GaHooleone Wrote:I chose the idiom for my story. Props to anyone who knows the 3 books/movies referenced in the proposals Ms. Levitt read.

Run With It

Ms. Levitt sighed as her secretary stumbled in with yet another stack of ideas to be approved and dropped them into the ‘Proposed’ box.

Barbara Levitt was the head of Novel Novellas Inc., a well-established publishing company known for their publication of both traditional novellas and attention-grabbing trilogies. At this moment though, she was feeling more like an intern than the editor-in-chief.

“It’s him, isn’t it? That new writer we hired 3 months ago.” she asked wearily.

“Yeah, he just doesn’t know when to quit does he? Idea after idea after idea...” pants her secretary as she slumps in her chair, exhausted from carrying the heavy load of paperwork.

“Thank you, Gwen. You can take your lunch break now. I’ll start looking at these.” Ms. Levitt responded as she reached over her drained coffee mug to pull the top paper from the stack.

As Gwen the secretary began to leave for her lunch break, Ms. Levitt started sifting through the new mound of ideas presented to her by the novice writer.

“Astronauts lost on another planet with intelligent fauna...Everyman questioning beliefs in a dystopian, controlled society...Couple of migrant ranch workers who search for job opportunities during the Great Depression...Well, it’s not like we haven’t heard these before!”

“Oh, and Gwen?” Ms. Levitt called.

“Yes, Ms. Levitt?”

“On your way out, can you send the new writer to my office? I’d like to have a word with him.”

“Sure thing, Ms. Levitt.” smiled Gwen as she walked out of the office. She estimated there was about maximum one hour left until that employee lost his job.

“Looks like we’ll have another opening for the arriving college students.”
--
Eric was staring at the Wikipedia page for Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut when his boss’ secretary, Gwen, informed him that Ms. Levitt would like to see him now.

“Oh boy, this will be fun...” Eric thought, as he replied, “Sure, I’ll be there in a minute.”

When he entered the office, Eric felt his stomach flip when he noticed Ms. Levitt sifting through his proposals. Well, it’s true that 80% of the proposals were copied and pasted from Wikipedia, but that didn’t mean they weren’t quality stories, right?

“Please, come in. Have a seat.” she gestured.

As he took a seat, she asked, “I’m sorry, what was your name again? I seem to have forgotten.”

“It’s Eric, ma’am. Eric Abrahams.” he replied.

“Alright, let’s cut the carp and get straight to the point. What the hell is this?” she demanded as she waved a sheaf of the proposal sheets he had sent in.

“My...ideas, ma’am?”

“No, what the hell is with those ideas? I mean really now, ‘A youngster who is assimilated into a hyper-violent, lawless Western society is subjected to aversion therapy to forcibly become a willing law-abider?’ You just wrote down a basic plot of Anthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange! Why do you constantly copy so many well-known works of literature and try to pass them off as your own? Eric, you have Melville, Dickens, Joyce, even Dante all transcribed and paraphrased in these proposals!”

“Well, you see, it’s part of a strategy I came up with. These are my formula-for-success ideas!”

“Formula for...success? Exactly how do you do that? By copying classic works?” asked Ms. Levitt skeptically.

“That’s exactly it! What do you think, hmm?” grinned Eric as he stared at Ms. Levitt’s raised eyebrow. It was going so high in her disbelief, he thought it would disappear into her blonde hair. As a minute or so passed, Eric’s smile slowly started to slide off of his face and he sighed in defeat.

“Alright, you got me. Truth is, I haven’t been able to think of an original idea ever since I joined the company. This is my first time experiencing writer’s block, and I really have no idea how to overcome it. I’ve resorted to using well-received plots as ideas for novels, because that’s the best I can do at this point.”

“Writer’s block? That was it? Oh good, I thought it would be much worse.” Ms. Levitt sat up in her chair as she leaned over the desk.

“Eric, writer’s block happens to all of us. You don’t think Daniel Defoe or F. Scott Fitzgerald ever had writer’s block? Actually, Fitzgerald had one of the worst lives both personally and as an author, but that’s beside the point. What I’m trying to tell you is that there are many who have had the same problem as you. Try expanding your mind from reading other books. Don’t copy their books, but read them and try to understand everything about it. The plots, the themes, the symbols, these books are classics for a reason.”

Ms. Levitt began rummaging around her desk drawers until she finally pulled out a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee and handed it to Eric.

“Start with this novel and go read some others. I’ll give you a week to create some ideas. Once you’ve got a solid idea down, just run with it. Build upon that idea and turn it into a story you can feel proud of. Now go.” Ms. Levitt suggested as she turned back to her work.

Eric smiled back at her. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She looked up. “I said, leave!”

He quickly dashed out of the office, opening the book to its first chapter.
--
A week later, Gwen walked in at 11:45 with the stack of ideas and dropped them into the ‘Proposed’ box.

“Ah, hello Gwen.” Ms. Levitt said as she looked above her glasses from her copy of H.G. Welles’ War of the Worlds.

“Hello, Ms. Levitt. After that conference you held with Eric, my back has been sighing in relief. Here are the proposals for today.” replied Gwen as she turned to go back to her desk.

Ms. Levitt reached over her drained coffee mug to pull the top proposal from the stack of papers. She saw the name ‘Eric Abrahams’ on top and continued reading.

‘A struggling writer sits at his desk and wishes he could get an idea. But when ideas turn to reality, the writer finds himself struggling to stop his creativity before it’s too late.

‘Dedicated to: Ms. Barbara Levitt, Editor-in-Chief of Novel Novella Inc., for teaching me how to be a true writer.’

Ms. Levitt smiled as she dropped the draft into the ‘Accepted’ box.

YES PROCRASTINATION

Please accept it.

NoodooSoup Wrote:“Kat, you should join the football team.”

My father’s words, said while scarfing down a forkful of mashed potatoes, are laughable. But, the shock of them is apparent in the three wide-eyed faces sitting around the dinner table. Me? Join the football team? Of all the words that could be used to describe me, athlete is not one of them. Not even in tiny lettering on the bottom of the page. I don’t even know how to play football! But as my mother glances at me over her plate of delicious dinner, I know that his words are not a playful suggestion, but a serious order.

You see, my father has this ridiculous notion that his kids would, without a doubt, succeed him in his questionable footballing career (which is so proudly pictured and framed on nearly every wall in the house). And by football, I mean American Football. Tackling to the ground, shoulder padded, big guy football. Anyways, this started back when he joined the Northside High Football team, just like his two older brothers, one of which was already on the team. During the winter of his Junior year, they won the District Championship, taking the gold from Pine Prep School for the Handicapped. Not much of an honor, but he makes a big deal out of it. Since then, he’d dreamed of having a successor, he tells us. But, that’s the funny thing about nature. Instead of having a son, he was granted three daughters.

And, like I said, I’m not even remotely close to being an athlete. While my father and two sisters bonded over Sunday Night NFL, hands full of cheesy nachos, I kept to myself and watched equally cheesy Romantic Comedies. I’d occasionally sneak downstairs for some snacks, watchful of my dad’s eagle eyes, but that was it. Shouts of “Touchdown!” and “Yellow Flag!” are all that comprise of my mental database for American Football.

Naturally, as the eldest daughter, it’s expected that all the expectations of my delusional father were for me. I thought, or I’d hoped, this was the exception. Apparently not.

“I’m pretty sure they don’t allow girls on the team,” is my answer, riddled with clear discomfort and distress. At this point, my appetite has long since left me, so I just drum my fork against a pile of what used to be peas but is now just pea-mush.

“Find out.” His curt answer silences any impending oppositions for the rest of the night.

* * *

The next day at school, I queried the best person I could on our measly team’s requirements, the gym teacher. Obviously, this pudgy, five-foot-four man was not the team’s coach, but his knowledge would have to suffice. His answer was as expected.

* * *

I walk into my house and proceed straight to my room, shouting banal replies to my mother’s typical questions. My youngest sister side-eyes my quick shuffle, muttering something unintelligible. It’s to be expected.

* * *

It is precisely 7 PM when I step out of my room to use the bathroom. Duty calls, and so, I must mold my schedule to fit it. I’m only about six steps down when I catch a glimpse of my father sitting on his recliner, completely engrossed in reading today’s newspaper. That is, until I set my foot, very carefully, I must add, to the ground. This calls for a quick whip of his head and a concerned stare. Or curious. I can never tell with my father.

The good news is, from where I’m standing, I can read his newspaper’s headline. Hollywood Heartthrob Donates Kidney, reads the bold, black ink. A smiling celebrity, from the newest blockbuster film, is depicted alongside it.

“The team doesn’t allow girls.” My reply to his prying stare is rushed and filled with an underlying tone of anxiety. He gives a small nod and continues eying his paper. Safety, at last.

* * *

“I pulled some strings for you, Kat,” my father says, but I am too enthralled by today’s choice of filet mignon and steamed vegetables to take in his words. And it’s not until my sister, sweet, lovable, 12 year old Mal, kicks my foot that I do.

“What?” I choke out, air temporarily unavailable to me.

“You can try out for the team now.” Of course, the team’s coach would comply with my 6 foot 4 father’s wishes. He is a determined man, in pretty much every aspect of his life.

“Uhhh… thanks, dad,” I say with false gratitude, hoping he’s too excited to notice.

* * *

Well, today’s the day. Two weeks of inner turmoil and built-up anxiety have finally led up to this day, which I have under my calendar as “day of my impending death.”

* * *

They served macaroni, a really cheesy macaroni topped with fresh herbs, for lunch today. Or at least, that’s what the picture shows. It was more of a goopy orangy-yellow blob of weirdly shaped macaroni, but it tasted all the same. At least my final meal is a decent one.

* * *

It’s my free period, at this time of 12:43 PM, right now. I’m sitting on a big, plushy red beanbag that resides in the library’s “lounge”. In two hours, I will be heading towards a very muddy (it rained today) and sweaty death. My audience: roughly thirty or so guys that have probably just reached puberty and are in need of a shave.

Maybe I can skip it. Just stay in the library, reading a children’s book about fourteen lions, aptly titled “Fourteen Lions”. I could come home and say things like “I forgot it was today” or “I didn’t make it”. I would get some flack over it for maybe a day or two, and that’d be it. It wouldn’t be mentioned again, at least until Mal entered high school and was ready to try where I had failed.

It stays on my thoughts for the remainder of the day.

* * *

Tryouts are starting now, and here I am, standing alongside 24 teenaged boys, in the middle of a decrepit, muddy football field. The coach, a large man with a navy blue baseball cap and a noticeable farmer’s tan, lines us up, and starts separating us into shirts and skins. Of course, I am shirts, breaking his easy one-two pattern of picking.

I awkwardly stand at the rear of the field as a guy, ripped (you can tell by his lack of a shirt), kicks a football across the field. Soon, the team’s scrambling all over, desperately trying to catch the ball, splashing their newly bought white sneakers in mud and grass.

As luck would have it, the ball (can you even consider it a ball?) lands right in front of my feet. With the grace of a flying baby, I pick up the ball and just stand there, staring into the eyes of my fellow teammates. Now what?
The coach gives me a look, I can tell it’s an annoyed one, and I just shrug casually.

“Just run with it!” comes an annoyed whisper to my left. So, I do. No one bothers chasing me, out of fear of my father, or out of fear of being called a jerk for tackling a girl by the male student body. I’m almost there, until I promptly trip on my own shoelaces and fall face first into deep mud. At first, the fall is painful, but after about three seconds, the cool mud is inviting, and the cushioned ground is serene. I don’t want to get up, so I don’t. I will go down in history for lying on the football field for ten minutes during tryouts.

Needless to say, I didn’t make the team.

Shirayuki Wrote:The reasoning behind my entry is that when you run with a whirligig it starts spinning so "it" is a whirligig.

You know how whirligigs run with the wind? Yeah, this story is about them.
Today was a usual autumn day, but windier than it normally is. With all of this wind, I decided to place one of my whirligigs outside. Unfortunately, I get little to no entertainment from the windmill spinning around at high speeds. I wonder why these miniature windmills exist. Most people would say for decoration, others would say it is used to measure wind speed. I get most of my entertainment by letting the little wheel “ride the wind.” But this day was different. The little wheel was spinning the opposite direction of the wind. I disregard this and go inside my little brick house. Inside, I ask my mom what’s for dinner. Normally it would be chicken or beef, or something vague like that. But today, she said it would be pasta. We don’t eat pasta that often but when we do, it’s delicious.

After dinner I brush my teeth and sleep. But there was a strange glowing floral aura coming from the window. I get up and move the window curtains to see what was out there. I look down and see the source of this strange aura was my Whirligig.
“Run with the whirligig,” Something whispers into my ears.
“Okay,” I whisper back.
I go down my staircase and feel each and every one of the fuzzies of the carpet. I step outside barefooted and feel the rough stone. I tiptoe over to the grass and press my feet into the mud. I pick up the whirligig and race around the neighborhood with it and drop purple aura all across the ground. The more the whirligig spins, the more aura that drops. I end up lighting the neighborhood with happiness, since this neighborhood has lots of robberies, murders, and lots of other things. The night later was a calm and peaceful night.

The end.

Frieza Wrote:I stare at the paper my teacher has given to me. “This shall be the subject for your next writing assignment!” She says. “Each of you has a different subject and it must be dedicated to a very special person in your life.”

My friend Todd looks at my paper. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He asks.

“I don’t know.” I say. The subject I got was “Run With It”.

The bell rings and I pack up my things. I walk up to the teacher to ask about my subject. “Um, Mrs. Ortiz,” I ask. “What do you mean by ‘Run With It’?”

She turns from the board. “Take any subject and just run with it.” She responds.

“Come on Jonas!” Todd calls. I run over to him. “I’ve got soccer practice.” He says. I nod. “See you later!” He says and runs off.

A Few Minutes Later

I stare at the paper as I walk home. “Run with it…” I think. Then it hits me. “I know what to write about!” I think. I take off speed walking. I don’t stop until I get to my room.

I sit down at my desk and take out my pencil and paper. “I’ll write about something that inspires me!” I think. “What inspires me…” I think. Then I know. “Soccer!” I think.

I start writing. It has to be a one and a half page essay, but it only takes me about two hours to complete. “Done!” I think. “Now to present it tomorrow and get my A+!” I stretch and lay down to sleep.

The Next Day

“Alright, next up is Jonas!” Mrs. Ortiz says. I smile proudly and walk up to the center of the room.

“Who is this dedicated to?” She asks.

“My very special friend, Todd.” I respond. I see Todd smile. I then start reading.

“Since a very young age, I haven’t been able to run. I lost my leg in a terrible car accident.” I start. “I always loved the sport of soccer, but was never able to play it. I felt that I should just give up my love of soccer. Then I met Todd. The star soccer player. We became best friends. He’s inspired me to keep loving soccer. Watching him play was a privilege. I enjoyed everything that he could do…”

I finished reading the paper and looked up. I didn’t expect to see what I saw.

Todd was smiling even brighter than before. Most of the girls were crying. Mrs. Ortiz was in awe.

Then Todd starts clapping. Everyone joins in.

“That was beautiful, Jonas.” Mrs. Ortiz says with a smile.

“Thank you.” I say. “It didn’t take me awhile to know who to write about.” I wink at Todd and he winks back.

I hand in my paper and sit down.

“That was amazing!” Todd says. “I loved it! But why’d you choose me?”

“Because you’re the coolest person I’ve ever met.” I respond. “Even better than that, you’re my best friend.”

Todd smiles. “It’s my turn.” He says and gets up.

“Can’t wait.” I say.

The teacher asks who his story was about. I feel a smile spread across my face when I hear my name.