Creativity Exercise 4 (The Springfield Paper, a football stadium, observational learning)

Object: The Springfield Paper (A weekly paper published in Springfield, Ohio and Clark County, Ohio)
Place: Pittodrie Stadium (A football stadium located in Aberdeen, Scotland)
Other: Observational Learning

It is well known that an employee must always rise to his level of incompetence and so it was with the editor of the Springfield Paper, one of those men who chomped on a cigarette while giving order and trying to smack the secretaries ass. I remember well him first explaining this hair brained plan to me. See, he was a great believer in sports stories for some reason. I always felt like a town the size of ours really didn't worry to much about that sort of thing. Besides the local high school we didn't really have a sports team and most people got on fine without one. But at the time he was full of new ideas and this was one of them. Cover an international sports event, he said. Cover football. Everyone loves football. This is America, and in America we love our football. And then he'd continued on with some patriotic idiocy that made me feel like he'd taken leave of his senses.

And so I ended up in Aberdeen, sitting in the stadium watching a soccer game. I suppose nobody ever told my boss they don't play football in Scotland, and he just assumed that if the game was called football then it was American football. I sighed. I didn't watch much soccer and had only the vaguest notion of what was going on. Besides, it was raining, and cold, and who in there right mind wanted to watch a bunch of grown men chase a checkered ball around a field. Oh, and reporting. Lets not forget about the reporting.

The reporting pretty much consisted of writing down goals and trying to learn what the hell was going on. Which I was rather unsuccessful at, I will admit. I understood the whole teams try to score goals bit, but many of the fouls seemed rather unnecessary to me. I left the stadium feeling considerably confused.

I wrote my report on the flight back, and it was on the editors desk first thing in the morning. He called me in later in the day. "Will," he said, "I can't publish this drivel. Your supposed to be the crack sports reporter. But you haven't even recorded how much yardage everyone ran. Or how many touchdowns were made." He gave a snort. "Queer sort of reporting you've done. For instance, how could the score possibly be 3-1. Were there no touchdowns at all? Are the Scottish such pansies that they can't get touchdowns or did you just screw it up? Well?"

He gave me the "I'm the boss and you'd better fucking explain if you still want a job" look. I was speechless. Of course there were no touchdowns. It was a game of soccer. So I said so. "Will," the editor said, "I want no truck with soccer. A game for ladies and little boys. I sent you to watch a football game." So I tried again. I tried to convince him that football and soccer were the same game in Scotland. "But Will," he said, "Then what do they call football there? This stories got more holes in it then that smelly French cheese. Write it properly you idiot. Clearly you went to the wrong field or something. Dumbass."

I was speechless. He shoved my article back on me and shook his head. "Should never have sent you in the first place. What do you know about international reporting anyways? Should have gone mmyself." He shook his head sadly. "And such an expense to the paper to, sending you all that way for nothing. You had best revise that article, and revise it now." He pushed me out of his office and slammed the door.

About a week later, the Springfield Paper published an article about a football game in Scotland. There running back had apparently played very well and both teams had scored several touchdowns. There was also, rather curiously, a rather high number of penalties in the game. But everyone in town thought it was one of the most interesting articles the paper had published in a long time. They especially liked the part where it was pointed out that any American football team could have easily beaten the Scottish at a game of football.

Creativity Excerise 3 (Granta Park, moth, For All Practical Purposes)

Place: Granta Park (a science, technology, and biopharmaceutical park located near Cambridge, England
Object: Coleophora alniella (A moth common to North America which eats leaves)
Other: For All Practical Purposes (A scientific statement indicating that something has always been observed as true, even though it can not be proved true)

The windows of Abington Hall glinted in the sunlight as the cricket players ran about on the green in front of it. Dr.Powers watched the men chase the small ball across the green while another man jogged about, cheered on by a small crowd of students and men taking a small break. "A break of their senses," Powers thought irritably. He had never had much time for cricket, or for any such frivolous games. After all, he was a man of science, and it is well known that men of science must leave off everything for the pursuit of knowledge. He still took his exercise to be sure, a brisk walk in the morning to wake up the mind in the fresh air of the park. But even on these walks Powers considered his research, looking at the morning clouds and whispering trees for inspiration in his work.

Powers checked his watch and make as tsking sound. His colleague was late. The man had been pestering him for weeks now, something about a moth and the universe. Powers snorted. Probably some nonsense about butterfly wings and hurricanes. How the scientific community let such beliefs still stand was unthinkable. String theory was all well and good, but people always took these things too literally. A metaphor became scientific fact and the general population ended up believing the stupidest things. And was it not up to the scientific community to set them right again? Powers certainly thought so, but their was little he could do to sway public opinion.

Powers' colleague arrived and it can be accurately said that Powers' colleague was nothing like Powers himself. For while Powers wore a suit and slacks and shoes which had been shined that morning, his colleague had none of this professional attire. Dressed in a button up shirt and jeans, Powers' colleague seemed all disarray and confusion, and spent several moments sitting down, an event which Powers watched with no amusement whatsoever. "Dr.Young," Powers said, extending his hand with a ever so slight grimace on his face, "How are you today?"

Dr.Young, who had finally managed to be seated, stared at Powers' hand for a moment before seeming to suddenly realize he was supposed to shake it. "Dr.Powers," Young said with a smile, "Quite well thank you, and yourself?" Young shook Dr.Powers hand rather vigorously.

Powers extracted his hand from Young's. "All right," Powers said, "It is a nice enough day to sit in the park." Dr.Young looked around, as if for the first time noticing he was in a park at all. "Yes, quite," Young murmured and then immediately pulled a cage onto the table. Inside it a pair of small gray moths fluttered around somewhat frantically. Upon placing the cage on the table, the moths settled again. Young then began to dig around in his back, muttering quietly to himself.

Powers stared at the moths in the cage. They looked like garden variety moths to him, but then he knew little about moths. His specialization was electronics, not insects, and he had no great love of moths in general. Annoying creatures really, which served no useful purpose save to fly into fragile equipment and get electrocuted. He glanced back at Young, who had extracted a strange looking device from his bag and was hurriedly connecting wires to it. It had six wheels and a circuit board with a CPU and some ram on it as a chassis. A great many wires ran off the thing and it was to these that Young was connecting things. Probes mostly, but also pieces of metal and smaller circuit boards and even what looked like a little hat. Powers' mouth curled back in distaste, and his distaste was only increased when Young removed a scalpel from his bag, grabbed a moth from the cage and cut off its head.

"Really," Powers said, "Why in the world did you do that. I did not come here to watch you kill insects." "You will see in a minute," Young said as he began to attach wires to the unfortunate bugs head. "I can not keep them hooked up for long since the heads decompose, but I'm working on that too." He placed the little hat on the head and placed the head on the chassis. Wires stuck out of it at odd angles. "Frankly," said Powers, "I am not sure what you are trying to prove here." "Oh, it is quiet simple really," said Young, and then began to expound on how the head generated impulses and how the wires were connected to the head and so forth. Powers understood little of it, after all he had no degree in biology, and stared with mounting horror at the sad little head on the circuit board. The feelers on it were still moving slightly, though with the breeze or because the poor thing was still alive he couldn't tell. Young continued on about humans and how it could be expanded and more testing was needed. Powers looked at him with growing frustration.

"This is what you have to show me?" Powers said, "A head attached to a little car. Quite frankly this is one of the most disturbing things I have seen in a long time. I have no idea how I let you talk me into this meeting." "Just wait," said Young, "Soon you will see what this type of technology can do." "I doubt," said Powers, "that it will do anything at all. Attaching a head to car does not magically create science. I expected to see research and proposals, forms of applications and the like. even hurried emails would have been nice." Young stared at him, a slightly exasperated look on his face. "Why should I have those things?" Young said, "If you just wait..."

"I have waited long enough," Powers said. "Good day to you sir. For all practical purposes a scientist who does not have papers and research and proposals is no scientist at all." And so saying this Dr.Powers got up and left. Young sat at the table, somewhat dumbstruck, as Powers walked out of the hall. "Well, that was rather rude", Young though to himself as he looked down at the car, "And what a waste of a moth." As if on cue the car began to roll across the table and since Young was lost in his own thoughts, we has not quick enough to prevent it rolling off the table and crashing into the floor. Young sighed as circuitry and wheels skittered across the floor and began picking up the pieces of the little car, watched with no curiosity whatsoever by the other moth.

Creativity Exercise 2 (Chalet, Bird, Hell's Bells)

Place: Humber Valley Golf Resort (Golf course and chalet in Newfoundland)
Object: Liocichla (a type of warbler common to Asia with a red chest and yellow head)
Other: Hell's Bell's: The dangers of Rock 'N' Roll (a Christian documentary about the relation of Rock 'N' Roll to amoral behavior and the devil)


I sat on the deck, looking out across the golf course covered in fresh snow. There is something about snow that I find very relaxing. It is clean and fresh and makes the world look, at least for a little while, like it has been cleaned up. I yawned and took a draw on my coffee, letting the heat of the drink warm my chest and the Irish cream warm my soul. Most people found vacationing during the winter quite intolerable. They would rather sit on a beach somewhere on watch children scream at one another and chase each other up and down the surf. Frankly, I would take this white wonderland any day of the week.

The deck, which was equipped with several heat lamps so that customers could sit on it, was devoid of anyone save me and the bartender. I glanced around to where the bartender was idly wiping down the bar. The bar was located inside the chalet so that the bartender could serve both the deck and the restaurant at the same time. Behind the bar hung a bird cage containing a strange looking bird, all red and yellow feathers, which sang a pretty little song. The bartender occasionally whistled at it and the little bird whistled back. The birdsong added a pleasant atmosphere to the place, a counterpoint to the silence of the snow.

I was just beginning to contemplate a second coffee when a woman bustled onto the patio. She wore a large white coat trimmed with white fur, though whether or not it was real fur I couldn't say. The coat was long enough that it swept out behind her along the ground so that the trim on the bottom of it gathered the dirt off the patio. She also had on a white ushanka and a pair of white gloves. She bustled up to the bar and rather rudely asked for a glass of orange juice, which the bartender produced. She then proceeded to come over and sit next to me.

Still warm from my coffee and enjoying the snow I made the mistake of saying good morning to this strange creature. She immediately began complaining to me about the service in the chalet, about how the bus boys were slow and lazy and the maids had not done a good enough job of cleaning the room. This greatly surprised me. I had stayed here numerous times and always found the service to be excellent. However, to hear her speak of it, this was an atrocious place to stay and not worth the dime she had spent.


The worst of it, the lady said, was how after they were off the bus boys and maids gathered and danced in the basement to that hideous rock and roll music. Now I was a little astounded by this. Many of the staff lived at the chalet, since it was a long way from town, and far be it from us to tell them what they should do in there time off. Besides, it was well known that the staff threw parties several nights a week and most of the guests went to them. Anyone was invited and the chalet did good business selling drinks at the event. I myself had partaken in one a couple days ago, and while I assure my readers that I did not dance I certainly enjoyed the band and the company of my fellow vacationers.

"Madam," I said, "surely we should not be so hard on them. After all, they are only young once. Let them live a little. Besides, many of the guests enjoy the parties as well and the chalet sees no problem with them." The woman looked terribly affronted by this. "Have you not seen Holmberg's work on the subject?" she asked, "In Hell's Bells he explicitly shows how rock and roll music can lead to drunkenness and drug use and rebellion." I gave a shrug. "Surely it is the purpose of youth to rebel a little," I said, "after all, how can we hope they will change the world if they will not rise up against it?" A shocked look crossed the woman's face. "Why should we want them to change it?" she asked. "Is it not god's will that the world is how it is. The world does not need changing. Look at the beauty of today. Would you like this changed?" And with that she swept her hand out, indicating the snow covered golf course.

 I looked over at her. "The snow hides the ugliness beneath it," I replied, "but we can not forget how dirty the world is beneath the snow, no matter how beautiful the snow is." And with that I stood up and walked over to the bar.

The bartender smiled as I approached, and his little bird, which had stopped singing, began again as I walked up to the bar. I asked for another coffee and stood there watching the little bird while the bartender made it. He handed me the drink and I thanked him and walked back over to my seat again.

The woman was standing, and for a moment I was hopeful she would leave. However, I could see that I had upset her, and as I approached she seemed to swell a little bit with rage. "How dare you," she said, "drink such a profane drink. Alcohol at this time in the morning. You are as bad as any of the staff here." I was a little shocked, and my surprise allowed her to grab my coffee from my unyielding hand. She threw it, cup and all, off the patios and then stormed off. I looked down at my coffee, which had splattered across the new fallen snow, leaving an ugly spattering of brown across the otherwise pristine snowy ground.

Creativity Excerise 1

A word of note:
The creativity exercises are designed to improve ones ability to write. I don't do them to often, but I'm stuck for ideas at the moment.
How it works:
-I use wikipedia's random article to generate a random object, place (non-geographical) and other (an element which must be included in the story)
-I write a short story using these elements
-Story element and object must be a MAJOR part of the storyline. They can not just be mentioned once

Enjoy!

Story Elements:
-Location (non-geographical): Speech House Oaks (A nature reserve in Gloucester)
-Object: Casio DW-5600C (a watch)
-Other: Tribal House Music (Subtype of house music using tribal elements. Think electronic with natural themes)

            And still the beat went on. I danced, surrounded by others like me, lit by the glow of the fire. I moved and swayed and pushed against the bodies around me as we all leapt as one. The crush of bodies was such that a person could barely move and yet we danced all the harder because of it. The stench of sweat, of the human animal, filled the night air, beating back the smells of nature with its heat and energy. People, there eyes crazy and glittering in the firelight, lost in the momentum and beat, slick with sweat and sliding off of one another. People touched me and then were lost as the beat would accelerate and the crowd would scream and leap and swirl. People would stop and grab one another, grind, push there sweat upon one another as the beat slowed and for a moment reminded us of what we are.

            And still the beat went on. Under the trees of Speech House Oaks, lost in the forests of Gloucester, frightening away the creatures who called this world there home. For we had made it our home, with the stamp of our feet and the bringing of fire and the noise of speakers rumbling out through the forest. I glanced up at the DJ, his eyes like emeralds, his shirtless body soaked in sweat, feathers swinging from his hair, as he played the beat. He changed the sounds of the new world, made them seem old, reminded us of the forests and a time when once this was how the world was. A new place, a place without streetlights and disco ball’s and cellphones. He reminded us of a raw world, an old world, a world where all we were was animals. I glanced at my watch. 11:30.

            And still the beat went on. The beat grew faster, and in its frenzy we were reminded of the hunt and in it’s stillness we were reminded of the night. The beat pulled us in, made us what we once were, lit fires in our hearts and heads and made us want to cry to the moon or conquer the sun. A girl grabbed me, her pulse racing so fast you could see the veins throb, the sweat running soaking through her clothing. She pressed up against me, for a moment her heat overpowering, her smell all I could think of. And then she was gone, as the beat took her from me and for a moment I paused, before being swept away again. And as I paused I checked my watch. 12:30

            And still the beat went on. And the music grew more animalistic, and it seemed that the trees themselves leaned in to hear better. The scent of blood grew in the air, faint at first but rising now, accenting the stench of sweat. People shrieked as the danced, screamed and cursed and ground and leapt. The fire leapt higher, its flames battling against the night and we screamed for it, reminded of times when all that kept us safe from the night were those flames. Sweat rolled down my face, stinging me eyes and soaking my shirt. Many other had torn there shirts off, and there bodies glistened, slick with sweat as the danced. I tore mine off as well and threw it on the fire. I glanced down at my watch. Sweat had covered it, making it hard to read. 1 something.

            And still the beat went on. The bodies pressed together, screaming in ecstasy and agony. The smell of blood and sweat, the smell of the human animal, screamed through us with the beat. The music pulled and tugged and we responded. Men, covered in sweat and glistening in the flames and girls giddy with energy, spinning and grinding and struggling in the press. I felt my watch slip off my hand. I paid it no head. Not even when I stepped on it, not even when it cracked as another leapt on it, not even when it shattered and exploded and the tiny numbers blinked one final time.

            And still the beat went on.