There are no lonely women in Los Angeles. If you live alone, or love alone, it is not without purposefully doing so. You can’t walk down the street without a stranger commenting, “Hey there pretty baby.” Some call this just a compliment, some call this harassment, but I call it living in the community.
It’s Sunday morning when my next door neighbor, Marly, a squirrely librarian type, is visiting with me. For real, she’s a librarian at the university library. She’s sitting on the fire escape with me, smoking a cigarette with her wool socked feet up on the edge. The man who digs through our trash for recyclables is down there, even on Sunday. He shouts up at us, “Hey there, pretty birds!”
I wave at him, but Marly snorts disapprovingly. “It’s harassment to look through someone’s trash, I mean it’s goddamn illegal, isn’t it? Identify theft and all.”
I sit back in the plastic patio chair, adjusting the candy-colored nylon slip I sleep in and live in on Sundays. “If you threw it away, what does it matter to you anyway?”
She stubs out her cigarette in the plastic ashtray on the ground. “Yeah well, he shouldn’t be making suggestive comments while he’s doing it either, unsolicited advancements are sexual harassment. Now that is illegal.”
“You’re not in your goddamn workplace, what are you going to do, sue him?” My turn to snort, pressing a cold glass of orange juice and vodka to my barenaked lips.
“There are laws in this world, Sunny, just because you live beneath it all--”
“I don’t live beneath it all, as you call it. I’m an entertainer, a choreographer and a costume designer. I’m not a goddamn whore, Marly.” I say indignantly.
“You’re a stripper, Sunny.”
“I’m not a stripper, Marly. It’s burlesque. It’s goddamn theater with a long, respectable vaudevillian history. And brilliant comediennes came out of it. Brilliant, beautiful comediennes with style. That’s it, I’m a comedienne.”
She snorts with laughter, “Oh yes, you’re a regular Lucille Ball in sequined pasties.”
I stand up swiftly and pick up Marly’s half-empty lace-print glass and my own now-empty glass.
“Hey now!” Marly drops her feet to the ground and sits up straight. “I’m not done with that – I didn’t mean to be insulting, Sunny – I just meant that you don’t have rules like – oh holy shit!”
I’m walking into the kitchen of my tiny studio flat, glasses between my fingers, and I ignore Marly. In the kitchen, I stride past a gold sequined music box set on top of the counter. This is all my grandmother left me – okay, to be honest, this is what I managed to sneak out of her house before her children swooped in on the estate to argue over who deserved what. Grandmother Heather was more of a “live-in-the-moment” kind of lady, so much as mention a will and she would throw one of her legendary thunderstorm fits.
My grandmother’s screaming reminiscing in my head faded to Marly’s real time screaming outside.
“Move it, asshole, move!” Marly is screaming over the bar of the fire escape. I run up next to her and look down.
Below, the trash collector is sprawled out on the asphalt in the alleyway. His leg is caught underneath the back wheel of a trash truck whose warning beep is sounding indifferently.
“Stop! Stop!” We both shriek down, but to no avail. The trash collector just stares up at us, with panicked, dark silent eyes like marbles. He grasps the asphalt with flat palms, spread in a perfect plié. He wiggles like a mermaid, trying to escape from under the massive, treaded wheel.
A man pokes his head out from the truck window, and looks around. Shrugging, and with our voices lost in the grinding and moaning of the trash truck, he doesn’t see the trash collector.
With a final act jolt, the rust-wrought truck rolls backwards over the trash collector – leaving a fantastic blood splatter across the cement driveway, like a jeweled headdress.
The men in Los Angeles, however, are more alone than ever.
(683 words)
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Day 10
24: Ways of Seeing. Imagine a person with an idiosyncratic way of seeing the world (for instance, an occasional drug dealer who, because of his amateur status, is more than usually prone to seeing danger where there is none; an entomologist who tends to categorize the world dryly, as if seen through a microscope; a world-class athlete in top shape whose clarity of vision is almost hallucinogenic). Have this character witness a traumatic event that does not directly involve her. Narrate the event from a first-person POV, making sure that the perspective is carefully built around the idiosyncrasies of this personality. 600 words.
The Bathtub
I gingerly crouch on all fours. My right ear is barely an inch above the surface of the plastic floor of the bathtub in my apartment. There are little scratches and scuffling to be heard, muffled as through the hollowed walls between neighbors. If I listen closely, I could almost make out distinct voices: an old woman, a young boy, his mother, two men (bearded, I’m almost certain), and two young lovers.
Just as their words start to articulate through the diaphanous tub bottom, the lights flicker. They flicker again, and then I’m submerged in sub-darkness, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the streetlights expand its faint glow through the high bathroom window. The voices went out with the lights. I climb out of the bathtub and into my bed, crawling underneath a thin pile of quilts.
Over a lukewarm cup of Earl Grey the next morning, I relay the story to my younger sister Marly. She’s twenty two, but has the sensibility of a sixty year old bus driver.
“I know what I heard.” I sigh, swirling another sugar cube into the teacup.
"You may have heard what you heard, but it doesn’t mean it is what you think it is,” Marly asserts and, with a tilt, finishes her mug of tea. “Thanks for the breakfast, Ariel, I’ve got to run. Maybe you should start looking for a job instead of laying on the floor of your bathtub.”
She stands up, zipping up her navy down jacket with her name and title embroidered in gold across the left breast. Marly Blunt, Cheer Coach.
“It’s a weekend.” I mutter as she gathers her things and heads towards the door.
As Marly leaves, I spy my next door neighbor fumbling with his keys across the hall. I run up to the door, take a breath, and slowly pull the door back, peeking out. Still fumbling.
“Hey Blake,” I cough. He jumps and looks up, brushing a strand of brown hair out of his glasses. Blake looks like Clark Kent, with highlights.
“Oh hey, Ariel, how are you?” He turns back to his keys, finally selecting the right one to unlock the door.
“I’m fine, listen -- ” I start.
“What time did your electricity come back?” Blake interrupts, stepping into his apartment and turning around to face me in the doorframe.
“What? Oh last night? I’m not sure, I went to bed when it went out and woke up some time around seven this morning and my clock was blinking at me…”
“Oh good, I went over to Sandy’s place last night – there was some flickering there but the electricity stayed on all night.” He turns to close the door.
“Wait --” I shout abruptly, stepping out of my doorframe. Blake looks up at me inquisitively, door half shut. “Did you happen – this is a weird question – but did you happen to take a shower last night?”
He raises one eyebrow wearily, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean, were you in your bathroom or anything at all last night?” I quickly follow up.
Blake shakes his head. “No, we went out to dinner and a movie with some friends last night, and when we came home and saw the lights were out, we headed over to her place.”
“Oh,” I murmur softly, lowering my eyes to the ground and my mind whirring. “Thanks.” I step back into the house and close the door behind me, leaning back and burying my face in my hands.
“Oh.” I slide down onto the hardwood floor and stare at the small tumbleweeds of hair and dust curled up in corners against the legs of my grandmother’s couch.
(616 words)
Just as their words start to articulate through the diaphanous tub bottom, the lights flicker. They flicker again, and then I’m submerged in sub-darkness, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the streetlights expand its faint glow through the high bathroom window. The voices went out with the lights. I climb out of the bathtub and into my bed, crawling underneath a thin pile of quilts.
Over a lukewarm cup of Earl Grey the next morning, I relay the story to my younger sister Marly. She’s twenty two, but has the sensibility of a sixty year old bus driver.
“I know what I heard.” I sigh, swirling another sugar cube into the teacup.
"You may have heard what you heard, but it doesn’t mean it is what you think it is,” Marly asserts and, with a tilt, finishes her mug of tea. “Thanks for the breakfast, Ariel, I’ve got to run. Maybe you should start looking for a job instead of laying on the floor of your bathtub.”
She stands up, zipping up her navy down jacket with her name and title embroidered in gold across the left breast. Marly Blunt, Cheer Coach.
“It’s a weekend.” I mutter as she gathers her things and heads towards the door.
As Marly leaves, I spy my next door neighbor fumbling with his keys across the hall. I run up to the door, take a breath, and slowly pull the door back, peeking out. Still fumbling.
“Hey Blake,” I cough. He jumps and looks up, brushing a strand of brown hair out of his glasses. Blake looks like Clark Kent, with highlights.
“Oh hey, Ariel, how are you?” He turns back to his keys, finally selecting the right one to unlock the door.
“I’m fine, listen -- ” I start.
“What time did your electricity come back?” Blake interrupts, stepping into his apartment and turning around to face me in the doorframe.
“What? Oh last night? I’m not sure, I went to bed when it went out and woke up some time around seven this morning and my clock was blinking at me…”
“Oh good, I went over to Sandy’s place last night – there was some flickering there but the electricity stayed on all night.” He turns to close the door.
“Wait --” I shout abruptly, stepping out of my doorframe. Blake looks up at me inquisitively, door half shut. “Did you happen – this is a weird question – but did you happen to take a shower last night?”
He raises one eyebrow wearily, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean, were you in your bathroom or anything at all last night?” I quickly follow up.
Blake shakes his head. “No, we went out to dinner and a movie with some friends last night, and when we came home and saw the lights were out, we headed over to her place.”
“Oh,” I murmur softly, lowering my eyes to the ground and my mind whirring. “Thanks.” I step back into the house and close the door behind me, leaning back and burying my face in my hands.
“Oh.” I slide down onto the hardwood floor and stare at the small tumbleweeds of hair and dust curled up in corners against the legs of my grandmother’s couch.
(616 words)
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Game On, Day 9, v. 2.0
Apologies for the month-long interlude that unexpectedly happened as Gina and I both moved around our respective towns on our respective coasts. We're buckled in for Fall, and we're going back to the hope of 30 stories in 30 days. Hope you'll join us for the season!
Since we didn't do Smart Pets last time, we'll start with Day 9 again and throw that prompt back into the book. This one just seems appropriate to come back to.
Day 9 (Version 2.0)
111: Home. Use a house in a story fragment. Think about the power of rooms (kitchens, basements, unfinished attics, walk-in closets) on psychology and conversation. In this fragment, make the house a unique, though passive, participant in the unfolding events. The room need not be in a typical house. Think about all the other rooms we become familiar with -- classrooms, office cubicles, public toilets. What are their personalities? How do the more public spaces we inhabit affect our behaviors? You might consider keeping several characters permanently stuck in different rooms in a house, communicating by shouts, cell phones, intercoms, Dixie cups and strings, or telepathy. Ghosts haunt houses, and writers are often ghosts to their own cherished or bedeviling childhood homes. 500 words.
Since we didn't do Smart Pets last time, we'll start with Day 9 again and throw that prompt back into the book. This one just seems appropriate to come back to.
Day 9 (Version 2.0)
111: Home. Use a house in a story fragment. Think about the power of rooms (kitchens, basements, unfinished attics, walk-in closets) on psychology and conversation. In this fragment, make the house a unique, though passive, participant in the unfolding events. The room need not be in a typical house. Think about all the other rooms we become familiar with -- classrooms, office cubicles, public toilets. What are their personalities? How do the more public spaces we inhabit affect our behaviors? You might consider keeping several characters permanently stuck in different rooms in a house, communicating by shouts, cell phones, intercoms, Dixie cups and strings, or telepathy. Ghosts haunt houses, and writers are often ghosts to their own cherished or bedeviling childhood homes. 500 words.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Monday, July 2, 2007
Day 9
47: Smart Pets. Write a very short story about an animal -- a dog, cat, or parrot, say -- that is used to spending time around humans. Let this pet observe, with familiarity yet bafflement, the way males and females of this other species interact. The animal cannot understand much of our language, so its observations will have to be based on physical behavior and gestures, but it could still be an intelligent observer, with its own built-in biases and clarities humans are incapable of (the sense of smell, for example -- a dog would know when a woman was menstruating or a man just had sex with someone else). A caged animal would have a different perspective than an animal free to roam. 600 words.
Friday, June 29, 2007
On the Vine
She walked across the lawn, damp and trampled by the feet of her friends, her enemies, and people she’d neither met nor ever seen in the past four years. The heat pressed against her body like a blanket, causing pearls of sweat to grow both on and beneath her gown. It was suffocating, but her attempts to free herself from it were as futile as wanting to climb out of her own skin. She took a deep breath, squinted her eyes until the wide expanse of land and sky before her was but a blur, and walked on.
It was graduation day, and the world smelled like sunshine and secrets.
Memories sprang from their hiding places, as if every step set off a nostalgic time bomb. The thin white heel of her shoe sank into the soft ground below her and she remembered dressing up for her first college party, donning a little red dress and shoes much like the ones she wore now. She’d accepted a plastic cup of lukewarm beer from a stranger, had pretended to drink it, had pretended to enjoy herself, had pretended to exist in the midst of new names and faces, books she’d never read and songs she didn’t know. There were many days and nights when she thought she was dimensionless, invisible. She didn’t even think God would notice if she jumped from the roof of a building or dove into a bottomless pool of water. She felt small and imprisoned, as if she were trapped behind glass, denied the experience of both life and death.
But the hand on her shoulder, the gentle, warm greeting was real, as was the smile that accompanied it. All of these things are what had saved her. And suddenly those painfully awkward recollections seemed unworthy of her time, and crawled quietly back into the recesses of her mind.
“How’d you find me?” she asked, her fingers lacing through his. “Everyone looks the same – slightly hungover and absolutely ridiculous in these oversized gowns.”
“It was easy,” he replied. “I stared out into this crazy sea of people and you were the first real person I saw.”
(word count: 359)Thursday, June 28, 2007
Day 8: One Moment.
96: One Moment. Write a third-person fragment of story about one important moment in someone's life. Examine this moment from every possible angle. Think about smell, light, texture, distant and near sounds, and the details that will stick in the memory of the participant. Don't worry about telling a whole story (although you may learn that you can't not tell a story here, when you explain the importance of the moment and tie up some of the threads attached to this moment). 300 words.
*I replaced the Argument prompt for now, because it just didn't seem to be happening for me.
*I replaced the Argument prompt for now, because it just didn't seem to be happening for me.
Monday, June 25, 2007
An American Day
Rustling young trees that line the street left puddles of shadows on the sidewalk that dance over the feet of all the fast paced, be-here-now pedestrians. I watch them in slow motion, feeling the lightness of my weightless shoulders, as I spill my hours doing absolutely nothing and going absolutely nowhere. I whittle away the earned time off sitting casually on a bench chained to a tree outside my too-small, too-expensive guest house behind a $16 million dollar cell block. I’m sorry, by cell block I meant junior executive mansion, the kind with rosebush trellises and bay windows that only looked out to other mansions built on Blackberrys and cocaine. This is the kind of city that only high-quality drug dealers and overpaid actors can own houses, at any rate. But enough about them; I took my first day off as soon as the 90 day evaluation period was over and here I am, doing absolutely nothing but enjoying not being at work. Well, I suppose I’m dreading going back to the block tomorrow. A man wearing black slacks and a button down white shirt with short sleeves starts to approach the bench, and he catches my eye warily.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” And I shrug my utter lack of care. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” He offers, not looking at me but leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
“It sure is,” I say, inhaling and exhaling deeply, eyes squinting in the sun.
“I took my first day off as soon as professionally possible,” He continues to talk, “there’s nothing better than stopping to smell the roses.” he smiles, and I concur.
(282 words)
“Do you mind if I sit here?” And I shrug my utter lack of care. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” He offers, not looking at me but leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
“It sure is,” I say, inhaling and exhaling deeply, eyes squinting in the sun.
“I took my first day off as soon as professionally possible,” He continues to talk, “there’s nothing better than stopping to smell the roses.” he smiles, and I concur.
(282 words)
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
FYI
Just an FYI to all the readers who actually are joining us for the adventure -- Gina is in the process of moving and apartment-hunting, and I've been embarrassingly overwhelmed by life this past week (poor excuse for not writing, btw), so this week will likely not be consistent. I plan on finishing the two prompts below, and then taking a break from this until Sunday.
In the meantime, I would love it if you take the time to leave a comment and introduce yourself -- even if one of us already knows you!
Thanks again, for your interest.
In the meantime, I would love it if you take the time to leave a comment and introduce yourself -- even if one of us already knows you!
Thanks again, for your interest.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Fragile Victory
You broke my heart and it kept on beating, throughout the dark morning and the night, even darker. A soft, undetectable rhythm of destruction. You let go of my hand, and like a knife through the silence, cut the cords that had kept us so firmly bound. You broke my heart and it kept on beating. Sand sifted through my fingers, each fine grain a testament to the death of each new day. A soft, undetectable rhythm of destruction.
You walked down the beach, shadows crawling behind you. You left no footprints in your dusty wake. You broke my heart and it kept on beating. Past midnight, pitch-black, eyelashes ran from my dream, and collected on my pillow like sad, fallen stars. A soft, undetectable rhythm of destruction.
As the dream ended, the sun rose, and your voice finally spoke to me: Life has never been about love, and that’s why I’m leaving.
You broke my heart and it kept on beating a soft, undetectable rhythm of destruction.
(word count: 168)Sunday, June 17, 2007
Day 7: Villanelle
128: Villanelle. Write a very short story on the model of a villanelle, which is a nineteen-line poem of five three-line stanzas, plus a four-line stanza at the end. The first and third lines of the first stanza alternate as the last lines of the next four stanzas. Then, in the final four-line stanza, those same first and third lines of the story become the last two lines of the poem, in order. ABC DEA FGC HIA JKC LMAC. For the purposes of this exercise, your "lines" may be full sentences or not. If you chose not to use a full sentence, make sure this incomplete sentence will be completed by several different concluding phrases without harming meaning too much. It might be best to write this first of all in the form of a poem. After you've set it up, then turn it into prose. 250 words.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Vaporized
I’m a thousand miles away from home - but still, it’s everywhere around me. Here, the sky is usually clear, but today…today, the clouds seem to be marching overhead in a strange, nostalgic parade. It’s as if a tribute to my entire life is on display for the whole world to see but I’m the only one who knows it.
Stretched out on my back, I capture sets of clouds from my slanted vantage point and see first the rabbit my aunt gave me for my seventh birthday, then the face of the boy I lost my virginity to in twelfth grade. The two images collapse against each other and I blink my eyes to find a wedding veil flowing in the sky. My right hand moves instinctively to the ring finger of my left. I look down, wait for the tears to crawl back into their ducts, look up again.
The clouds grow darker, overwhelming the sky, sucking out all of the light. I think I see a lightning bolt flash above my head but it’s really an airplane leaving a jagged trail across the looming night. I remember the day he died, and how I couldn’t sleep for days. Didn’t want to eat, or breathe, or even simply try to survive.
Without warning, the canvas overhead brightens, infused with new life. I see my own face in the clouds. I’ve learned how to smile again, and I’m beaming in a theatre filled with passionate applause. The stage is not at all what I expected it to be; my palms aren’t clammy, I’m not restrained. The music and my blood are one and the same. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more free.
It’s truly amazing, all of the things that we’re able to see while not really looking for anything at all.
(word count: 304)All My Love & Sympathies
Dear 15-year-old Marie,
Hello, how are you? It’s strange to write a letter to my younger self – oh wait, that line was probably very cliché. I’m sorry. You don’t get any cooler as you get older, in case you were wondering.
Well, you’re thirty five today, Marie. The good news is we’re 35 and alive. You know who’s not alive though? Mom. Sorry if that threw a wrench into the time-space continuum. And you know what you would never think you’d be feeling today? Relief and guilt. We’re 35 and Mom has died and I feel relieved. I’m writing to tell you not to feel bad for feeling relieved, the way I am now.
I’ll tell you how it happened – it happened five years ago. So why am I writing about this now? She died of a heart attack, of course. A woman who kvetched to everyone and their mailman had to be suffering from hypertension.
Oh I’m also writing to tell you not to worry so much about boys right now. You will find someone amazing, and he will be a good one. That’s all I’m going to tell you for now, since some things should remain a mystery because there is nothing like that first savory taste of Something Good.
Anyway, guilt. Don’t feel bad. Because if it’s anything I’ve learned (you’ve learned) in the next twenty years, it’s that it is okay if your family is not perfect. It is okay if you feel disconnected and different, and it is okay to make a family of your own. Nobody’s family is perfect, and for once, I give you permission – I give us permission – to disown our family.
What family really is are the people who are kind to you, no matter what.
All My Love & Sympathies,
Marie, 35.
(302 words)
Hello, how are you? It’s strange to write a letter to my younger self – oh wait, that line was probably very cliché. I’m sorry. You don’t get any cooler as you get older, in case you were wondering.
Well, you’re thirty five today, Marie. The good news is we’re 35 and alive. You know who’s not alive though? Mom. Sorry if that threw a wrench into the time-space continuum. And you know what you would never think you’d be feeling today? Relief and guilt. We’re 35 and Mom has died and I feel relieved. I’m writing to tell you not to feel bad for feeling relieved, the way I am now.
I’ll tell you how it happened – it happened five years ago. So why am I writing about this now? She died of a heart attack, of course. A woman who kvetched to everyone and their mailman had to be suffering from hypertension.
Oh I’m also writing to tell you not to worry so much about boys right now. You will find someone amazing, and he will be a good one. That’s all I’m going to tell you for now, since some things should remain a mystery because there is nothing like that first savory taste of Something Good.
Anyway, guilt. Don’t feel bad. Because if it’s anything I’ve learned (you’ve learned) in the next twenty years, it’s that it is okay if your family is not perfect. It is okay if you feel disconnected and different, and it is okay to make a family of your own. Nobody’s family is perfect, and for once, I give you permission – I give us permission – to disown our family.
What family really is are the people who are kind to you, no matter what.
All My Love & Sympathies,
Marie, 35.
(302 words)
Day 6
94: Life Story. Write a short first-person story of someone's entire life. Make the sentences islands of themselves, the scene of action, and detail. Don't worry about making "sense" from sentence to sentence (which is good advice for any kind of writing). But also don't forget that a reader has to follow a thread, a set of bread crumbs, a trial of broken branches, footprints, and crumpled candy wrappers. Focus on the details that reveal the personality and the changes in personality of the character. How do people change? Why do they change? Imagine a frame device that makes this kind of story possible - a guy in a bar; a grown woman magically transported back to third grade who is asked to tell what she did last summer, except she confuses this with what did you do with your life? 300 words.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Los Angeles, Los Angeles
There is something mythical about this town. If you were to grab it by the ankles and shake it upside down, you’d be left with a dusty pile of cocaine and glitter. I love it. Sitting on the bus, two hours before my next audition, I absorb all the characters around me.
An old lady knits across the aisle. The curly haired boy before me has headphones on, his fingers tapping ever-so-slightly with the beat of his music. He stares out the window. Two middle school aged girls in navy school uniforms with knee-high socks sit across from him, one gazing at him longingly. The other’s nose deep in BusinessWeek.
I feel a tap on my shoulder. Turning around, I’m faced with two high school girls with glitter across their eyelids and straight blonde hair.
“You’re the tampon girl, right?” One asks excitedly, pointing to the ad overhead that I shot six months ago for Tampax.
I nod, and smile, turning back around. The bus lurches to a stop and five new passengers get on, including a young couple who can’t seem to keep their hands off each other. I feel another tap, more impatient. Turning again, I look at them quizzically as the other one begins: “You’re in that new movie with Orlando Bloom, right? What was that like?”
“It was fun,” I say shortly. I turn, eager to get back to observing the characters on the bus, including the old woman whose knitting has turned into an extra long sweater with four arms. But behind me, the girls murmur loudly.
“If I got to kiss Orlando Bloom, I wouldn’t be such a bitch.”
I hate LA.
(279 words)
An old lady knits across the aisle. The curly haired boy before me has headphones on, his fingers tapping ever-so-slightly with the beat of his music. He stares out the window. Two middle school aged girls in navy school uniforms with knee-high socks sit across from him, one gazing at him longingly. The other’s nose deep in BusinessWeek.
I feel a tap on my shoulder. Turning around, I’m faced with two high school girls with glitter across their eyelids and straight blonde hair.
“You’re the tampon girl, right?” One asks excitedly, pointing to the ad overhead that I shot six months ago for Tampax.
I nod, and smile, turning back around. The bus lurches to a stop and five new passengers get on, including a young couple who can’t seem to keep their hands off each other. I feel another tap, more impatient. Turning again, I look at them quizzically as the other one begins: “You’re in that new movie with Orlando Bloom, right? What was that like?”
“It was fun,” I say shortly. I turn, eager to get back to observing the characters on the bus, including the old woman whose knitting has turned into an extra long sweater with four arms. But behind me, the girls murmur loudly.
“If I got to kiss Orlando Bloom, I wouldn’t be such a bitch.”
I hate LA.
(279 words)
Exposed
I watched him sleep, said nothing. I marveled at the strange way he slept, his body atop the covers and tangled in the blanket, his head not on the pillow but buried beneath it.
“Zac,” I whispered softly.
He remained amazingly still, the deep sighs that escaped his mouth every few moments the only indications that he was indeed alive.
I nudged him, unable to help myself. He responded by rocking in several jerky motions on the bed, finally settling into a position on his side.
“Zac,” I spoke this time.
“Mmmph,” his words were indecipherable in slumber as he curled into a tight ball. I smiled at the sight before me. His large body was now in the fetal position, and he cradled his pillow in his arms the way one might hold a small child.
He was sleeping a seemingly impenetrable sleep. I scooted to the edge of the bed and my feet hit the ground, the bedsprings creaking as I moved.
“Zac,” I announced, “I’m pregnant.” I stared up at the December morning light that hung from the window in thick white sheets.
His eyes opened. “Did you just say something?” he murmured, his voice thick as he squinted against the harsh light.
“No, go back to sleep,” I said.
He seemed to be following my directions as he nudged his head towards my torso and closed his eyes, his soft hair tumbling onto my arm and tickling it; but then, he spoke.
“I heard you, you know. It’s alright to be scared, but you don’t need to hide from me - we’re going to give that kid one hell of a life.”
(word count: 276)
Day 5: Monotony
130: Monotony. Write a story with the following monotonous structure: short sentence (less than 8 words); long sentence (more than 16 words); very short (less than 5); long (more than 12); then repeat this pattern five times. This story should be about a character's inability to be invisible when all she wants is to observe a compelling scene taking place in front of her. I'm pairing this subject and this monotonous structure so you can see the intricate relationship between style and substance. This character's failure to go unnoticed ought to interact with the simple repetition of sentence lengths. A person like this thinks in patterns -- we all do. Find a set of patterns that mirrors the problems being faced by your characters. This exercise will be twenty sentences long. 250 words.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
At The Core
The house smelled faintly of apples and cinnamon when we stepped inside. Zac shed his coat and reached out his arm to take mine. After hanging them up, he led me into the kitchen. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until I took in the sight in front of me and felt the tension flow from my body.
“Hey, Mom,” Zac’s voice was gentle and it prodded her gaze towards us. She was so focused on her task that she hadn’t noticed our presence. She took us in with wide blue eyes, seemed to truly recognize us. It was a good day.
“Oh, you’re home early!” The peeler shook slightly in her hand as she spoke, the small instrument looking as though it could crush her fragile bones. “I’m making apple pie. It was supposed to be a surprise.”
Her eyes shone brightly. My throat tightened at the simple sincerity of her words.
“Well, you know how I am with surprises. I’ve never been patient enough for them,” Zac said, flopping into the empty chair in front of him. He plucked a strip of skin from the table and stretched it tautly between his fingers, his fingertips grazing its crispness.
“How can I help?” I asked, sliding into the chair opposite her.
“You can peel some of these, if you’d like,” she motioned to the four remaining apples balanced on the tabletop and set the peeler beside them. “My hands are starting to get sore.”
Zac chuckled as I picked up the peeler and turned it around in my hands, examining it. He sensed my discomfort. At his laughter, his mom looked at him inquisitively, like a child.
“Janie’s not a very good cook,” Zac explained.
Blood rushed swiftly to my face, and I imagined that it filled my cheeks with nearly the same color as the deep red skin of the apples. Although his comment was spoken with a good-natured smile, I couldn’t help feeling the sting of his words, along with their truth.
But now was not the time nor the place for an argument over something so trivial. I matched his grin as I gripped the peeler in one hand and grabbed a medium-sized apple from the table with the other.
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,” his mother said placidly. “Everyone can cook. The only people who fail don’t care enough to even try. But Janie cares, and I know she'll try.”
As I started peeling, I noticed every motion that my body made. I felt nervous, put to the test; and I always became much more aware of my own mortality whenever I was around her. I felt the way my arm tensed up and my lips pursed, along with the quiet, shallow breaths that escaped them in a slightly offbeat rhythm. I watched my dark veins spread prominently across their territory like webbed feet beneath my skin as I worked. Choppy, uneven layers fell away from the apple and gathered on the table like a heap of dying soldiers.
I felt a barely-perceptible pressure on my wrist, light and feathery, and realized that his mom had taken my hand in hers and was guiding the peeler towards the apple at a less harsh angle. With her gentle direction, a layer of skin cascaded from the apple in an almost perfect spiral. Her fingers lifted from my wrist with the same weightlessness with which they had descended. Another neat curl of skin was added to the table’s colorful display. I smiled, pleased with my small but significant accomplishment.
“There,” I pronounced happily, setting the naked, coreless apple in the table’s center. “Maybe I’m not that bad after all!”
I shot a pointed look in Zac’s direction, and was taken aback to find his hazel eyes wet with unshed tears. He scooted his chair close to me, leaned over, pressed his lips against mine. His mom’s entire face was beaming; even her wrinkles seemed to smile. Maybe, by overcoming that simple challenge, I had received full admittance into a family so close to me but not quite my own.
(word count: 745)
Bread-and-butterflies.
I hit the ground running. Leaping clear across the room with its sun-streaked floorboards, I felt the weight of my body outweigh my sense of balance as I skidded into the wall with a thud. Dust bloomed off the ledge of the naked window frame. My uncontrollable giggles echoed through the empty apartment. Empty, save for a mattress and box spring stacked in the middle of the room.
“Stop it!” I shrieked as Adam, his amber eyes translucent with the sunlight streaming through the window, lurched towards me. He stepped off the bed with ease, arms raised like a bear.
“You started it,” He grumbled in a low voice, stumbling forward as I darted out from under his grasp.
“You started it!” I screamed from across the room. I snatched a pile of sheets off the bed and threw them at him as he turned around and lumbered towards me again. This only exacerbated his presence, as he turned into a towering wall of cloth and man. It wasn’t before long that he held me pinned against the wall.
“Fine, you have me,” I sighed, pulling my hair out of my sweaty face. “What are you going to do with me now?”
“I’m going to EAT YOU!” He snarled, collecting my body in his large arms.
I wiggled and kicked, giggling and gasping for air as I slowly weasled my way out of his grip. “How about I make you food instead?”
He instantly released me and tossed the sheets off from over his head. “Okay.”
Adam followed me into the small kitchenette, and I opened the miniature fridge underneath the counter. A half-eaten chunk of cheese, a small chunk of butter wrapped in wax paper and a half empty plastic bottle of milk sat inside, unblinking. With a new loaf of bread from the neighbors’ next door as a welcome gift, I decided to pull out the pad of butter. “How does toast sound to you?”
As I fumbled through the still un-packed boxes sitting on the kitchen counter, Adam pulled himself onto the narrow kitchen counter. “Sounds delicious.”
“Ahh, yes!” I finally retrieved the toaster from the clutches of the bottom of the third cardboard box. Brushing off the dusty top and then upturning it to shake out crumbs into the sink, I finally set it on the counter and plugged it in.
Meanwhile, Adam snatched a butter knife off the top of another box and started to unwrap the butter. I turned to watch him find the butter still unpleasantly warm from our earlier drive, the one with the last of our things. Clarified butter with clusters of white fat dribbled down the sides of the wax paper. I remarked disdainfully as I unwrapped the loaf of bread, but Adam grinned and licked the sides of his fingers where the butter had bled. “Mmm delicious.” He laughed.
“Perhaps we could just live off butter and bread. Butter will fatten us up, keep us warm in the winter, save the heating bill…” He rambled off more reasons as he got off the counter and I pulled two slices of bread out plunked them into the toaster.
“Keep our skin soft,” Adam stepped up behind me and gently touches my bare arm with his buttery fingers, rubbing the fat into my deeply tanned skin. He leaned down and kissed my arm. I closed my eyes as he murmured on my shoulder. “Yep, butter will keep us together.”
“You better save some for the toast.” I croaked, feeling the wry words crawl up my throat. The toast popped up.
Adam stepped back and leaned with his back against the counter as I gingerly plucked the toast out by the points and laid it down on paper towels. He licked the rest of his finger tips quickly, and handed me the butter knife and pad. “Nah, butter’s just the frosting. It’ll just make us fat. The bread is what will keep us alive.”
(662 words)
“Stop it!” I shrieked as Adam, his amber eyes translucent with the sunlight streaming through the window, lurched towards me. He stepped off the bed with ease, arms raised like a bear.
“You started it,” He grumbled in a low voice, stumbling forward as I darted out from under his grasp.
“You started it!” I screamed from across the room. I snatched a pile of sheets off the bed and threw them at him as he turned around and lumbered towards me again. This only exacerbated his presence, as he turned into a towering wall of cloth and man. It wasn’t before long that he held me pinned against the wall.
“Fine, you have me,” I sighed, pulling my hair out of my sweaty face. “What are you going to do with me now?”
“I’m going to EAT YOU!” He snarled, collecting my body in his large arms.
I wiggled and kicked, giggling and gasping for air as I slowly weasled my way out of his grip. “How about I make you food instead?”
He instantly released me and tossed the sheets off from over his head. “Okay.”
Adam followed me into the small kitchenette, and I opened the miniature fridge underneath the counter. A half-eaten chunk of cheese, a small chunk of butter wrapped in wax paper and a half empty plastic bottle of milk sat inside, unblinking. With a new loaf of bread from the neighbors’ next door as a welcome gift, I decided to pull out the pad of butter. “How does toast sound to you?”
As I fumbled through the still un-packed boxes sitting on the kitchen counter, Adam pulled himself onto the narrow kitchen counter. “Sounds delicious.”
“Ahh, yes!” I finally retrieved the toaster from the clutches of the bottom of the third cardboard box. Brushing off the dusty top and then upturning it to shake out crumbs into the sink, I finally set it on the counter and plugged it in.
Meanwhile, Adam snatched a butter knife off the top of another box and started to unwrap the butter. I turned to watch him find the butter still unpleasantly warm from our earlier drive, the one with the last of our things. Clarified butter with clusters of white fat dribbled down the sides of the wax paper. I remarked disdainfully as I unwrapped the loaf of bread, but Adam grinned and licked the sides of his fingers where the butter had bled. “Mmm delicious.” He laughed.
“Perhaps we could just live off butter and bread. Butter will fatten us up, keep us warm in the winter, save the heating bill…” He rambled off more reasons as he got off the counter and I pulled two slices of bread out plunked them into the toaster.
“Keep our skin soft,” Adam stepped up behind me and gently touches my bare arm with his buttery fingers, rubbing the fat into my deeply tanned skin. He leaned down and kissed my arm. I closed my eyes as he murmured on my shoulder. “Yep, butter will keep us together.”
“You better save some for the toast.” I croaked, feeling the wry words crawl up my throat. The toast popped up.
Adam stepped back and leaned with his back against the counter as I gingerly plucked the toast out by the points and laid it down on paper towels. He licked the rest of his finger tips quickly, and handed me the butter knife and pad. “Nah, butter’s just the frosting. It’ll just make us fat. The bread is what will keep us alive.”
(662 words)
Day 4: Cooking.
48: Cooking. Use cookery - menu preparation, the love of this essential process - as a way of understanding a man and a woman's relationship to each other. Or, to put it another way, use an evening of cooking (and perhaps entertaining) as a way of exploring a relationship between a man and a woman. If you have any kind of experience with cooking and know of certain unusual recipes, adapt these for the purposes of this exercise. 600 words.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Love, Abandoned
Pieces of his presence stick to the apartment like adhesive, as if they are truly afraid of letting go because they know that they comprise all that's left of him. If they vanish, he too will disappear in the vast empty space where his life once stood. So it is my job - no, it is my duty to maintain these pieces day by day. To polish, furnish, and revitalize his existence; to keep him tangible rather than a memory with the potential to fade over time.
A canvas sack rests against the coffee table in the living room, filled with his books. Books he never read, but whose passages I, in the passing months, came to memorize. The Brothers Karamazov. The Beautiful and the Damned. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. I read them all not once, but twice, hoping to find some sort of answer between the barely-worn pages, a reason for his departure that I might be able to actually understand.
In the bedroom, on the dresser, all of his hats are lined up in an impeccably neat row. His red, frayed trucker cap that he liked to wear at an angle, that I complained covered far too much of his face. The cuffed beanie hat from his childhood days that he insisted on wearing out in public, even though it was too small. The gray wool cap that I knitted for him last Christmas. Sometimes I put them on and model them in front of the mirror, marveling at our differences. Marveling at how I found him in the first place. Wondering if I’ll ever find him again.
Every day, I dust the bedroom thoroughly, afraid of dirt and cobwebs creeping into and stealing away the place we used to so intimately share. Whenever I clean, I listen to music to ward off the dead silence that hovers closely overhead. A mix CD he gave me for my birthday plays in the background, each song a slideshow of memories that often seem more vivid, more present than my actual waking life.
“There you are,” my brother walks into the room, tossing the spare key onto the bed beside me. He looks miserable; tired. Then I realize that I’m staring at my own reflection in his eyes.
My only response is a gentle humming, the nostalgic music a barrier between us. He sighs. “Of course you’re in here. Where else would you be?”
I ignore his agitated tone of voice and continue dusting, finding the long, sweeping motions of my hands across a well-known surface safe and therapeutic. On the bedside table sits a framed picture of us, and I stare at it, into our young, smiling faces, before covering it completely with my small dustrag. There are certain days when I can’t even think about how happy we used to be.
“When are you going to give up?” he asks.
I continue humming along with Stevie Nicks, my soft voice mixing with her sultry one and filling the silence.
“He met some…some girl out in
I stop humming, and sit down abruptly on the bed beside my brother. The next song tiptoes into the tension; it’s Led Zeppelin’s “No Quarter.” My eyes fill with tears.
“Of course he didn’t tell you,” he continues, answering his own question. “He didn’t tell you he was leaving in the first place, so why would he tell you that he’s not coming back?”
They carry news that must get through
To build a dream for me and you…
“He’s not coming back, Steph,” he says, the edge to his voice replaced with a softness flanked by pity. He wants to comfort me, I can tell, but he makes no move to hug me.
I wait for the song to end; it takes several long minutes. By the time it has finished, I’m standing up, uncovering the photograph, polishing its bright, glossy surface.
I can handle living with ghosts, I think, as long as they promise to never leave me.
(word count: 686)
Time After Time
“When do you think you will come back down?” I ask cautiously, slowly swallowing each word as I spoke. My hands folded and unfolded the same pair of red socks, the last thing I need to pack. I’m standing at the foot of the bed, with an open carry-on suitcase sitting in front of me. Ben is staring at the computer screen with his back to me, scrawling down the number of the airport shuttle service.
“I don’t know yet, I will have to check my vacation hours…” He trails off, with an unconvincing and reluctant answer. We both know he’s lying. “Your shuttle should be here at ten.”
“I’ll have some time off in the beginning of --” The phone rings. I shut my mouth, with the tangled words I didn’t say evaporating into the cold, grey room. Ben picks up the phone and stands up, glancing over once to look at my suitcase before stepping into the entryway.
“Hello?” I hear him answer, muffled through the corners of his San Francisco studio apartment. My heart starts to throb faster in my chest, my pulse rising. I shove the sock into the suitcase and quickly zip it up before he returns. Checking the clock, I notice that his bedside clock has been stuck at 9:20 for the past fifteen minutes. I reference my cell phone, and realize that it was already quarter to ten. Jumping up to check the bathroom one last time, I overheard Ben in the hallway.
“No, I have a guest over…” He says softly, rushing the person off the phone.
I feel a visible hole start to grow in the pit of my stomach, and I clutch it in one hand, holding my cardigan together to cover the developing pit. Open medicine cabinet behind mirror, check. No toothbrush, no toothpaste, no mundane domestic object to gesture that I may have ever been here. The mysterious pink clip still sits on the ledge of the first shelf, the remaining specks of worn away glitter wink at me. My stomach lurches again as I slam shut the cabinet, almost a little too hard as Ben peeks in following the beep signaling the hang up.
“Are you okay?” He asks, eyes darting around the bathroom before finally resting on me. I turn my head towards him but keep my fingers clutched around my cardigan.
I nod. “I’m fine.” I brush past him, back out into the main room. In a swift moment, I set the suitcase on its little rolling feet, and slinging my leather bag onto my shoulder. I quickly button up my cardigan before I stand up straight to face him.
“I’ll just head down there now,” I say briskly, heading towards the door. He steps aside and observes me without expression. As he starts to follow me out the front door, I turn to him and press a hand to his chest. “I think I should be okay from here. I’ve done this several times already.”
“Are you sure?” Ben uncomfortably rubs the back of his neck with one hand, his other resting on the doorknob.
“Yeah.” I reply, nodding assuringly while feeling the hole tunnel up my chest. He purses his mouth to one side, looking me in the eye questioningly. “Yeah,” I say again, softly, nodding my head and turning away from him towards the elevator.
I press the button, and then turn to look at him standing at the door way. “By the way,” I start, as the elevator door opens. “Your clock’s stopped.”
He looks startled by the remark, startled that this is all I had to say to him in this moment where we both knew that this is probably the last time we would ever see each other again. “Oh, thanks.”
“You’re welcome. See you later, Ben.” I say, stepping into the elevator and pressing the Lobby button. I wave, awkwardly, as the doors close and I can hardly believe that this is what our past five years had come down to. I guess we’ve run out of time.
(681 words)
“I don’t know yet, I will have to check my vacation hours…” He trails off, with an unconvincing and reluctant answer. We both know he’s lying. “Your shuttle should be here at ten.”
“I’ll have some time off in the beginning of --” The phone rings. I shut my mouth, with the tangled words I didn’t say evaporating into the cold, grey room. Ben picks up the phone and stands up, glancing over once to look at my suitcase before stepping into the entryway.
“Hello?” I hear him answer, muffled through the corners of his San Francisco studio apartment. My heart starts to throb faster in my chest, my pulse rising. I shove the sock into the suitcase and quickly zip it up before he returns. Checking the clock, I notice that his bedside clock has been stuck at 9:20 for the past fifteen minutes. I reference my cell phone, and realize that it was already quarter to ten. Jumping up to check the bathroom one last time, I overheard Ben in the hallway.
“No, I have a guest over…” He says softly, rushing the person off the phone.
I feel a visible hole start to grow in the pit of my stomach, and I clutch it in one hand, holding my cardigan together to cover the developing pit. Open medicine cabinet behind mirror, check. No toothbrush, no toothpaste, no mundane domestic object to gesture that I may have ever been here. The mysterious pink clip still sits on the ledge of the first shelf, the remaining specks of worn away glitter wink at me. My stomach lurches again as I slam shut the cabinet, almost a little too hard as Ben peeks in following the beep signaling the hang up.
“Are you okay?” He asks, eyes darting around the bathroom before finally resting on me. I turn my head towards him but keep my fingers clutched around my cardigan.
I nod. “I’m fine.” I brush past him, back out into the main room. In a swift moment, I set the suitcase on its little rolling feet, and slinging my leather bag onto my shoulder. I quickly button up my cardigan before I stand up straight to face him.
“I’ll just head down there now,” I say briskly, heading towards the door. He steps aside and observes me without expression. As he starts to follow me out the front door, I turn to him and press a hand to his chest. “I think I should be okay from here. I’ve done this several times already.”
“Are you sure?” Ben uncomfortably rubs the back of his neck with one hand, his other resting on the doorknob.
“Yeah.” I reply, nodding assuringly while feeling the hole tunnel up my chest. He purses his mouth to one side, looking me in the eye questioningly. “Yeah,” I say again, softly, nodding my head and turning away from him towards the elevator.
I press the button, and then turn to look at him standing at the door way. “By the way,” I start, as the elevator door opens. “Your clock’s stopped.”
He looks startled by the remark, startled that this is all I had to say to him in this moment where we both knew that this is probably the last time we would ever see each other again. “Oh, thanks.”
“You’re welcome. See you later, Ben.” I say, stepping into the elevator and pressing the Lobby button. I wave, awkwardly, as the doors close and I can hardly believe that this is what our past five years had come down to. I guess we’ve run out of time.
(681 words)
Day 3: Loveless
27: Loveless. Create a character around this sentence: Nobody has ever loved me as much as I have loved him. Do not use this sentence in the fragment of fiction you write. This sentence comes from Guy Davenport's aunt, Mary Elizabeth Davenport Morrow, via his essay "On Reading" in The Hunter Gracchus. Resist the temptation this exercise offers for a completely self-indulgent character. Of course, some self-indulgence will be fun. Think of this sentence as a kind of mathematical formula. Is the person who utters this sentence speaking of all the friends and loved ones he has known in his life? Or is she focusing on one person who did not return love satisfactorily? Consider the strong possibility that whoever would say something like this is unreliable. 500 words.
Monday, June 11, 2007
511
The sun glazed the ground, paved it with a careful luster that I feared my footsteps would disrupt. My feet, whose only protection had frayed and failed them and had chosen to limply retire on the pavement several miles back, slapped the hot stones beneath them. New blisters bloomed on skin already red and engorged in agitation. Yet still I walked on, the fierce heat bearable (made gentle, almost) only because of my destination.
I stopped without lifting my eyes from the ground, knowing that exactly five hundred and eleven evenly-spaced steps had brought me to his door. The room was small, but not crowded. The window was streaked with grime and signs of age, which lent it the appearance of being slightly wrinkled, like saran wrap, something that was meant to be smooth but never quite got there. That the glass existed was simple enough, but it manipulated me, giving birth to depths that might have been illusive; mere tricks of light intent on dancing around what was actually beneath them. I could see through the window, but not completely.
His long hair was sensitive to his body's motions, first hanging hesitantly over his ears, then perking up and bobbing quickly and erratically, like stormy ocean waves. The piano keys rippled in flashes of black-and-white, at the mercy of his fingers. His mouth settled into a crescent, the half-moon shape broken only when his lips parted noiselessly. Ribbons of light curled from his eyes and reached towards the window, and my hand instinctively shot out, prepared to catch them. My fingers grasped thin air instead, the same air I listened to as I watched him. I inched closer to the glass, knowing that no matter how close I got, I wouldn’t be able to hear the music. But that knowledge never stopped me from trying.
(word count: 305)
Method
We were sitting in the comfortable silence only achieved through true intimacy when she appeared behind the counter. Ben gazed down at his slice of cinnamon apple pie, stabbing the golden glazed crust apart with his dinted diner fork. I was staring past his shoulder with my hands nursing a coffee mug filled with lukewarm creamed-and-sugared coffee, poised at the edge of my seat. She was wearing a seafoam green polyester button-up dress with a scallop-edged apron tied at her waist and a golden name tag reading “Winifred”. Winifred pulled a dishrag from the pocket of her apron, and began to rinse and wring it in the sink.
A pair of old men sat at the counter, asking Winifred about the news, lifting their playful eyes in their weathered faces from the thick wads of newspaper clutched between their liver-spotted hands. Both of them were squat, wearing flannel shirts with suspenders holding up their pants. Winifred smiled and nodded at them, with her eyes lowered to the counter as she wiped in methodical circles on the stainless steel counter.
She smoothed back the loose strands of hair hanging from her ponytail as she tossed the dishrag into the sink, washing her hands vigorously afterwards. The old men had returned to their newspapers and chatter between themselves, the acrid talk of old friends jabbing at each other since surviving the war, the stock market and dot com crash, and 2 wives (each). Finally alone, Winifred pulled out a pie crust from the oven and began filling the half-baked tin with berries. She mashed in the ones that were tumbling off the top, her fingers thick with blackberry pulp. With a generous sprinkle of cinnamon sugar, Winifred opened the oven again and slid the tin in but not without incident. She jumped when her fingers brushed against the oven rack, and shook her hand out, cursing as she closed the oven door. Frowning furiously and muttering under her breath, she walked over to the sink to run her hand under cold water. There, she caught my eye and I looked down at my coffee, then at Ben as my cheeks flushed. I found Ben staring back at me, with grinning, knowing eyes.
(367 words)
A pair of old men sat at the counter, asking Winifred about the news, lifting their playful eyes in their weathered faces from the thick wads of newspaper clutched between their liver-spotted hands. Both of them were squat, wearing flannel shirts with suspenders holding up their pants. Winifred smiled and nodded at them, with her eyes lowered to the counter as she wiped in methodical circles on the stainless steel counter.
She smoothed back the loose strands of hair hanging from her ponytail as she tossed the dishrag into the sink, washing her hands vigorously afterwards. The old men had returned to their newspapers and chatter between themselves, the acrid talk of old friends jabbing at each other since surviving the war, the stock market and dot com crash, and 2 wives (each). Finally alone, Winifred pulled out a pie crust from the oven and began filling the half-baked tin with berries. She mashed in the ones that were tumbling off the top, her fingers thick with blackberry pulp. With a generous sprinkle of cinnamon sugar, Winifred opened the oven again and slid the tin in but not without incident. She jumped when her fingers brushed against the oven rack, and shook her hand out, cursing as she closed the oven door. Frowning furiously and muttering under her breath, she walked over to the sink to run her hand under cold water. There, she caught my eye and I looked down at my coffee, then at Ben as my cheeks flushed. I found Ben staring back at me, with grinning, knowing eyes.
(367 words)
Day 2
14: No ideas, but in things. Write a very brief story told only in images - concrete, simple, visually effective movements and details. This exercise does not ask you to eliminate people from your prose, just to watch what they do and what objects they crave and caress rather than what they say or think about these objects and actions. 300 words.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Day 1
The Reluctant I. Write a first-person story in which you use the first person pronoun (I or me or my) only two times – but keep the “I” somehow important to the narrative you’re constructing. The point of this exercise is to imagine a narrator who is less interested in himself than in what he is observing. You can make your narrator someone who sees an interesting event in which he is not necessarily a participant. Or you can make him self-effacing, yet a major participant in the events related. It is very important in this exercise to make sure your reader is not surprised, forty or fifty words into the piece, to realize that this is a first person narration. Show us quickly who is observing the scene. 600 words.
The people we tend to like most are those who are much more interested in other people than themselves, selfless and caring, whose conversation is not a stream of self-involved remarks (like the guy who, after speaking about himself to a woman at a party for half an hour, says, “Enough about me, what do you think of me?”). I’m not trying to legislate only likeable characters or narrators. I use the example of successful social selves above to give an idea of what is needed in successful fiction. Another lesson you might learn from this exercise is how important it is to let things and events speak for themselves beyond the ego of the narration.
The people we tend to like most are those who are much more interested in other people than themselves, selfless and caring, whose conversation is not a stream of self-involved remarks (like the guy who, after speaking about himself to a woman at a party for half an hour, says, “Enough about me, what do you think of me?”). I’m not trying to legislate only likeable characters or narrators. I use the example of successful social selves above to give an idea of what is needed in successful fiction. Another lesson you might learn from this exercise is how important it is to let things and events speak for themselves beyond the ego of the narration.
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