As we started this learning cycle, we learned about the multiple ideas and “Tools of the Trade” used in writing of all aspects. This included understanding and applying the writing process (drafting, editing, revising, publishing). Working collaboratively to refine and revise our works. Generating and experimenting with our ideas about writing content, forms and styles. And finally this diary, more so reflecting on our own growth and development as a writer, thinking about areas of strength and areas that need improvement.

Armed with this newfound knowledge I embarked on a journey, a summative assignment so to say, where I could choose one of my works previously done in this learning cycle and develop it into a fully-fledged piece. I had decided to go with the Collective Storytelling piece since it was my most ambiguous, largest, and interesting piece developed.  Although when I started, it was rather unfinished, the ending was very unsatisfying since it was made with context to others stories and made little sense without the character list included with the collective stories.

As a started hammering down on grammar, flowing, and punctuation errors, my workshop peers and teacher helped point out other strengths and weaknesses. These included, even more grammar errors, but other smaller things such as the character making decisions and actions without having their traits explained first. This was because as I had transitioned the piece from the collective storytelling segment the character bio or description was completely tossed. Thus I was able to successfully add back details through either narration or by showing what had happened. Other errors were shown as I had pushed perspectives out of whack during several different character interactions. Finally I had added a proper ending, fitting of a chapter in a book to offset the unfinished tone of the original piece.

All in all, this cycle has helped me pick up the pieces of my writing and grammar. Helping to stop pet peeves of my overuse of the comma. And also letting me notice smaller errors in perspectives. Thus making me a better writer overall (Hopefully…).

For the next learning cycle I hope to further improve upon specific areas of writing, I also hope to be of more use to my peers with commenting on mistakes and errors. For the final improvement, I will try to work on handing in assignments on proper times.

Tenye Zimbaw, an ivory skinned 42 year old exiled Mek tribesmen, awoke with bags under his eyes. At first slowly opening them, then quickly as realization struck, with his head rearing over to the opening of his small self-made shack’s door. The sounds of metal twisting and screeching, explosives going off as a large metal bird fell from the sky. He had heard about them from tales the old ones would go on about. The event creating a commotion on the island as it hurled itself into the Earth. As the object was falling, thoughts filled his aged mind. Was this a message from the gods? Or punishment of the inhabitants of the sky within the clouds? He didn’t know, but he raised his creaking body up and watched from afar as the twisted wreck of colours and shiny metals glistened against the flame.

He stood up slowly, his age showing. And started his movement toward the flaming and smoking metal heap. Inside of this metal bird was lined with what looked like chairs, men and women strapped into them as if it was for a ritualistic purpose. Even more questions filled his head. Was it a sacrifice? Or perhaps a desperate plea to fly with the so called gods of the sky and winds? The matured man could only think as he approached the still burning beast. There were bodies tossed around, some still inside, while others lay in the sand. He decided not to touch or disturb the bodies and wreck, as it was best, He did not want punishment for from the “gods” that cast them here. With this knowledge Zimbaw looked at everything in disgust. Although he did not disturb anything. He did not believe in gods or god-like figures. Thus this was why he was exiled from his home tribe. As he walked through, Zimbaw found the clothing they were wearing odd, all the different colours and features. Most of the clothing the man had never seen anywhere on the islands and in his many years alive surrounding his home. Puzzled, he shrugged most of it off as being something very meticulous to please the gods distastefully pushed onto him by his tribe. “It seems this was once a great flying bird that lost its wings and crashed back down to the Earth, carrying many religious martyrs and followers. They must have wanted to see the gods, perhaps they did. Many may still be seeing them now”.

“What fools,” Zimbaw sighed and with a mellow face he decided to head back to his rickety self-made shack and wait, for he was sure some had survived the fall from sky to Earth. Time had passed, and the fire had gotten dimmer, not from dying down, but from the sun finally peeking its head up and brightening the sands and scorching the survivors. He moved around in the shack, creaking and shaking it a bit before climbing a tree and taking a coconut.

He smashed it open and drank the sweet juices. Zimbaw sat back slowly against the tree and waited for any of the survivors to start moving. At first he saw a few men of different colours and clothes that had gotten up, moving around slowly at first then reaching for some sort of sword or staff. The men were almost fighting over it and shouting a few words in a language Zimbaw couldn’t understand. Soon more had started to awaken, some female and looking for a way away from all the noise. They pulled at their pockets and reached for small stone looking tablets that lit up with even more colours than their clothes! It was then the man saw a child who had been stuck underneath another that had managed to escape the weight of the body on top of her. He did not notice her before as he walked through the destruction. She sat and stared at the body in a mournful way, it must have been someone she knew, or was related to. It would be hard for a youngling like her to survive, yet alone around such people. After all, most if not all seem to be either religious sacrifices or religious followers. She was dressed in small clothing of bright pink colours and images, carrying a small bag on her back. As Zimbaw sat back and watched, he knew that this was about to be the strangest and most shocking time in his life. As it was for that girl. For then on he would remember it as the day the metal bird fell from the sky, and nothing would be the same.