Morgan I.A.M Capps

About Me

I am a consistently confused person, most of the time I don’t really know what is going on and I do try to just go with it, but it doesn’t work a lot of the time. I prefer stories, I don’t do poetry that much, and plays are somewhere in-between them. My stories can really drag on for what seems like forever, so I am trying to keep them as condensed as possible this year. I will be attempting to connect them all with a common thread that I started in the first prompt “life in art”.

Vanno’s Feedback:

 

Try removing some of the whitespace. Also, work at keeping the 3 columns from the original template as well as keeping images similar in size.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have only ever read “All The Bright Places” once in 8th grade, despite my habit of reading the same book multiple times. This doesn’t mean it was bad, I just never felt the need to re-read it at all, It’s like you read it once and it kind of sticks with you. It’s my favorite book because I never felt the need to re-read it, with most books I feel like I’m stuck in it’s world and have to read it multiple times to get over it. With “All The Bright Places” that didn’t happen, I read it then moved on. 

 

 

 

 

Fun fact, I don’t have a favorite piece of art. so I chose French artist Klein’s blank canvas painting. Which is empty, Like my head when I saw this question.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am on season 5 of Supernatural, Would I say it is the best show? Not at all. It just fits my very specific criteria that any show I watch kind of needs to match. I has a “bad guy of the day” while also having an overarching storyline. Plus it leans a lot into fantasy with demons and angles. If a show doesn’t fit this then I will get bored of it very quickly and abandon it after the first episode. The only show that didn’t fit the criteria was The Queen’s Gambit. 

Indifference

A boy about seven tripped in front of me, I didn’t help him up. have a job to do. 

Many would think this to be rude, and it is, but I don’t care what “many think” I have a job to do. 

A middle-aged woman passed with her arms laden in groceries. A bag split open, sending flour shooting across the street. I didn’t help her pick it up, have a job to do. 

A father juggling a toddler and what looked to be a pair of twins, about four, dropped his wallet. I simply watched as he struggled to pick it up. have a job to do.  

As night fell, the law-abiding citizens retreated into their homes, the criminals and drunk college students came out to play. With these two oddly specific groups, came a woman, who looked to have been working late. She held a briefcase and a purse that matched her business attire. A lawyer maybe? It doesn’t matter, have a job to do.  

As she walked past me, I noticed a hooded figure following behind her at a quick pace. As they caught up to her, they grabbed the walkers’ arm and pulled a gun out of their pocket. I could see time slow down for her. She struggled while the mugger demanded for her to give them her purse. They let go of her arm and grabbed her purse instead. However, she refused to let it go, and a shot rang out into the night. The hooded figure dropped both the gun and the purse and ran. Red dripped down the wall, washing away the dirt from the day. She didn’t scream, instead she simply lay there in silence, on her back, her eyes staring at me so intensely that I thought maybe she knew what I was. Mabe in her dying moments she gained her own form of brilliant enlightenment. 

The cops came and went, blocking off the area, the sun rose and with it, crowds of people flocked to the yellow tape, by then the woman had been taken away but had left quiet a scene behind. The crowd dispersed when the sun set, but with the night curious teenagers arrived. They seemed awestruck by the scene, saying nothing before getting scared by a trash can tipping over and sprinting away. When the sun came so did the cleaners. In their hazmat suits, they attempted to scrub the stains away, by sundown they had left. The painter arrived the next day. 

As they painted over me, I saw my maker standing on the other side oof the street. He looked sad to see me go. 

I am a watcher. A witness to the life of people, a witness to all their mistakes and cruelty. These streets are normally crowded with people, yet no one helped the boy who fell, or the woman who dropped her groceries, or even the father who dropped his wallet. My job is not to help but to watch, and so far, all I have seen is indifference.  

Vanno’s Feedback:

I like the spacing here, but an image might be interesting to bring in that showcases the vividness of the piece.  Also, there are a few spelling mistakes…more like mistypes.