Slam'mn in Central Arkanasas

Went to a really good teacher staff development workshop this week and I've discovered that if you only read the description provided and avoid those talking basic frameworks you can find quite a few really good ones. Not many in the field of art, but plenty are available that can be connected with only a little tweaking.

Such as this one. It was about creativity and how to inspire, teach, encourage, develop...you get the idea. Presented by the audacious W. Clayton Scott, Arkansas poet and high class poetry slammer, it was one of the best yet. Anyway, he made all of us teaches write a couplet about what we love about teaching and what we hate about teaching. Every poem I heard was an absolute gem. Here's mine:

Teaching into time

The time it takes to plan my day

steals my life; eliminates play.

Those bright eyes that question each remark

make me labor until way past dark.

The bells that tone, the kids who scream,

add texture to this walking dream.

I long for summer, for class's end,

only to plan once more to begin.

My days are full of laughter and tears;

I count the hours, but treasure the years.

So there you go! Read poetry out loud. It is sooo much better that way.

A Moment Ago

A screenplay.

Int.Scene-Description

The front yard. It's a wooded area with lots of pines and several large oaks. There is a metal post near the largest oak tree and from one side hangs a small cage with a square of molded birdseed inside. From the other side a large square of molded corn dangles from a bungee cord. The sound of a wind chime is in the distance.

Timothy

What's that? Do you hear something? I hear something. Let's go, Georgie. C'mon, let's go now.

Georgie

Inna minute. I'm not done yet.

Timothy

Meat gets done. We finish. I'm finished. And it's time you finished. C'mon, let's go. It's getting creepy out here.

Shot-Description

A close-up of the large oak next to the bird feeder shows black feathers and long talons clinging to the lowest branches.

Timothy

Geeeeoorgie. Leeeet'sss go. That noise is freaking me out.

Ext. Scene-Description

The bird's claws disappear from the branch and reappear on the square of corn. A wider shot shows the bird hanging from the corn square upside down.

Georgie

This is very good. Look Timothy! Im an acrobat like in the Cirque du Soleil. I'm eatin' and entertain'n all at the same time. Look at me! I'm king of the world! I'm, I'm.....

Timothy

You're a dolt, that's what you are. I see a shadow over there. Can't you see that? Bye, bye, dogface, I'm outta here.

Ext. Scene - Description

The first bird flies away with great flaps of wings while the second gives several loud caws in his direction. His caws create momentum on his upside down perch and he tumbles, landing on his feet in the soft dirt below.

Georgie

Ta Da! HAHAHAHhahaHAHAHAHAHhhaha!

Ext. Scene-Description

The view swings to the porch where an orange tabby cat lounges against the railings. He yawns and one lone paw drifts between the rails.

TAFFY

Stupid birds. "TaDa, TaDa, TaDa." (high voice) "I'm an AK-ROW-BAT..I'm king of the world!" Stupid bird.

Ext. Scene-Description

A shadow falls across the porch, darkening the cat's lounging area. The last crow takes off with great leaping strides into the air, flapping wings barely grazing several low hanging limbs. The cat, suddenly aware of a disturbance, twists around to avoid the knife, now quivering pointy-end down in the porch's wooden planks. He scrambles off the porch and dashes to a hiding place beneath the porch. The yard is now silent. We hear no bird calls, no wind chime to break the silence, only a belabored rasp of breath and the creak of the wooden slats as the knife is removed.

Peter

Hmmmm. I missed. How unforunate.

Ext. Scene-Description

We see the back of someone, or something large, as it eases into a cheap plastic lawn chair. It's wearing dirty pants that may have once been jeans and a dark blood red t-shirt with sweat patterns permanently etched into the cotton. The back of the head reveals dirty hair, matted and with streaks of color, the kind a pre-teen would use, bright fushia and lime green. The woven plastic of the lawn chair sags with the weight placed in it. Bits of clothing peek through the woven strips of blue.

Peter

I can't believe I missed. I should be punished.

Ext. Scene-Description

Our view pulls back as the shadows grow darker. Silhouetted on the porch, the figure in the lawn chair holds up his left hand and using the knife, deftly slices off the top of his middle finger. It falls to the porch, rolls between the wooden boards, and drops to the soft earth below.

Taffy

Yes!

Ext. Scene-Description

We see a flash of orange as the cat jumps from his hiding place to grab the tasty morsel. He runs toward the trees carrying the still seeping partial digit in his mouth. Bits of flesh and blood drop onto the lawn and splatter his soft fur. Caws of warning overhead do not deter the cat's progress from under the porch to the openness of the yard.

Peter

Oh, yes.

Ext. Scene-Description

The dark figure stands and waves. Droplets from his bleeding finger stain the wooden slats, decorate the bushes with ornamental orbs and sizzle wherever they strike. The cat runs. The cat runs with the meaty finger into the darkness of the yard. One of the crows dives toward the cat, trying to snatch the tidbit from the cat's mouth. As the darkness swallows the cat, the finger and the giant crow, a loud burp, akin to a thunderclap is heard. The bird feeder shakes, dropping hundreds of kernels of corn upon the ground. A faint smoke or a grey mist wafts away, dissipating in the pines. The cat and his prize are gone. Laying on the grass under the bird feeder, amidst the scattered corn is one black feather, the tip glowing red in the twilight.

The figure on the porch stands up and gives a sharp whistle. Out from under the quince bush comes the orange cat. He stalks to the porch and with very little ceremony, drops the saliva drenched fingertip on the top step. He waits, tail twitching.

Peter

Oh, oh yes. That will do just fine.

Ext. Scene-Description

The figure picks up his missing digit and with hot, stinky breath he sticks it back onto his filthy hand, licking around the edges sealing it on. Now it is cleaner at the wound site than under the fingernail.

Peter

(Nods) You understand, right? Eatn', that's an okay thing. Entertain'n, that's another. (deep breath)

Mock'n. That's bad, you know it's bad, a bad thing. (deep breath) You been told.

But missin' your mark - an easy mark - or stealin'...those two things, they're just wrong. It'll get you punished. Punished. Each and every time.

Ext. Scene-Description

The dark figure turns, shuffles into the house. The cat waits, tail twitching. Then he turns. A small gray squirrel is picking up the kernels of corn one after another, cramming as many into his cheeks as possible. Seeing the cat, he stops still as a statue. Nervous, he drops several kernels of corn.

Taffy

Missing some kernels, eh? But not stealing, are we? No, I certainly hope not. Because that would be wrong. That would get you punished.....

Timothy

Run, Eddie, RUN!

Ext.Scene-Description

There is a flash of fluffy, furry tail, a glimpse of black feathers. The orange cat settles on the warm step for a nap. A moment ago, the woods grew silent with only the sound of the wind chime interrupting the breeze. Alone in the house, he waits.

Silverthreads and the Twenty-Three Passwords

A short story.

Silverthreads is sitting quietly at her computer busily surfing the net, when suddenly in the midst of downloading email, the colorful 17" diameter screen blinks at her and demands that the password for the email connection be re-entered into the small box provided.

This is not an easy request for poor Silverthreads as this particular mailbox originated several years ago when both she and the internet were much younger. Times were simple then. No one cared what your private password was, no one sought it out, no one, not even your spouse, cared enough to write it down. It was entered once, when an account was set up, and then easily forgotten, inscribed in binary language somewhere in the bowels of the most recent Chip.

Chip is usually quite handy, like Batman's butler Alfred. He always has just the right word for the right site within his grasp and serves it up nattily, without fanfare. Not this time. Apparently the email site is undergoing some sort of traumatic overhaul and needs the owner of the account to actually Do Something. Chip is only the hired help, after all.

Chip is also not cooperating. Where is the damn thing? He can't find it! He pretends he never knew it in the first place. A new tab opens the home page of the email account. (At least he remembers how to navigate the net.)

After several tries, the account decides for Silverthreads. "Let's just create a new password, plug it where it needs to be and be done with it."

The first word she types is the word she uses EVERYWHERE. She knows this is NOT SAFE, but this is a word she can easily pluck from her mind and, besides, it's easy to type.

"Weak," says the account software. "Recommend using capital letters and numbers."

The second try. "Too Short," says the account software. "Must be at least 8 letters or more."

The third try. "This password is already in use," says the account software. Huh? How in the world could someone else have used Silverthreads'  favorite stuffed animal's name spelled like she pronounced it when she was three?

Unlike Goldilocks who only had to test three chairs and three bowls and three beds in order to find the one that was just right, Silverthreads tests twenty-three passwords before she finds one that fits. It has more than 8 letters, two capital letters and a number to make a word. The word isn't one often noticed around Silverthreads' home. It isn't the name of the dog or of the cat. It isn't a favorite toy or the maiden name of grandma's great-grandmother.

It's a word that was lying there on the desk all the time. In plain view. It's a word that should please good ole Chip. It's a word that even the most picky of all email accounts can love. It's a word that can be used again and again on all sorts of Internet accounts; it's just that good.

 It's a word that Silverthreads has already forgotten. Lucky for her, she has a little notebook labeled PassW0rds. Lucky for her, she wrote it down.