Creative Writing : Are You Paying Attention?

Part of my Creative Non-Fiction Writing Assignment

Are You Paying Attention?

“I know how to do it,” I said to my dad with a heavy sigh. Still, he grabs the drill from my hands and insists on showing me the “correct” way to mix paint using the drill with the mixer attachment. He has shown me the correct way at least five times over the course of my life. Every time I glanced away he snapped at me and asked “Are you paying attention?” His face was red and his eyes bulged out a bit but it was not an unfamiliar facial expression, his angry face is his normal face. “Repeat the steps,” he asked me, like this paint mixing lesson would save my life one day. The thought brings about the image of a crime noir back alley bathed in darkness. There is a man there but I cannot see his face. His gun is raised in my direction and he orders me to mix the paint, correctly, or die. I chuckled. The mixer began to turn the paint and I followed my dad’s instructions that have been drilled into my head. The paint was thick yet soft as it playful twirled in the can. My attention shifted for a brief moment and some paint splashed out, leaping for freedom. I cringed as I watched a large drop land on my dad’s boot. "That's what happens when you don't pay attention!" The lessons will never be over.

Creative Writing : The End of the Story

Part of my Creative Non-Fiction Writing Assignment

The End of the Story

My dad was talking about something which I had insistently forgotten about the moment he began. He has the habit of giving too much detail, taking the scenic route of a conversation that should have only taken only a few minutes but stretched effortlessly into half an hour. I have learned that the only part to pay attention to is the last few minutes which is where his true point lies. What began as a conversation about remodeling the house had veered into how old Bill Cosby was. I was only pulled in to the conversation again as he reminisced about listening to the radio as a child. When he talked about his past, his usual stern loud voice quieted to a whisper with a low hum behind every word. Instantly, I am taken back to when I was six years old in my bed, underneath my Little Mermaid covers. He is leaning on the side of the bed with a childrens book. He reads to me softly, his voice emitting a soothing rumble that lulls me to sleep. The last part of the story is always forgotten, replaced by a dull murmur that evaporates into silence. And with a loud clearing of his voice, I am back at the dining room table continuing on the scenic route, awaiting its final destination.