waiting for someone to decide I would be the one they would insert their feet into.
And now here I am; olives, lettuce, pickles and jalapeño’s being mushed into my once perfect suede skin. He used to be good to me. He would scrub me down most days of the week. But I’m pretty certain I’ve only seen that brush once since we came to this new town. God, I hate him. If I had a body I’d punch him right in the face.
I’m not a pair of Subway shoes. This is not where I belong. I’m meant to be worn on nights out and to special events; I’m a good pair of shoes! I don’t deserve to spend my nights being caked in the reject ingredients from some drunk students sandwich.
But I’ll find a way to get back at him. One day, when he needs me the most, I’ll catch my zipper on something. Yes, that’s a beautiful idea. Perhaps I could take it a step further? I could catch on something deadly, and teach this punk that you don’t wear £75 shoes to work at Subway.
Maybe when he’s lacking a couple of limbs I’ll have a break from this horror. Maybe he’ll give me away to a new owner; someone who will treat me right. Someone who knows my true value. Not this prick. This idiot who claims to be a ‘reverend’, ‘sandwich artist’ and ‘professional writer’. He’s so full of himself. God, I hate him.
Taking his limbs is definitely the best course of action. Maybe it’ll teach him some humility.