HERE - Worcester Think Tank

FILAMENT(abridged)
No. One – March, 2012
Literary Elements From Think Tank's Creative Writing Class
Now, I Can Write
My quill brushes the paper as the
characters become alive. Pause. I must sip
my tea. Sigh. What to write next? Where
is Alfred? Alfred, my extremely old butler,
waddles into the room. Alfred is who I
usually take my frustration out on.
“More tea!” I fling my empty tea
cup at him. Alfred, startled, topples over
backward, barely catching the cup. I laugh
maniacally. I readjust my monocle. Seeing
the old man fall comforts me, but not
enough to get rid of my writer's block. I
take a long puff from my pipe. Hannibal,
my cat, jumps into my lap. Alfred trots
over with a tray.
“Your tea, sir.”
Tea, a pipe, a monocle, and a cat.
Ah, now I can write.
Nori Needle
WorcesterAreaThinkTank.com
Welcome to the first edition of
FILAMeNT (abridged), a literary
publication produced by Think Tank's
Creative Writing class. In this issue we
focus on thematic micro-fiction; a
work of fiction (prose or poetry) where
the author is challenged to write about
a specific theme with a defined word
count. Our theme, in an open-ended
fashion, is writer's block.
I had nothing, nothing to call my own, and
nothing to record with. Nothing but stone.
Allow me to recollect from the beginningmy
name is Hernando, I am the last left.
The others fell from malnourishment and
dehydration, but not myself. Then some
were taken away, to places I do not want to
fathom or understand. The only thing that
sees me through this time is that my story,
my people's story, has not yet been told.
We were a proud, prosperous people who
lived in tranquility- ignorance, but a
blissful ignorance that none wanted to end.
Then the foreigners came. They promised
to leave us be, but like all of their kind they
betrayed us. That is all I have time for,
Goodbye.
Carston Anderson
The word, I lost that damn word. It was perfect. My story can not continue with out it. It fit so
well and I lost it... Distracted by the barking of a dog. There's no point in continuing now. I
can't proceed until I have that word, it will make my whole book. I shut my laptop, barely
remembering to be gentle in my annoyance, and stand. I walk out my door and down the
street, hoping that my word will come back. The birds are singing, the sky is blue, the spring air
smells fresh and new. Wait, what am I thinking? I am not a poet. Then, my word, it's come back
to me! I run home, open my laptop and type,
defenestration.
Sierra Sasser

He sits and he’s thinking
He sat and he thought
Word play and wonder:
He thinks of a wall
In depth with describing
In deep to describe
He’s one to cool writer
Cause he’s got the vibe
But a wall is for blocking
So block a wall must
So the poor crazy writer
Is left in the dust
Without a pen and his paper:
For they are long gone
Blocked on the wrong side
Of his humungous new wall
Now there’s no writing,
Can’t edit or publish
So:
Quick! Crazy writer!
Think some new thoughts
‘Cause without your utensils
Your cause is all lost!
But he’s crazed for a reason
And he’s got a big mind
So he brainwaves a sledge-hammer
The ginormicous kind
Mariah Friesz
She tapped the pencil on her hand; the table, the empty
paper. She stared blankly at the sheet.
Taking the paper she folded it twice with
symmetrical lines, stood up, and put it in her pocket.
Outside, she hesitated then walked onto a path lined
with thorn-bushes. She brushed against one; a corner of the
paper tore. She didn’t notice.
She wandered to an icy river where tufts of frozen
grass stood on the shoreline. She absentmindedly picked
some grass, twisted the blades into a circle and tied them
off with a piece of the paper torn from her pocket.
She continued, adding different things; leaves, twigs,
paper. She returned to the table and emptied her pocket to
discover the paper was now a snowflake.
Joseph had writers block, he got it often.
He did what he usually did and went
outside. Pacing around the yard Joseph
tried to think of ideas. To his dismay it
started to rain. He ran to the house and
realized his electric locks had locked him
out. Joseph peered in an open window and
saw the key just a few feet away. He
grabbed for it and accidentally knocked it
off of the table. Cursing to himself he went
back and kicked the door in anger.
Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, from
out of the blue, he was struck by a bolt of
lightning. He had miraculously survived
and his writer's block was gone. He just
had to find a way back into the house.
End…
Mariah Frisez
Joshua Frisbie
Published at:
Formatted and Edited by:
Worcester Area Think Tank LLC Sierra Sasser and Adam Morrison Zelny
36 Harlow St
Worcester, MA 01605 Illustration by Mariah Friesz
Ph. 508-757-8265