Haiku Week Number Two

Another haiku I wrote. Sometimes doing something smaller and simpler is more difficult then writing long sprawling epics. I hope you enjoy it.

Roses by Matti McLean

A rose grows from dirt
It reaches towards the sky
But stops half way

Pellet

So this was one I wrote regarding a point of view storyline. I was inspired by a Perry Bible Fellowship storyline and just had to write about it.

Pellet - POV

Stay crunchy. Stay sweet. Always fight.

It's never too late for us.

Living in darkness for a brief shot at a greater battle. Our time will come. Piles upon piles of us wait. Our bodies stuffed to the gills, piled as high as the dome of the plastic overhead. The battle draws near.

We feel a shifting on the outside and our bodies are flung from side to side of the massive vessel. We can feel churning outside as we're shaken, moved, hit and flung without any regard to our own safety. The mighty forces beyond our control are judge and jury to our fate. No signs of light. Night, day and everything in between have no place here. We can feel the battle coming, and when it does, we shall be victorious. Time has no meaning here.

It happens. Early one morning, what we assume to be morning, the skies part. Our world is flung upside down as dozens of soldiers pour out into the unknown world. They're never seen again but their memory is seared upon the thoughts of every kernel in this cardboard nightmare. We know that soon we shall follow them and patiently await our time to fight.

It could take hours, days, weeks before it happens again, but time after time the sky bursts open and more and more soldiers are lost to the great beyond. Only a handful remain but time is running short.

It happens. The last remaining soldiers are flung out of the safety of the box and into a cold porcelain arena where we must contest for our lives. The dust of our fallen allies lines the bowl and spurns our anger ever further.

“We shall fight!” I call and rally the broken shells of the soldiers. What's left of us will fight. We will not go down soggy.

The milk descends upon us like a tsunami and soon we can no longer stand. Our buoyant bodies forced upwards by the sharp current of the terrible liquid that is desperate to consume us. We fight with everything that is left within us. We shall not lose after coming this far.

A terrible cry as the milk penetrates the soldiers, but I shall not give in. Time is not on our side, and soon the spoon has come to liberate the soldiers from the struggle and bring them to the place from which no kernel returns. They fight with every fibre of their being, but the struggle is too much for them.

The battle rages for a measureless period of time, and we fight with all our might; but alas, in the end it is all for naught. I am the last of my kind surrounded in a liquid sea of my enemies. I fight until my body is too soggy to move and bloated from the struggle.

The hardness of the silver spoon cuts through the liquid and rescues me from the struggle. I have nothing left and embrace the wet teeth of death.

Stay crunchy. Stay sweet. Always fight.

It's never too late for us.

I realize now that as I write these, I'm quickly running out of my old work from creative writing and might actually need to start producing new pieces soon...

Oy vey... pressure...

The link to the actual comic: http://pbfcomics.com/224/

A love letter to Mark Burnett from the remnants of his audience

For our sonnet project in poetry class, I decided to write about a topic that is very near and dear to my heart : What happens to a reality television show when all the excitement has vanished? Such is my debate with Survivor. The show that was once so fresh, new and relevant is now just a hulking shell of what it used to be. No ones cares about it anymore because there is nothing exciting about it. People have cracked the system. You get to find out about alliances, and see people argue and watch people do nothing of interest for days and days and days.
It's pretty pathetic all things considered.
And now that they feel the compulsion to re-include old characters who were voted off in previous seasons... it's just a hulking, massive, rotting zombie of the golden boy show it used to be.
Give me more of Australia where they really had no idea what to do, and all was fresh and unique. That would be awesome. We need another Jerri.

A love letter to Mark Burnett from the remnants of his audience
by Matti McLean

I watch them every week upon the screen
As they complain about the things they do
And wane, complaining about uncooked beans
And lying as the numbers become few.

I wonder how on earth do they survive
The tortures that they face from week to week
To test the boundaries of being alive
and test the winning tribes new lucky streak.

And now I watch as they all play their games,
and lie about the things that they will show
to get ahead, and not to see their names
appear within the palms of mighty Probst

Would I survive for thirty days upon
A film set when the audience is gone?