Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Dreams
I haven't been writing on this blog as much as I had wanted to. I have, however, been writing a lot in my dream journal. My dreams are so bizarre that it was suggested by several people that I keep a written account of all my dreams. As I read through them, I realized that while many make sense (such as anxiety dreams about driving and school), many do not (such as dreams about hidden cults and hairy llamas). Many of my dreams can be used as inspiration for a story, however, and other things. I have learned that this is a great way to get creativity: from my own overactive subconscious.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Gothic Valentine
Black lipstick melting, dripping
And smeared in the sweat
Of the sun, glittering heels
And cheap fading leather
And notes scribbled blindly
In Sharpie, and crumpled
And silver pierced tongues
Clicking numbly in sync
To the pulsing guitars
And metal chains glinting
In soft candlelight
So the world turns on,
And the lights blow out.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
College Searching
I am in the process of narrowing down my college choices, and it isn't easy. Many schools have excellent writing degrees and programs, beautiful campuses, and high ratings, but it isn't that simple to choose a school. I love the weather in California but I also love the old architecture in Connecticut. I was born in New York and lived in Connecticut for the first five years of my life, and I remember loving it. However, I am not a fan of cold weather. The differences in colleges and their different areas of study make choosing and researching difficult. I hope that when senior year rolls around, I am somewhat prepared to make these choices.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Editor's Choice Award
I was notified this morning that I have been chosen to receive an Editor's Choice award for my piece The Carousel on TeenInk. I am very excited to be recognized with this award and I hope that someday soon I will be able to make it into their printed magazine. To view my article, please visit the Fantasy page of TeenInk.com and look for "The Carousel" under the recently submitted tab. Please comment and rate the article as well. I always love to hear feedback!
You can find it here: http://www.teenink.com/fiction/sci_fi_fantasy/article/421466/The-Carousel/
You can find it here: http://www.teenink.com/fiction/sci_fi_fantasy/article/421466/The-Carousel/
Monday, January 16, 2012
The Phantom's Opera
As I sit here and watch the film adaptation of The Phantom of the Opera (2004), I remember the way I was completely taken with it when I first saw it four years ago. Since then, I have learned every word of every song and every line of the entire movie (including the word changes in the stage version and alternate lyrics), learned almost the entire score on the piano, and spent hours on the internet researching every bit of information on the making of the movie and wishing I had been cast in it. The writers, Joel Schumacher and Andrew Lloyd Webber (also the director and composer) did an excellent job at turning the stage production into a film. A few minor changes were written into the script to distinguish it from the stage musical, including a slightly different ending and alteration of the timing of the chandelier scene.
As an aspiring actress, screenwriter, director and writer, this movie has been an inspiration to me from all aspects. Although unrealistic and confusing at times, the storyline is dark, romantic, mysterious and antiquated. The beautiful period costumes, photography, music, writing and stunning performances all add up to become a wonderful must-see.
"Slowly, gently, night unfurls it's splendor. Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender. Turn your face away from the garish light of day, turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light- and listen to the music of the night."
As an aspiring actress, screenwriter, director and writer, this movie has been an inspiration to me from all aspects. Although unrealistic and confusing at times, the storyline is dark, romantic, mysterious and antiquated. The beautiful period costumes, photography, music, writing and stunning performances all add up to become a wonderful must-see.
"Slowly, gently, night unfurls it's splendor. Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender. Turn your face away from the garish light of day, turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light- and listen to the music of the night."
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Finding Time to Write
As a Junior in high school, it is difficult for me to find time to write anything at all besides for my schoolwork. In my AP English Literature class, we write an essay every week. This is somewhat creative, but I don't count it as creative writing. Because, well, it's not. It's an essay.
Between school, home life and homework, I have a hard time trying to write creatively. I write on the weekends, on breaks, and in the summertime, but sometimes I feel that it is not enough of a creative outlet for me. Hopefully, while maintaining this blog, I can set aside some time to write more frequently while still keeping up with my studies.
Between school, home life and homework, I have a hard time trying to write creatively. I write on the weekends, on breaks, and in the summertime, but sometimes I feel that it is not enough of a creative outlet for me. Hopefully, while maintaining this blog, I can set aside some time to write more frequently while still keeping up with my studies.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Carousel
Here is a small excerpt from Part 1 of one of my stories in-the-making, Carousel. You can read the entire piece here:
http://figment.com/books/204671-Carousel
http://figment.com/books/204671-Carousel
1886
"The warehouse is silent. Dust and moonlight creep in through the vents, causing the windows to dress themselves in darkness and hide from the trees whose bare arms tap at the glass. Overgrown weeds and long, silvery grasses have, over time, wrapped themselves in and around the rotting wooden boards at the base of the building.
From inside the dark, dusty halls of the building come the faint sound of a hammer. An old man sits at a makeshift workbench, hammering at a large sheet of metal. Behind him, like a large, looming shadow, is a machine cloaked in a white canvas. The man stops his work and sighs. It is well into the night, and he had planned on finishing up hours ago. He stands and studies the draped mechanical wonder, his final masterpiece before retirement. He touches the corner of the fabric, and pulls. The canvas slides off the machine like butter on a hot dish, billowing down upon him before crumpling into a heap at his feet.
There, sitting in the middle of an abandoned warehouse, was a large and beautiful carousel."
Thanks, and feel free to check back in for more later!
The Dream Catcher
http://www.teenink.com/fiction/sci_fi_fantasy/article/170649/The-Dream-Catcher/
An original story I wrote a few years back in eighth grade. Enjoy.
The old man was dead.
The boy had never seen a dead person before, but he was sure the old man in the corner was dead. His withered head lay tilted to the ceiling, with wisps of white hair plastered against his wrinkled forehead. Eyes closed, he lay lifelessly propped up against the wall, with loose, torn clothing framing his thin body. His leathery hands clutched a bright yellow satchel, the straps worn and the material faded and dirt-stained. Yes, the boy was sure. The man was quite
dead.
The windows rattled as the train began to climb a steep hill, the floor groaning in protest. The boy imagined the wheels grasping the tracks, moving forward with determination. He looked out the window, and seeing the small green valley far beneath him, crossed his fingers hard and hoped that the wheels did not give up.
The sun was setting, melting into the sea like hot wax. Wind whipped through the boy’s hair and stung his cheeks as he craned his neck to see the ocean in the far distance, the waters lit on fire as the sun sank deeper, deeper. Colors danced across the sky, bathing the earth in a warm glow as they taunted the night, refusing to give in to the impending darkness falling from above. The colors danced their way into the boy’s eyes, shimmering like glass, as he watched and wished the night would never come.
The boy turned and eyed the old man. It was noon when the boy had boarded the train, along with other noisy, dirty people. They had crammed into the tiny room, like fish into a net, shoving and sighing and complaining about anything they could think of. The man had lain sleeping, or so he thought, the entire time. Several stations later, the boy and the man were alone, as the train puffed through valleys and climbed rolling green hills, and carried them away to nowhere.
The boy noticed the satchel. It was a cheerful, canary-yellow, a bright splotch against the dirty, torn clothing that the man wore. The boy wondered why such a man was carrying such a bag, and he wondered what could be in it. The man had not stirred, and lay slumped against the wooden beams, unmoving. The boy looked around. The darkness was seeping in through the cracks in the windowsills, pounding on the walls. The boy’s heart pounded as he crept silently towards the old man, inching his way across the floor. The boards rumbled beneath his feet as he walked unsteadily, then crouched on his hands and knees beside the man.
The boy reached out and touched the bag. It was soft and worn, like a child’s blanket that has been loved to shreds. His small hands were reaching for the clasp when he heard a voice, deep and rumbling from behind him.
“Boy, what’re you doing with my bag?”
The boy spun around to face the old man, who was very much alive and sitting up. The old man watched him curiously as he fumbled for words. “I… I uh… Well, I just wanted to…” The boy stood trembling, staring at the old, “dead” man, who was waiting for him to speak. The man slowly pulled himself up against the wall and sat with his arms folded. “You wanted to see what was in my bag, did you?” The old man chuckled. “There aren’t many people who don’t. What’s your name, boy?”
“I dunno.”
“What d’ya mean, you dunno?”
“Don’t remember it.”
The boy sat down, staring warily at the old man. He was a small, frail man, all bent and twisted over. His hair and scruffy beard were white, and his eyes were a milky blue.
“Boy, how old are you?”
“Eight, I think.”
“You think?”
“Yeah.”
The man looked him over.
“A bit on the small side, are you?”
“I dunno.”
The boy glanced out the window. There was only a small slice of the sun left, the brilliant colors drowning in the ocean. The old man’s eyes grew soft.
“So you wanted to see inside my bag, did you?”
The boy nodded nervously.
“Well, I would show you, but I can’t. I can’t show anyone. If I did, they would escape.”
The boy’s eyes lit up. “What would escape?”
The old man looked around, and seeing no one, motioned for the boy to come closer. Cupping his hand to his mouth, the old man leaned in close to the boy’s head and whispered, “Why, the dreams would escape!”
The boy stared. “There ain’t such thing.”
The old man pulled back. “Ain’t such thing! See, you see this here?” He held up the satchel. “They’re all in here. All the dreams. When someone gives up on a dream, it flies away, and I catch it, see? And I put ‘em in here. All of ‘em.”
The boy inched closer. “You can’t do that. There isn’t nothing like that possible.”
The old man shook his head. “See, when a person lets go of one o’ their dreams, or when it’s killed, it flies away, right out of them, into this.” He held up the yellow bag. “And I take them with me, everywhere. I never know when I could need ‘em.”
The train whistled and began to chug down the other side of the hill. The boy gazed at the old man in wonder. “Are they heavy?”
The man laughed. “No, ‘course not. Dreams are like clouds; weightless, made of air. Here, feel this bag yourself. It feel heavy to you?” He handed the bag to the boy. The boy shifted it back and forth in his small hands, stroking the soft underside of the satchel, and feeling the lightness of it in his palms. The boy hesitated.
“What color are dreams?”
The old man sat thinking quietly for a few seconds. “Dreams are all the colors. They are any color you want them to be. They are like the wind, boy. They have no color.”
The boy sat turning this over in mind. The old man watched him silently.
“Boy, what’re you doing here all alone?”
The boy looked up. “They were taking Mama away. In a big car. Said she didn’t know how to take care of me since Papa died. I think she knew they were coming.” He bent low over the yellow satchel, one finger still gently stroking the leathery bottom of the bag. “She gave me a train ticket,” he said softly, “and some bread, and a photograph. She said to go to San Francisco, that I could maybe find somewhere there to work or somethin’.”
The old man studied him. “So you remember that but you can’t remember your own name?”
The boy looked up at him quickly, and then let out a small sigh. “My name is Sam.” He reluctantly held out the bag.
The old man nodded, and took it. “See here, Sam, this bag is all I’ve got, but it’s all I need. I’ve got everything, Sam. Everything!” The old man’s hands were shaking, but his eyes shone.
The boy stared at him. “But how come you barely even got clothes?”
The old man leaned back and smiled contentedly. “Boy, when you’re as old as I am, you find you hardly need clothes. I’ve got something no one else in the world has. I’ve got dreams, Sam. All the dead and dying dreams. But one day I’ll open this bag and let them all out, and they’ll fly all over the world, and people will have hope again.” His eyes clouded. “The world is empty of it, boy,” he whispered. “Don’t let yourself give up.”
The train began to slow, and then abruptly stopped with a long squeal as the wheels scraped against the metal tracks. The boy looked out the window, but could see nothing but darkness. The train doors opened. The boy watched as the old man slowly began to stand, wincing as he pulled himself up. He began to hobble towards the open doors. Just as he was about to step out into the freezing night air, he turned to the boy, and called, “Don’t let your dreams die, boy. Sometimes, they’re all you got.” Then, he disappeared through the doorway. The doors slammed tightly shut, and the train began to roll forward.
The room was quiet, except for the vibrating of the walls as the train began to gather speed. The lights flickered slightly. The boy looked around, and saw that he was alone.
Then something bright caught his eye. He turned to see the yellow bag, lying on the floor. The boy looked at it for a moment, and began to move towards it. Taking it in his hands, he caressed it, and began to reach for the faded metal clasp. He stopped, and old man’s words echoed in his mind, “One day I’ll open this bag and let them all out, and they’ll fly all over the world, and people will have hope again.” The boy hesitated, and then undid the clasp. He pulled the top open, and peered eagerly inside. But he saw nothing except the bottom of the satchel, the seams ripping at the corners.
Disappointed, he closed the bag and threw it aside. He sat for a moment with his arms folded over his knees, lost in thought.
But suddenly, he was filled with hope. He could make it to San Francisco. He would somehow find his mother again. He would survive. The boy reached into his pocket and withdrew a black and white photograph, staring at the three smiling faces until they were carved into his memory. He placed it inside the yellow bag, and snapped it shut. Glancing outside, he knew that soon the dawn would break, and that the dark night sky would begin to lighten, and the glinting stars slowly burn out one by one.
He barely had a future. But he had all the dreams to last a lifetime.
An original story I wrote a few years back in eighth grade. Enjoy.
The old man was dead.
The boy had never seen a dead person before, but he was sure the old man in the corner was dead. His withered head lay tilted to the ceiling, with wisps of white hair plastered against his wrinkled forehead. Eyes closed, he lay lifelessly propped up against the wall, with loose, torn clothing framing his thin body. His leathery hands clutched a bright yellow satchel, the straps worn and the material faded and dirt-stained. Yes, the boy was sure. The man was quite
Photo credit: Sandy H., Woodbridge, CT
The windows rattled as the train began to climb a steep hill, the floor groaning in protest. The boy imagined the wheels grasping the tracks, moving forward with determination. He looked out the window, and seeing the small green valley far beneath him, crossed his fingers hard and hoped that the wheels did not give up.
The sun was setting, melting into the sea like hot wax. Wind whipped through the boy’s hair and stung his cheeks as he craned his neck to see the ocean in the far distance, the waters lit on fire as the sun sank deeper, deeper. Colors danced across the sky, bathing the earth in a warm glow as they taunted the night, refusing to give in to the impending darkness falling from above. The colors danced their way into the boy’s eyes, shimmering like glass, as he watched and wished the night would never come.
The boy turned and eyed the old man. It was noon when the boy had boarded the train, along with other noisy, dirty people. They had crammed into the tiny room, like fish into a net, shoving and sighing and complaining about anything they could think of. The man had lain sleeping, or so he thought, the entire time. Several stations later, the boy and the man were alone, as the train puffed through valleys and climbed rolling green hills, and carried them away to nowhere.
The boy noticed the satchel. It was a cheerful, canary-yellow, a bright splotch against the dirty, torn clothing that the man wore. The boy wondered why such a man was carrying such a bag, and he wondered what could be in it. The man had not stirred, and lay slumped against the wooden beams, unmoving. The boy looked around. The darkness was seeping in through the cracks in the windowsills, pounding on the walls. The boy’s heart pounded as he crept silently towards the old man, inching his way across the floor. The boards rumbled beneath his feet as he walked unsteadily, then crouched on his hands and knees beside the man.
The boy reached out and touched the bag. It was soft and worn, like a child’s blanket that has been loved to shreds. His small hands were reaching for the clasp when he heard a voice, deep and rumbling from behind him.
“Boy, what’re you doing with my bag?”
The boy spun around to face the old man, who was very much alive and sitting up. The old man watched him curiously as he fumbled for words. “I… I uh… Well, I just wanted to…” The boy stood trembling, staring at the old, “dead” man, who was waiting for him to speak. The man slowly pulled himself up against the wall and sat with his arms folded. “You wanted to see what was in my bag, did you?” The old man chuckled. “There aren’t many people who don’t. What’s your name, boy?”
“I dunno.”
“What d’ya mean, you dunno?”
“Don’t remember it.”
The boy sat down, staring warily at the old man. He was a small, frail man, all bent and twisted over. His hair and scruffy beard were white, and his eyes were a milky blue.
“Boy, how old are you?”
“Eight, I think.”
“You think?”
“Yeah.”
The man looked him over.
“A bit on the small side, are you?”
“I dunno.”
The boy glanced out the window. There was only a small slice of the sun left, the brilliant colors drowning in the ocean. The old man’s eyes grew soft.
“So you wanted to see inside my bag, did you?”
The boy nodded nervously.
“Well, I would show you, but I can’t. I can’t show anyone. If I did, they would escape.”
The boy’s eyes lit up. “What would escape?”
The old man looked around, and seeing no one, motioned for the boy to come closer. Cupping his hand to his mouth, the old man leaned in close to the boy’s head and whispered, “Why, the dreams would escape!”
The boy stared. “There ain’t such thing.”
The old man pulled back. “Ain’t such thing! See, you see this here?” He held up the satchel. “They’re all in here. All the dreams. When someone gives up on a dream, it flies away, and I catch it, see? And I put ‘em in here. All of ‘em.”
The boy inched closer. “You can’t do that. There isn’t nothing like that possible.”
The old man shook his head. “See, when a person lets go of one o’ their dreams, or when it’s killed, it flies away, right out of them, into this.” He held up the yellow bag. “And I take them with me, everywhere. I never know when I could need ‘em.”
The train whistled and began to chug down the other side of the hill. The boy gazed at the old man in wonder. “Are they heavy?”
The man laughed. “No, ‘course not. Dreams are like clouds; weightless, made of air. Here, feel this bag yourself. It feel heavy to you?” He handed the bag to the boy. The boy shifted it back and forth in his small hands, stroking the soft underside of the satchel, and feeling the lightness of it in his palms. The boy hesitated.
“What color are dreams?”
The old man sat thinking quietly for a few seconds. “Dreams are all the colors. They are any color you want them to be. They are like the wind, boy. They have no color.”
The boy sat turning this over in mind. The old man watched him silently.
“Boy, what’re you doing here all alone?”
The boy looked up. “They were taking Mama away. In a big car. Said she didn’t know how to take care of me since Papa died. I think she knew they were coming.” He bent low over the yellow satchel, one finger still gently stroking the leathery bottom of the bag. “She gave me a train ticket,” he said softly, “and some bread, and a photograph. She said to go to San Francisco, that I could maybe find somewhere there to work or somethin’.”
The old man studied him. “So you remember that but you can’t remember your own name?”
The boy looked up at him quickly, and then let out a small sigh. “My name is Sam.” He reluctantly held out the bag.
The old man nodded, and took it. “See here, Sam, this bag is all I’ve got, but it’s all I need. I’ve got everything, Sam. Everything!” The old man’s hands were shaking, but his eyes shone.
The boy stared at him. “But how come you barely even got clothes?”
The old man leaned back and smiled contentedly. “Boy, when you’re as old as I am, you find you hardly need clothes. I’ve got something no one else in the world has. I’ve got dreams, Sam. All the dead and dying dreams. But one day I’ll open this bag and let them all out, and they’ll fly all over the world, and people will have hope again.” His eyes clouded. “The world is empty of it, boy,” he whispered. “Don’t let yourself give up.”
The train began to slow, and then abruptly stopped with a long squeal as the wheels scraped against the metal tracks. The boy looked out the window, but could see nothing but darkness. The train doors opened. The boy watched as the old man slowly began to stand, wincing as he pulled himself up. He began to hobble towards the open doors. Just as he was about to step out into the freezing night air, he turned to the boy, and called, “Don’t let your dreams die, boy. Sometimes, they’re all you got.” Then, he disappeared through the doorway. The doors slammed tightly shut, and the train began to roll forward.
The room was quiet, except for the vibrating of the walls as the train began to gather speed. The lights flickered slightly. The boy looked around, and saw that he was alone.
Then something bright caught his eye. He turned to see the yellow bag, lying on the floor. The boy looked at it for a moment, and began to move towards it. Taking it in his hands, he caressed it, and began to reach for the faded metal clasp. He stopped, and old man’s words echoed in his mind, “One day I’ll open this bag and let them all out, and they’ll fly all over the world, and people will have hope again.” The boy hesitated, and then undid the clasp. He pulled the top open, and peered eagerly inside. But he saw nothing except the bottom of the satchel, the seams ripping at the corners.
Disappointed, he closed the bag and threw it aside. He sat for a moment with his arms folded over his knees, lost in thought.
But suddenly, he was filled with hope. He could make it to San Francisco. He would somehow find his mother again. He would survive. The boy reached into his pocket and withdrew a black and white photograph, staring at the three smiling faces until they were carved into his memory. He placed it inside the yellow bag, and snapped it shut. Glancing outside, he knew that soon the dawn would break, and that the dark night sky would begin to lighten, and the glinting stars slowly burn out one by one.
He barely had a future. But he had all the dreams to last a lifetime.
Links to a few stories
Here are links to a few of my stories that I have posted online, either to Teen Ink or Figment. I have many more, and I am writing more all the time, but here are a few for now:
http://figment.com/books/204671-Carousel
http://www.teenink.com/fiction/realistic_fiction/article/125946/Seashells/
http://www.teenink.com/fiction/all/article/156915/The-Decision/
http://figment.com/books/204671-Carousel
http://www.teenink.com/fiction/realistic_fiction/article/125946/Seashells/
http://www.teenink.com/fiction/all/article/156915/The-Decision/
My First Post
My name is Brooke Becker. I am a 16-year old author, and I have decided to start my own blog. This blog will mainly be about my writings, my life, my observations, and will follow me as I pursue my passions and interests. I hope to connect with other people, to share my creativity, and to influence others in a positive way.
In this first post, I will share a bit about myself and my interests. I write short stories, poetry, and fiction. I am currently trying my hand at screenwriting, and am loving it as well. I also love art (whether it be painting, drawing, scrapbooking, etc.), acting (both film and stage), reading, and fashion. In this blog I will be focusing on my writing, though, and will occasionally add bits and pieces of my other works and creative outlets.
Please follow me as I enter the world of blogging!
In this first post, I will share a bit about myself and my interests. I write short stories, poetry, and fiction. I am currently trying my hand at screenwriting, and am loving it as well. I also love art (whether it be painting, drawing, scrapbooking, etc.), acting (both film and stage), reading, and fashion. In this blog I will be focusing on my writing, though, and will occasionally add bits and pieces of my other works and creative outlets.
Please follow me as I enter the world of blogging!
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