Wrote for five minutes with a grand total of 217 words. The dialogue slowed me down quite a bit.
“I know you.” The voice came from behind me, startling me from my reverie. I turned.
She was blonde, almost tall, wearing a long black leather coat, belted over what seemed to be a red sweater dress. I didn’t know her. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, miss,” I turned back around and kept walking. Night was falling, and I didn’t want my German shepherd to worry about me. He liked his kibble promptly at six, no later, and I swear that dog could tell time.
Her footsteps followed me. “No, I know you! You’re that writer from Bookman’s. I see you there every weekend, typing away, drinking your cappuccino.” She smiled brightly. “I see you there, and I’ve always wanted to know what you were writing, but I was too shy to ask. You looked busy.”
“So I am. You a writer too?” A comrade in disguise, perhaps. I could use someone to talk to about my plot probl—never mind, I thought, she’s just a girl, not a real student of the craft.
“Yes, I am a writer.” She smiled proudly—to proudly, I though ruefully, to be serious.
“What do you write? Romance novels?”
“Hell, no!” She surprised me with her rough language. “I’m a creative writing student at the university. Literary fiction primarily, but…”
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Thursday, October 2, 2008
One of Them
They always looked at me strangely during the day. Like I was either something to be abhorred or something to be laughed at, I could never discern which. It used to bother me. I used to cover my body with a dark cloak and walk with my head bent, eyes looking to the ground. It doesn’t bother me anymore. Finally, I am one of them. At night, I am allowed out, because we are the same.
I am grateful for my evolution. Despite my new responsibilities, my life is now easier. Before now, every morning I would look at my hands, hoping fervently that I’d finally changed. I was only allowed out during the day, because the night belonged only to them. At five, I would have to return to my solitary quarters, and feel their gaze upon me as they laughed silently and whispered about the retarded one, the Never-Change. Now, despite their distrust of me still, they have accepted me. I am no longer doomed to the life of a Never-Change.
It began as something to occupy my mind through the night when I was not allowed out. I could not sleep. Not because it was too loud to sleep—after all, their work was completely silent—but because the restless nature of my mind was such that it was completely impossible for me to stop thinking. Anyway, laying there in the dark solace, I began to wonder if my situation, my retardation was permanent. I had not changed at the age of sixteen, and the last five years had brought no change for me either. My hive-mates had determined that I was a Never-Change, destined to be human forever. Destined to be retarded, never evolving into the catlike form that all of my kind are supposed to take. Instead of being able to protect the humans that share our planet, I was forced to live like one.
I am grateful for my evolution. Despite my new responsibilities, my life is now easier. Before now, every morning I would look at my hands, hoping fervently that I’d finally changed. I was only allowed out during the day, because the night belonged only to them. At five, I would have to return to my solitary quarters, and feel their gaze upon me as they laughed silently and whispered about the retarded one, the Never-Change. Now, despite their distrust of me still, they have accepted me. I am no longer doomed to the life of a Never-Change.
It began as something to occupy my mind through the night when I was not allowed out. I could not sleep. Not because it was too loud to sleep—after all, their work was completely silent—but because the restless nature of my mind was such that it was completely impossible for me to stop thinking. Anyway, laying there in the dark solace, I began to wonder if my situation, my retardation was permanent. I had not changed at the age of sixteen, and the last five years had brought no change for me either. My hive-mates had determined that I was a Never-Change, destined to be human forever. Destined to be retarded, never evolving into the catlike form that all of my kind are supposed to take. Instead of being able to protect the humans that share our planet, I was forced to live like one.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Deadly
Got the idea at work and just fiddled around with it for a few minutes.
Eating at a restaurant alone is just something that I do. Every Friday night, I take myself out to a fancy gourmet place in whatever city I happen to be in. People usually leave me alone. But, as fate would have it, one night, someone didn’t ignore me. That was the night that I met him.
He didn’t know what he was getting himself into, flirting with me. He didn’t know that that by merely talking to me, he could put us both in danger of being killed. But how could he have known? And I certainly wasn’t in a position to tell him. He, too was eating alone. Lonely people are attracted to other lonely people, I suppose. However, I was alone by choice. And I was not lonely.
Eating at a restaurant alone is just something that I do. Every Friday night, I take myself out to a fancy gourmet place in whatever city I happen to be in. People usually leave me alone. But, as fate would have it, one night, someone didn’t ignore me. That was the night that I met him.
He didn’t know what he was getting himself into, flirting with me. He didn’t know that that by merely talking to me, he could put us both in danger of being killed. But how could he have known? And I certainly wasn’t in a position to tell him. He, too was eating alone. Lonely people are attracted to other lonely people, I suppose. However, I was alone by choice. And I was not lonely.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Toby Willis's Big Day
Wrote for five minutes for a grand total of 276 words. The first four sentences are a prompt I found online.
Some are born heroes. Others have had heroism placed upon them. Toby Willis was neither. A fact that made his eventual saving of the world all the more surprising. It surprised him more than anyone else, I suppose, but when it was all over with he felt as though he’d known all along that it was, indeed, possible. It had not been an easy task, but somewhere in the middle of chasing down the monstrous robot that had been stomping all over the Manhattan area, he’d realized that what he was trying to do was indeed possible. He just knew, that he’d be the one to do it, not only that but he was the only one who could do it. It was his duty.
He started life as a perfectly normal child, very quiet perhaps, but completely normal none the less. His parents never suspected anything might be special about him, and neither did his teachers. He never was the smartest, or the fastest, or even the strongest. But when he stopped that robot, he had realized that there was something amazing about him. He was not normal. He had powers—strange powers that he didn’t really comprehend how to control. But they’d been effective. He was a hero.
Heroism has consequences, though. Now he’d never be able to keep it a secret. Everyone would want to know how he’d done what he’d done, and he’d have to explain, and it’d all be one big mess. He half wished that he’d just let the damn robot terrorize the city. But one good thing came out of all his work. He met his mentor that afternoon.
Some are born heroes. Others have had heroism placed upon them. Toby Willis was neither. A fact that made his eventual saving of the world all the more surprising. It surprised him more than anyone else, I suppose, but when it was all over with he felt as though he’d known all along that it was, indeed, possible. It had not been an easy task, but somewhere in the middle of chasing down the monstrous robot that had been stomping all over the Manhattan area, he’d realized that what he was trying to do was indeed possible. He just knew, that he’d be the one to do it, not only that but he was the only one who could do it. It was his duty.
He started life as a perfectly normal child, very quiet perhaps, but completely normal none the less. His parents never suspected anything might be special about him, and neither did his teachers. He never was the smartest, or the fastest, or even the strongest. But when he stopped that robot, he had realized that there was something amazing about him. He was not normal. He had powers—strange powers that he didn’t really comprehend how to control. But they’d been effective. He was a hero.
Heroism has consequences, though. Now he’d never be able to keep it a secret. Everyone would want to know how he’d done what he’d done, and he’d have to explain, and it’d all be one big mess. He half wished that he’d just let the damn robot terrorize the city. But one good thing came out of all his work. He met his mentor that afternoon.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Limited Senses
My prompt is such: "A man, who is spying, can see but not hear his wife as she talks to her ex-husband."
We're at the grocery store. "I'll get some Cheerios," she says, and so I pause the cart at the end of one aisle. She strides away, and I watch her ass sway from side to side as she walks. I'm like a high-schooler sometimes, I know, but my comfort myself with the thought that this is far more than lust. After all, the fact that I still want her even after I've been her husband for seven years must mean something, right?
She pauses in front of a row of yellow boxes, comparing prices, and then reaches out to take one. As she does this, I notice a man walking up behind her, pushing a cart with a baby in it. As Alice turns, a look of recognition crosses her face. Then it's me who recognizes.
The tall, dark haired man is Jeff, her ex-husband. I didn't know much about him, but that high-school feeling came over me and I felt a wave of jealousy pass over me as well. Alice didn't ignore him. Why, honey, why don't you come back down here and kiss me? Show off for him, I don't care. Make me feel like I should.
Now she's talking to him. She smiles. They shake hands. Why the smile? Why does she have to look so happy? She bends down, smiling at the blonde haired baby in Jeff's cart. I can't hear what that bastard's saying to her. The grocery story music is too damn loud.
Now she gestures towards me. Trying not to seem like I'm spying, I turn quickly and pretend to be fascinated by a nearby display of Pop-Tarts. I take a quick glance back at them when I think enough time has passed. They're talking again, paying no mind to me. I wonder how people can read lips. It makes no sense.
Now she laughs. Damnit. Should I go down there and introduce myself? What if she thinks I don't trust her, though. Alice, honey, I trust you--it's Jeff I don't trust.
Jeff is looking at his watch. He says something to her, I stil can't hear. These aisles are too long, and there's a pair of Hispanic ladies chattering in rapid Spanish behind me. Alice nods. She understands, it seems. Making plans for another, more secret, rondezvous I wonder? Then I want to hit myself. I trust her, right?
She starts walking back toward me. It is in this moment I realize how much she means to me. Do I mean the same to her? This encounter with Jeff makes me wonder.
Now she's talking again, to me this time. "Hey baby, why didn't you come say hi to Matt?"
"Matt?" What is she saying? Now I can hear fine, but can't seem to understand.
"You know, from work, my boss?"
"Oh."
We're at the grocery store. "I'll get some Cheerios," she says, and so I pause the cart at the end of one aisle. She strides away, and I watch her ass sway from side to side as she walks. I'm like a high-schooler sometimes, I know, but my comfort myself with the thought that this is far more than lust. After all, the fact that I still want her even after I've been her husband for seven years must mean something, right?
She pauses in front of a row of yellow boxes, comparing prices, and then reaches out to take one. As she does this, I notice a man walking up behind her, pushing a cart with a baby in it. As Alice turns, a look of recognition crosses her face. Then it's me who recognizes.
The tall, dark haired man is Jeff, her ex-husband. I didn't know much about him, but that high-school feeling came over me and I felt a wave of jealousy pass over me as well. Alice didn't ignore him. Why, honey, why don't you come back down here and kiss me? Show off for him, I don't care. Make me feel like I should.
Now she's talking to him. She smiles. They shake hands. Why the smile? Why does she have to look so happy? She bends down, smiling at the blonde haired baby in Jeff's cart. I can't hear what that bastard's saying to her. The grocery story music is too damn loud.
Now she gestures towards me. Trying not to seem like I'm spying, I turn quickly and pretend to be fascinated by a nearby display of Pop-Tarts. I take a quick glance back at them when I think enough time has passed. They're talking again, paying no mind to me. I wonder how people can read lips. It makes no sense.
Now she laughs. Damnit. Should I go down there and introduce myself? What if she thinks I don't trust her, though. Alice, honey, I trust you--it's Jeff I don't trust.
Jeff is looking at his watch. He says something to her, I stil can't hear. These aisles are too long, and there's a pair of Hispanic ladies chattering in rapid Spanish behind me. Alice nods. She understands, it seems. Making plans for another, more secret, rondezvous I wonder? Then I want to hit myself. I trust her, right?
She starts walking back toward me. It is in this moment I realize how much she means to me. Do I mean the same to her? This encounter with Jeff makes me wonder.
Now she's talking again, to me this time. "Hey baby, why didn't you come say hi to Matt?"
"Matt?" What is she saying? Now I can hear fine, but can't seem to understand.
"You know, from work, my boss?"
"Oh."
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
"The First Line" Assignment
Visit http://www.thefirstline.com/ for more on The First Line and this assignment.
While not the intended effect, the outcome was surprisingly satisfying. Yes, of course, I was at first disappointed that I could not become a member of the army for which I had long waited to fight. However, after careful consideration, I had realized that my new duty would assist me greatly in becoming skillful enough to execute the mission I had, for five long years, sought to complete. I would now be placed in a far more productive position than how I would be simply fighting as a member of a vast army.
Despite my newfound satisfaction, however, I could not help but be thoroughly disgusted by a certain portion of my new life. I, Charles Pimme, was to be the assistant to the keeper of the palace kennels. Caring for dogs. Vile, gross animals, and it was my duty to care for them each day.
However, the benefits of doing such a dirty task would be well worth it. I was to receive an education equal to that of any king or lord's son. I was to be instructed in the arts, the sciences, the histories, and--most important to my cause--fencing. Unlike the basic members of the army, forced to utilize heavy spears and clumsy shields, I would receive a rapier and learn the ancient and noble art of swordfighting. And it was with these skills that I would kill the king of Oxengrave and avenge the wrong that had gone unpunished for five long years. I would personally kill the man responsible for my brother's death...
While not the intended effect, the outcome was surprisingly satisfying. Yes, of course, I was at first disappointed that I could not become a member of the army for which I had long waited to fight. However, after careful consideration, I had realized that my new duty would assist me greatly in becoming skillful enough to execute the mission I had, for five long years, sought to complete. I would now be placed in a far more productive position than how I would be simply fighting as a member of a vast army.
Despite my newfound satisfaction, however, I could not help but be thoroughly disgusted by a certain portion of my new life. I, Charles Pimme, was to be the assistant to the keeper of the palace kennels. Caring for dogs. Vile, gross animals, and it was my duty to care for them each day.
However, the benefits of doing such a dirty task would be well worth it. I was to receive an education equal to that of any king or lord's son. I was to be instructed in the arts, the sciences, the histories, and--most important to my cause--fencing. Unlike the basic members of the army, forced to utilize heavy spears and clumsy shields, I would receive a rapier and learn the ancient and noble art of swordfighting. And it was with these skills that I would kill the king of Oxengrave and avenge the wrong that had gone unpunished for five long years. I would personally kill the man responsible for my brother's death...
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Why “April 2005: Usher II” Is Good Writing
“April 2005: Usher II,” (1950) by Ray Bradbury, is a short story that I was introduced to in my first American Literature class. What is interesting about this piece is that it works equally well as a short story (what it was orginally published as), and as a book chapter in Bradbury’s novel, The Martian Chronicles. It is a work filled with dark humor and irony as well as a great deal of allusion to the work of another master American writer, Edgar Allan Poe. However, to me, this short story is more than just science fiction or a parody of Poe’s short stories; it is a excellent example of Ray Bradbury’s writing mastery.
The story centers around a man named Stendahl, who has comissioned an replica of the House of Usher (from Poe’s short story, “The Fall of the House of Usher”) to be built, and then filled with all manner of things and characters out of books and movies. In the futuristic world that Stendahl lives in, all such fantasy things were banned in 1975, because the government wanted people to face reality instead of escaping into a book. Throughout the house, there are many allusions to other stories of Poes, such as “The Cask of Amontillado,” “The Tell-tale Heart,” “The Pit and The Pendulum,” and several others. As a reader familiar with Poe, it was entertaining to read this story by Bradbury and find all of these allusions.
Part of what I enjoy the most about reading Bradbury is the humor and irony that he employs. One of my favorite lines of dialogue from “April 2005: Usher II” is spoken by the character Stendahl, as he is chaining another character to a wall. When the other character, a man named Garrett who was sent to the house to inspect it, asks what in the world Stendahl thinks he’s doing, Stendahl replies, “I’m being ironic. Don’t interrupt a man in the midst of being ironic, it’s not polite!” (146). This line is an excellent bit of characterization as well as humor. For Stendahl to use a literary term like ironic and act as though it is highly important to what is going on shows how much he cares about the world of books and stories—he is so engrossed in this world that he recognizes things in himself the same way he’d recognize them in a book character.
Finally, Bradbury employs an amazing sense of description—always showing, not telling, the reader what is happening. As in the examples on page 140 and 141, he uses precise wording and an almost dramatic sense of detail to construct the scene in the reader’s mind. When the party guests arrive, we know not only what they look like or such superficial things, but we know what kind of people they are—“Spoil-funs... people with mercurochrome for blood and iodine colored eyes” (141). More than just telling the reader that Stendahl is opposed to these people, Bradbury skillfully explains how they are against everything that Stendahl loves. This kind of writing skill is what makes “April 2005:Usher II” as engrossing and compelling as it is.
The story centers around a man named Stendahl, who has comissioned an replica of the House of Usher (from Poe’s short story, “The Fall of the House of Usher”) to be built, and then filled with all manner of things and characters out of books and movies. In the futuristic world that Stendahl lives in, all such fantasy things were banned in 1975, because the government wanted people to face reality instead of escaping into a book. Throughout the house, there are many allusions to other stories of Poes, such as “The Cask of Amontillado,” “The Tell-tale Heart,” “The Pit and The Pendulum,” and several others. As a reader familiar with Poe, it was entertaining to read this story by Bradbury and find all of these allusions.
Part of what I enjoy the most about reading Bradbury is the humor and irony that he employs. One of my favorite lines of dialogue from “April 2005: Usher II” is spoken by the character Stendahl, as he is chaining another character to a wall. When the other character, a man named Garrett who was sent to the house to inspect it, asks what in the world Stendahl thinks he’s doing, Stendahl replies, “I’m being ironic. Don’t interrupt a man in the midst of being ironic, it’s not polite!” (146). This line is an excellent bit of characterization as well as humor. For Stendahl to use a literary term like ironic and act as though it is highly important to what is going on shows how much he cares about the world of books and stories—he is so engrossed in this world that he recognizes things in himself the same way he’d recognize them in a book character.
Finally, Bradbury employs an amazing sense of description—always showing, not telling, the reader what is happening. As in the examples on page 140 and 141, he uses precise wording and an almost dramatic sense of detail to construct the scene in the reader’s mind. When the party guests arrive, we know not only what they look like or such superficial things, but we know what kind of people they are—“Spoil-funs... people with mercurochrome for blood and iodine colored eyes” (141). More than just telling the reader that Stendahl is opposed to these people, Bradbury skillfully explains how they are against everything that Stendahl loves. This kind of writing skill is what makes “April 2005:Usher II” as engrossing and compelling as it is.
Work Cited
Bradbury, Ray. "April 2005: Usher II." The Martian Chronicles. Doubleday and Company: Garden City, NY, 1958. 132-48.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)