Grab Bag Writing Challenge - June 2019
- blueprint - classic - compose - drama - enduring - history - icon - legend - masterpiece - myth - philosophy - standard - tragedy - verse - vintage -
by Gail Allen
"Do you have the blueprints for this?" Juliet asked as she opened a box that looked like it should have had IKEA icons printed all over it.
Karen shook her head as she carried in another box. "Afraid you just have to look until you find the right box," she said.
Juliet rolled her eyes. It was just typical, wasn't it? They'd order a prop, and then it would come as a DIY.
There wasn't anything for it though, and so she kept going through the boxes to find the piece of paper showing her how to put it all together while she was mentally composing a letter to the prop department on proper labelling of boxes. It would be a masterpiece if she had to search continued much longer. Maybe they could even perform it on stage. Or maybe she'd write it all in verse. That would certainly be impressive. She could call it "The Legend of the Lost Blueprint" or perhaps "The Tragedy of Juliet and the Blueprint." She snickered to herself at that; she truly did have the perfect name for this. It would give it a Shakespearean air, making it vintage before the ink from the printer had even dried. Although she supposed if it was to really have the true air of a classic piece, she'd have to write it by hand. Maybe she'd go and dig out the standard school fountain pen she hadn't used since they'd been allowed to drop it in favour of ballpoint pens.
Karen carried in another box and Juliet sighed. "How many are there of those?" she asked, and Karen gave her a mischievous grin. "Are you sure you want to know?" she asked. "I think it's the castle they've sent us." Juliet groaned. "The one that'll span the whole backdrop, right?" she asked. "Why on earth would they send that on a day when most of the team isn't here?" Karen shrugged. "I guess they wanted to see how much we can endure before we explode?" she suggested.
"I thought it was just a myth that they've all fallen to the dark side." Juliet grumbled, making Karen laugh.
"Oh no, that's a historical fact." Karen said with pretend seriousness as though she was an actor in one of those dramas on daytime television.
Hours later they were both on the stage, surrounded by opened boxes that had all been dug through, but there was still no blueprint anywhere.
"If it's not in this one..." Juliet said as she opened the very last box, "Then I don't know what I'll do."
"Adopt the philosophy of the dark side too?" Karen said.
"Something like that." Juliet pulled open the box and there, at the very top, was a thick booklet. Both Karen and Juliet sighed in relief. At least it was there and they wouldn't have to guess like last time.
"Do you have the blueprints for this?" Juliet asked as she opened a box that looked like it should have had IKEA icons printed all over it.
Karen shook her head as she carried in another box. "Afraid you just have to look until you find the right box," she said.
Juliet rolled her eyes. It was just typical, wasn't it? They'd order a prop, and then it would come as a DIY.
There wasn't anything for it though, and so she kept going through the boxes to find the piece of paper showing her how to put it all together while she was mentally composing a letter to the prop department on proper labelling of boxes. It would be a masterpiece if she had to search continued much longer. Maybe they could even perform it on stage. Or maybe she'd write it all in verse. That would certainly be impressive. She could call it "The Legend of the Lost Blueprint" or perhaps "The Tragedy of Juliet and the Blueprint." She snickered to herself at that; she truly did have the perfect name for this. It would give it a Shakespearean air, making it vintage before the ink from the printer had even dried. Although she supposed if it was to really have the true air of a classic piece, she'd have to write it by hand. Maybe she'd go and dig out the standard school fountain pen she hadn't used since they'd been allowed to drop it in favour of ballpoint pens.
Karen carried in another box and Juliet sighed. "How many are there of those?" she asked, and Karen gave her a mischievous grin. "Are you sure you want to know?" she asked. "I think it's the castle they've sent us." Juliet groaned. "The one that'll span the whole backdrop, right?" she asked. "Why on earth would they send that on a day when most of the team isn't here?" Karen shrugged. "I guess they wanted to see how much we can endure before we explode?" she suggested.
"I thought it was just a myth that they've all fallen to the dark side." Juliet grumbled, making Karen laugh.
"Oh no, that's a historical fact." Karen said with pretend seriousness as though she was an actor in one of those dramas on daytime television.
Hours later they were both on the stage, surrounded by opened boxes that had all been dug through, but there was still no blueprint anywhere.
"If it's not in this one..." Juliet said as she opened the very last box, "Then I don't know what I'll do."
"Adopt the philosophy of the dark side too?" Karen said.
"Something like that." Juliet pulled open the box and there, at the very top, was a thick booklet. Both Karen and Juliet sighed in relief. At least it was there and they wouldn't have to guess like last time.
by Iverian Gnash
While deciding which movie to watch one night, it was suggested that a classic would be enjoyable for everyone present. However, we had some disagreements with this, as a small group of us wished to see something with a lot of tragedy. I can’t even begin to understand why. Finally, after a few arguments broke out between everyone present, we settled on “The History of a Legend.” I don’t know if that classified as a classic or not, but I was done with all of the drama of the past ten minutes.
The movie turned out to be a real masterpiece but felt like an old myth to me. The main character, thought of as a historic icon, was caught up in the study of philosophy when a mysterious man came to him with a blueprint of an old cathedral, an enduring piece of history. It was a standard blueprint, one you were likely to see anywhere where people were designing a building, except there was something vintage about it - an old verse written across the top of the paper with the purpose of informing others of the unknown history of the cathedral. This building dated back many centuries, and, as the two men read the verse along the top, they began to compose their thoughts on its early use. At the end of the movie, the philosopher came to the conclusion that the old cathedral was a gathering place for people from all over who travelled that way.
I didn’t particularly enjoy the movie that much, as there didn’t seem to be a real climax and it fell more in the mystery genre, which I don’t especially enjoy.
While deciding which movie to watch one night, it was suggested that a classic would be enjoyable for everyone present. However, we had some disagreements with this, as a small group of us wished to see something with a lot of tragedy. I can’t even begin to understand why. Finally, after a few arguments broke out between everyone present, we settled on “The History of a Legend.” I don’t know if that classified as a classic or not, but I was done with all of the drama of the past ten minutes.
The movie turned out to be a real masterpiece but felt like an old myth to me. The main character, thought of as a historic icon, was caught up in the study of philosophy when a mysterious man came to him with a blueprint of an old cathedral, an enduring piece of history. It was a standard blueprint, one you were likely to see anywhere where people were designing a building, except there was something vintage about it - an old verse written across the top of the paper with the purpose of informing others of the unknown history of the cathedral. This building dated back many centuries, and, as the two men read the verse along the top, they began to compose their thoughts on its early use. At the end of the movie, the philosopher came to the conclusion that the old cathedral was a gathering place for people from all over who travelled that way.
I didn’t particularly enjoy the movie that much, as there didn’t seem to be a real climax and it fell more in the mystery genre, which I don’t especially enjoy.
by Maxim Trevelyan
“Quite interesting, isn’t it?” Maxim asked his friend as he was dragging him through the halls that held so much history.
Gary nodded, commenting, “It’s interesting to see the tragedies and other drama from their point of view. Despite having no magic, they’re quite enduring.”
Maxim hurried off to the classical composers section, while Gary wanted to go to the architectural wing. After a moment of indecision, he followed his friend, figuring he would have the opportunity to see the magnificent buildings and the blueprints accompanying them later.
Gary found Maxim near a realistically looking wax figure of a Muggle composer. He leaned closer to the icon and text next to it, noting the name. Bach. “Author of many masterpieces,” Gary murmured as he read over the description, thinking it was a pretty standard one found by so many exhibits.
“He’s the man, the myth, the legend!” Maxim exclaimed and jogged across the room to a glass-surrounded box that contained the supposed quill Bach wrote his verses, pieces, or whatever with.
“It’s very…vintage,” Gary commented, trying to find something to say that would not make it so obvious that he was bored. Then again, he would suffer through this section just so he could see his friend so happy. Wasn’t that the philosophy of friendship anyway?
“Come on,” Gary tugged at Maxim’s sleeve after half an hour or so. “Let’s take a break; we’ve been here for hours. Maybe find that dining area and eat something. You can tell me all about the nuances of symphonies there.” Maxim nodded fervently and with that, both teens went looking for their destination.
“Quite interesting, isn’t it?” Maxim asked his friend as he was dragging him through the halls that held so much history.
Gary nodded, commenting, “It’s interesting to see the tragedies and other drama from their point of view. Despite having no magic, they’re quite enduring.”
Maxim hurried off to the classical composers section, while Gary wanted to go to the architectural wing. After a moment of indecision, he followed his friend, figuring he would have the opportunity to see the magnificent buildings and the blueprints accompanying them later.
Gary found Maxim near a realistically looking wax figure of a Muggle composer. He leaned closer to the icon and text next to it, noting the name. Bach. “Author of many masterpieces,” Gary murmured as he read over the description, thinking it was a pretty standard one found by so many exhibits.
“He’s the man, the myth, the legend!” Maxim exclaimed and jogged across the room to a glass-surrounded box that contained the supposed quill Bach wrote his verses, pieces, or whatever with.
“It’s very…vintage,” Gary commented, trying to find something to say that would not make it so obvious that he was bored. Then again, he would suffer through this section just so he could see his friend so happy. Wasn’t that the philosophy of friendship anyway?
“Come on,” Gary tugged at Maxim’s sleeve after half an hour or so. “Let’s take a break; we’ve been here for hours. Maybe find that dining area and eat something. You can tell me all about the nuances of symphonies there.” Maxim nodded fervently and with that, both teens went looking for their destination.
The Substitute by Prof. Tarma Amelia Black
A notice was on the board. The regular teacher was away on vacation. The principal, appearing subdued, walked in through the doorway and stood inside, gesturing to someone to come in. The newcomer came in and smiled broadly at the members of the class. The principal introduced him as the substitute for Mrs. Pierce to the class and then hurriedly departed. (Oddly, the students who were actually listening couldn't catch the name of the new person.) The substitute teacher sauntered up to the front of the classroom. His hair was a rather strange shade of red and he wore dark glasses. Slightly built and a little over six feet in height, he had a lovely accent. The students quickly learned to lean forward to catch the slightest sound he made as some of his comments, almost sub-vocal, were sometimes hilarious and/or very strange.
His introductory statement was fine and normal.
“The primary goal of any writer is often to communicate information – be it thoughts and feelings, scientific discourse, philosophy, gossip or just a 'Hi, how are you doing today?' Whether this intention to compose a bit of communication ends up being a book of philosophy, a standard book of spells, a masterpiece of myth, a historical legend written in verse (along the lines of Beowulf), or a tragedy in the classic tradition, there is always in the mind of the writer a hope that this will be an enduring and maybe even iconic piece of writing that will be valued through the ages, like the vintage dramas of Shakespeare (be they comedy or tragedy or history). The various blueprints of writing, the way in which they are written, as they developed in different countries, have over time merged to form a new kind of communication and a richness of text that is 'greater than the sum of the parts.'”
But then he put aside the one piece of paper, from which he had apparently read the above, and launched into a discourse the like of which the students had never before heard. He spoke of Shakespeare as if he knew the man (and also spoke of St. John the same way, along with Confucius, Genghis Khan - who he called Temujin - and various other people of written history. What was strange to the students, though, was that he would then speak of people and events of which they had never heard. But he spoke of them with the same surety as he spoke of the 'known' events and historical peoples.
At the end of the hour, when the bell rang, the students jumped, startled. "Was that an hour already?"
The substitute again smiled broadly and took off his glasses. His eyes looked funny, funny strange. “Thank you for a most enjoyable time,” he said and sauntered out of the room, never to be seen by any of them again (except one person, but that is another story altogether).
A notice was on the board. The regular teacher was away on vacation. The principal, appearing subdued, walked in through the doorway and stood inside, gesturing to someone to come in. The newcomer came in and smiled broadly at the members of the class. The principal introduced him as the substitute for Mrs. Pierce to the class and then hurriedly departed. (Oddly, the students who were actually listening couldn't catch the name of the new person.) The substitute teacher sauntered up to the front of the classroom. His hair was a rather strange shade of red and he wore dark glasses. Slightly built and a little over six feet in height, he had a lovely accent. The students quickly learned to lean forward to catch the slightest sound he made as some of his comments, almost sub-vocal, were sometimes hilarious and/or very strange.
His introductory statement was fine and normal.
“The primary goal of any writer is often to communicate information – be it thoughts and feelings, scientific discourse, philosophy, gossip or just a 'Hi, how are you doing today?' Whether this intention to compose a bit of communication ends up being a book of philosophy, a standard book of spells, a masterpiece of myth, a historical legend written in verse (along the lines of Beowulf), or a tragedy in the classic tradition, there is always in the mind of the writer a hope that this will be an enduring and maybe even iconic piece of writing that will be valued through the ages, like the vintage dramas of Shakespeare (be they comedy or tragedy or history). The various blueprints of writing, the way in which they are written, as they developed in different countries, have over time merged to form a new kind of communication and a richness of text that is 'greater than the sum of the parts.'”
But then he put aside the one piece of paper, from which he had apparently read the above, and launched into a discourse the like of which the students had never before heard. He spoke of Shakespeare as if he knew the man (and also spoke of St. John the same way, along with Confucius, Genghis Khan - who he called Temujin - and various other people of written history. What was strange to the students, though, was that he would then speak of people and events of which they had never heard. But he spoke of them with the same surety as he spoke of the 'known' events and historical peoples.
At the end of the hour, when the bell rang, the students jumped, startled. "Was that an hour already?"
The substitute again smiled broadly and took off his glasses. His eyes looked funny, funny strange. “Thank you for a most enjoyable time,” he said and sauntered out of the room, never to be seen by any of them again (except one person, but that is another story altogether).
by Sky Alton
“Okay, you can look.”
“I don’t see what the point was,” I grumbled, uncovering my eyes.
“Building the drama and anticipation, obviously,” my brother huffed. It was the enduring tragedy of his life that he’d been cursed with a sister who wouldn’t buy into any of his theatrics.
I slowly rotated on the spot. The space seemed pretty standard for him: an old industrial building that had been totally gutted. Still, there was a nice iron staircase we could paint up into a feature and the light was good.
“I was thinking we could go for a vintage look, really emphasise the history of the place. Maybe some deco table lamps.”
I rolled my eyes. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, do you?” Still, it was better than his suggestion from a few weeks ago: plastering the walls of a Victorian bakery with verses from the musical ‘Oliver!’.
“That’s why I have you,” he tapped me on the nose. “Just make it pretty.”
“You know I hate your grimy factory vibe,” I groaned, “Next time buy me something I can dress up with classical statuary and highly polished wooden floors.”
“That’s been done before! With blank canvases like these, we can make things that are truly iconic.”
“Your clients may buy that phony hipster philosophy but I don’t. I’ve seen your place, stuffed to the rafters with antiques.” In fact, I’d designed his place.
“Well,” he folded his arms, “There’s a simple solution to this. Buy a place of your own and fix it up how you want to and we’ll see whose sells better.”
I sighed and began pacing the space to work out what dimensions I had to play with. I was well used to all this: my designs might make this into a home, but it would be my brother (the myth, the legend) who would convince someone to shell out masses of money for it. While I composed layouts in my head, he busied himself setting out the folder of blueprints for me. Eventually, I finished prowling.
“So, do you think we can make this into a masterpiece?” he asked with a crooked smile.
“We’ll give it a shot.”
“Okay, you can look.”
“I don’t see what the point was,” I grumbled, uncovering my eyes.
“Building the drama and anticipation, obviously,” my brother huffed. It was the enduring tragedy of his life that he’d been cursed with a sister who wouldn’t buy into any of his theatrics.
I slowly rotated on the spot. The space seemed pretty standard for him: an old industrial building that had been totally gutted. Still, there was a nice iron staircase we could paint up into a feature and the light was good.
“I was thinking we could go for a vintage look, really emphasise the history of the place. Maybe some deco table lamps.”
I rolled my eyes. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, do you?” Still, it was better than his suggestion from a few weeks ago: plastering the walls of a Victorian bakery with verses from the musical ‘Oliver!’.
“That’s why I have you,” he tapped me on the nose. “Just make it pretty.”
“You know I hate your grimy factory vibe,” I groaned, “Next time buy me something I can dress up with classical statuary and highly polished wooden floors.”
“That’s been done before! With blank canvases like these, we can make things that are truly iconic.”
“Your clients may buy that phony hipster philosophy but I don’t. I’ve seen your place, stuffed to the rafters with antiques.” In fact, I’d designed his place.
“Well,” he folded his arms, “There’s a simple solution to this. Buy a place of your own and fix it up how you want to and we’ll see whose sells better.”
I sighed and began pacing the space to work out what dimensions I had to play with. I was well used to all this: my designs might make this into a home, but it would be my brother (the myth, the legend) who would convince someone to shell out masses of money for it. While I composed layouts in my head, he busied himself setting out the folder of blueprints for me. Eventually, I finished prowling.
“So, do you think we can make this into a masterpiece?” he asked with a crooked smile.
“We’ll give it a shot.”