The Curiosity Tree

Write the most random sentence you can. Then make a story from it.

The sentence: The tree sits pink out the neighbor’s window.


The tree sits pink out the neighbor’s window. Everyday the tree does its own thing, pink out the neighbor’s window, red hanging from the power lines, teal at the bus stop, clear upside down on the roof. It was even polka dot once, and another time, it was in my shower! It was normal green then, I guess being in my shower was weird enough. Sometimes, I don’t see the tree at all. That must be when it’s in the neighbors’ showers, or doing their dishes or watching TV. I’ve never actually seen it do those things, I just assume, after all, it was in my shower. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen the tree do anything. I’ve never even seen it move, except in the wind. Sure I’ve seen it different places, but how did it get there? How did it leave? And how did it get in my bathroom? I lock the doors and close the windows and there weren’t any tree tracks anywhere. Do trees even make tracks? It’s all so weird. But I don’t complain, even when the tree sits in my shower I don’t complain. You know why? Because every once in a while, the tree goes back where it belongs, back to its spot, out on the lawn, the entrance to our apartment complex. And I know the pattern. When the landlord comes, the tree behaves. No longer curious, no longer on adventures, not suspicious, no getting into trouble, nothing out of the ordinary. Like a sixth sense, the tree knows, every time the tree knows. And that works for me, my very own landlord warning system.


Put on a Smile

Inspired by my previous entry, here is another poem, from another timed exercise.


Once there was a girl named Jill.
She swang and she sung and she liked to twirl.
She also danced, she danced a lot,
and when she got tired she sat on her butt.

But that was not often, as dancing she loved.
It lets her feel free, she glows from above.
Dancing’s the best, makes her feel alive,
doesn’t matter if it’s swing or salsa or hip hop or jive.

But dancing is gone, it’s not what she does.
She goes to the factory, where she puts on her gloves.
Operating machinery each and every day,
her love for dance, she keeps it at bay.

Because you have to make money, you must pay your bills,
and so what if the result is your soul being killed.
You have to work hard, earn money, play that game,
You can always save dancing for another day.

And should that day pass, well what can you do?
You can pout, you can cry, you can go boo-hoo-hoo.
Or you can be strong and be tough, don’t get yourself down,
pretend you’re okay even though your soul has been drowned.

Put on a smile, let people think you’re just fine,
as you drift through your life, miserable all of the time.
Put on a smile, let people think you feel good,
as you toss and you turn, can’t sleep because of your mood.

Put on a smile, each and every day,
only you will know the sad life you’ve made.
Put on a smile, all the way to your grave,
where everyone can say what a great life you made.

Story of Tim

The timed exercise. Write non-stop for ten/twenty/thirty minutes (I don’t remember, I did this one a while ago). Keep your hand moving. Don’t cross out. Don’t worry about spelling, punctuation, or grammar. Lose control, don’t think, and go for the jugular.


Once upon a time, there was a boy named Tim.
He walked and he walked, he walked on four limbs.
He did this because he was only two years old,
Even though it wasn’t what he was told.
People said “walk upright, it’s time to grow up!”,
but Tim walked on all fours and showed them his butt.
They said “it’s time to grow up, stop being a baby!”,
Tim said “Ef you and ef me and give me a lady.”

Twenty years later and Tim was twenty-two.
Where he felt most comfortable was at the zoo.
He wasn’t an animal, he walked correct now,
but more than people or persons he connected with cows.
People are mean, always pushy and bossing around.
Animals are nice, they are sweet, and they don’t make a sound.
People are stupid, they are grumpy, they think they’re so smart.
Animals don’t care, they stay quiet, they sit around and fart.

Twenty years later and Tim is forty-two.
He misses the cows who only say moo.
He has a job now; he’s square as can be.
He only has freedom when he goes to go pee.
In the bathroom, alone, he can be free, be himself,
not some puppet striving for plaques on a shelf.
In the bathroom is where Tim is free to be free,
not some faker loser who stings like a bee.

Twenty years later and Tim is sixty-two.
Now he goes around, creates lots of hullabaloo.
He quit his job, got out of that life.
He juggles chainsaws now, swords an axe and a knife.
He performs on the street, crowds love what they see.
Tim does what he loves, and that is the key.
Crowds give Tim their money, at most dollar bills.
It is not too much, Tim can’t buy his pills.
But now Tim feels great, no pills does he need,
his life is fulfilled, his soul has been freed.
He even got lucky, met the girl of his dreams.
He takes her home where she moans and she screams.

Now it’s Tim’s last twenty and he’s eighty-two.
Twenty more years, that just won’t do.
Tim is old now, juggling hurts his arms,
it’s taken its toll and he has lots of scars.
He’s still married though, still happy, still free.
He lies in his bed, dies at eighty-three.
His wife stays behind, she’s sad, still alive,
she’ll never forget this magical guy.
Who followed his heart, never fit with the rest,
and that’s what made him his very best.
That’s the story of Tim, the story’s at an end.
If you feel like you know him, I hope he’s your friend.