Saturday, February 26, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Exercise #6: The Royal We
Write a first-person-plural narration of an event from the POV of a very close-knit couple. The reader should be unable to discern which of the two is telling the story. Do not use the first-person pronoun I in this exercise. Example: We found the body in the outhouse, and Jenny got the can of gasoline from the garage while Benjamin removed all the toilet paper rolls stacked up on the door shelves (No sense wasting them). 600 words.
I had some trouble with this one, and I'm not sure I did it right, but here it is. Enjoy.
We drove through the night across the dusty Texas highway in silence. Lenny stared at what there was of the fleeting barren landscape as Nora watched the road ahead. The Buick's wheels speeding down the highway droned over the sound of Motown playing on the radio. Oldies was the only station we could agree on. Occasionally, Nora would glance over at Lenny and frown. Lenny would do the same.
The silence weighed heavily on us with words we wanted to say, should have said years ago. The silence persisted between Lenny and Nora until the right front tire blew out twenty miles before we reached the town of Purgatory. Lenny cursed as Nora did her best to ease the Buick into the breakdown lane. We both climbed out of the car to check the damage. The tire was old, practically bald, and Nora said as much in an accusatory tone. Lenny gave her a sharp look that could have slapped her into the asphalt. We exchanged dirty looks. Nora was getting tired of his passive-aggressive bullshit. Lenny was sick of her constant nagging. For once, we longed for the heavy silence that preceded most of our arguments.
Nora crossed her arms against her chest as Lenny popped the trunk and made his way to the back of the car to rummage through the assorted junk for the jack and a tire iron. The trunk was huge, large enough to fit a human body. Nora tapped her foot impatiently, decided to have a smoke to calm her nerves, and rummaged through the glove compartment for a lighter. That's where we keep the gun.
Lenny found the rusty tire iron under a pile of luggage, most of which belonged to Nora. Nora's hand caressed the .38 Special, bought years ago when we lived in Groverleaf Apartments, located in the worst part of town. Lenny tested the weight of the tire iron while peeking around the raised trunk hatch. Our eyes met briefly and in that moment, Lenny realized he would never be free until the bitch was dead. Nora hated him, knew he would never be the man he hoped he would be. A divorce would break him. She would get peanuts in a divorce settlement compared to the millions she would get from his life insurance policy. We knew what we had to do and we were determined to get it done.
He gripped the tire iron tight and called Nora to come see what he found. Nora hid the gun behind her back as she made her way to the back of the car. We were sweating bullets over what we were about to do. We were terrified and horrified and exhilarated. Nora and Lenny had never felt more alive.
Lenny readied himself to swing as her clacking heels came closer. Nora cocked the hammer, ready to blow his brains out the second she whipped it out. She came into view holding something in her hands, and she froze as she focused on the tire iron. We stood there on the side of the road, shocked and frozen in our defensive positions, unable to take our eyes off each other.
We threw our weapons to the ground. Eyes smoldering, our hearts racing, Nora and Lenny threw themselves into each other's arms, kissing passionately, unable to keep our hands off each other. Nora hastily fumbled with his zipper while Lenny shucked up her skirt. We screwed each other's brains out, screaming and moaning, not caring if they were spotted by some passing motorist. Knowing it could happen made the whole thing that much more intense.
After we finished, Lenny zipped up his pants, Nora fixed her dress and grabbed her torn panties from the asphalt, and we both climbed into the car without saying a word. They spent the rest of the trip as silent as they started, but neither of us minded. The air had been cleared, and we could go on peacefully with our marriage...at least until their next road trip.
I had some trouble with this one, and I'm not sure I did it right, but here it is. Enjoy.
We drove through the night across the dusty Texas highway in silence. Lenny stared at what there was of the fleeting barren landscape as Nora watched the road ahead. The Buick's wheels speeding down the highway droned over the sound of Motown playing on the radio. Oldies was the only station we could agree on. Occasionally, Nora would glance over at Lenny and frown. Lenny would do the same.
The silence weighed heavily on us with words we wanted to say, should have said years ago. The silence persisted between Lenny and Nora until the right front tire blew out twenty miles before we reached the town of Purgatory. Lenny cursed as Nora did her best to ease the Buick into the breakdown lane. We both climbed out of the car to check the damage. The tire was old, practically bald, and Nora said as much in an accusatory tone. Lenny gave her a sharp look that could have slapped her into the asphalt. We exchanged dirty looks. Nora was getting tired of his passive-aggressive bullshit. Lenny was sick of her constant nagging. For once, we longed for the heavy silence that preceded most of our arguments.
Nora crossed her arms against her chest as Lenny popped the trunk and made his way to the back of the car to rummage through the assorted junk for the jack and a tire iron. The trunk was huge, large enough to fit a human body. Nora tapped her foot impatiently, decided to have a smoke to calm her nerves, and rummaged through the glove compartment for a lighter. That's where we keep the gun.
Lenny found the rusty tire iron under a pile of luggage, most of which belonged to Nora. Nora's hand caressed the .38 Special, bought years ago when we lived in Groverleaf Apartments, located in the worst part of town. Lenny tested the weight of the tire iron while peeking around the raised trunk hatch. Our eyes met briefly and in that moment, Lenny realized he would never be free until the bitch was dead. Nora hated him, knew he would never be the man he hoped he would be. A divorce would break him. She would get peanuts in a divorce settlement compared to the millions she would get from his life insurance policy. We knew what we had to do and we were determined to get it done.
He gripped the tire iron tight and called Nora to come see what he found. Nora hid the gun behind her back as she made her way to the back of the car. We were sweating bullets over what we were about to do. We were terrified and horrified and exhilarated. Nora and Lenny had never felt more alive.
Lenny readied himself to swing as her clacking heels came closer. Nora cocked the hammer, ready to blow his brains out the second she whipped it out. She came into view holding something in her hands, and she froze as she focused on the tire iron. We stood there on the side of the road, shocked and frozen in our defensive positions, unable to take our eyes off each other.
We threw our weapons to the ground. Eyes smoldering, our hearts racing, Nora and Lenny threw themselves into each other's arms, kissing passionately, unable to keep our hands off each other. Nora hastily fumbled with his zipper while Lenny shucked up her skirt. We screwed each other's brains out, screaming and moaning, not caring if they were spotted by some passing motorist. Knowing it could happen made the whole thing that much more intense.
After we finished, Lenny zipped up his pants, Nora fixed her dress and grabbed her torn panties from the asphalt, and we both climbed into the car without saying a word. They spent the rest of the trip as silent as they started, but neither of us minded. The air had been cleared, and we could go on peacefully with our marriage...at least until their next road trip.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Exercise #5: Journalism
Write part of a story in the form of journal entries. Writing this made me feel way old. 700 words.
April 8, 1994: Kurt Cobain was found dead today. I was sitting in the stairwell at school eating my lunch and reading Breakfast of Champions when I overheard a group of girls talking about it. They said he killed himself three days ago-shot himself or overdosed, I can't remember which-and his body was just found today. They were all crying as if they had lost a boyfriend, going on and on about how Courtney Love totally destroyed his life and it was all her fault which is a stupid thing to say when you think about it. I doubt she put the gun in his hand and said, "Here you go sweety. Fire when ready!" And would they care if he wasn't some big famous singer? Doubtful. Why do people waste their sorrow on strangers they barely know?
April 10, 1994: Finished writing Greg Thibedeaux's book report on Champions. He's a D- student and he wants A+ work. I tried to reason with him, warned him Mr. Aaron would suspect the obvious, but he was insistent. He's paying good money, and I pride myself on giving my customers what they want. Greg is a moron who will probably make it all the way to college pro before ending his career with a busted knee. He'll end up being an over the hill bag boy or beer bellied construction worker with a trailer full of dust covered trophies from his wonder years. I'm not being petty. Okay, I'm a little petty, but I'm also realistic. I broke professionalism the other day when I suggested he might want to have something to fall back on just in case football doesn't work out. Of course, he got defensive. Said he'd find someone else to give his money to, someone who wouldn't get all preachy on him. Smoothed things over by offering to do his math homework over the weekend free of charge. Note to self: Never get personal with a client. It only causes trouble.
April 11, 1994: Everyone is talking about the vigil held for Cobain the other day. Girls are crying and hugging each other for comfort. Students are cutting class to hit the music stores so they can snag copies of Nirvana albums they already own. Even Greg was misty eyed when I handed over his work. "It's the end of an era man," he told me when I asked what was wrong. It's been bothering me all day. Not the death of some idiot musician or even every one's reaction to it, but my lack of reaction to something that is obviously a huge deal. If this is the end of an era, why don't I feel apart of it?
April 14, 1994: I'm behind on every one's school work including my own. Spent the last three afternoons locked in my room, reading up on Kurt Cobain, listening to Nevermind and In Utero, just trying to figure out what the fuss is about. Greg lent me his copy of Bleach after I promised to return it undamaged. Seems like wasted effort. Why bother when I can turn on the radio. Every station is playing Nirvana's music, and after three days of hearing the same songs over and over, I still don't get it. I wonder if it was like this when Buddy Holly died. I made the mistake of asking mom and she wanted to know why the sudden interest. I told her about Kurt. Dumb. She panicked. Asked if I was feeling depressed, wanted to talk to a psychiatrist, etc. Told dad when he came home from work. He gave me a lecture on moral responsibility and the ethics of suicide. I tried to explain my interest was merely sociological-not a total lie-but he wouldn't let me get a word in. An hour later, all my music is confiscated including Greg's cassette. He's going to be pissed. I've also been informed that we will all be attending church this Sunday-the first time since Easter. My presence is mandatory. This is why I don't tell my parents anything. For the first time in a long, long time, I feel like a teenager should: angsty and defensive. The weird thing is, it feels kind of good. Maybe I'm starting to get this grunge thing after all.
April 15, 1994: As I predicted, Greg was pissed until I explained the situation with my parents. His dad has been riding him for missing football practice this last week. "Like there aren't more important things going on in my life than throwing a freakin' ball around," he said and the look of scorn took me by surprise. I always thought he was happy being a jock.
April 8, 1994: Kurt Cobain was found dead today. I was sitting in the stairwell at school eating my lunch and reading Breakfast of Champions when I overheard a group of girls talking about it. They said he killed himself three days ago-shot himself or overdosed, I can't remember which-and his body was just found today. They were all crying as if they had lost a boyfriend, going on and on about how Courtney Love totally destroyed his life and it was all her fault which is a stupid thing to say when you think about it. I doubt she put the gun in his hand and said, "Here you go sweety. Fire when ready!" And would they care if he wasn't some big famous singer? Doubtful. Why do people waste their sorrow on strangers they barely know?
April 10, 1994: Finished writing Greg Thibedeaux's book report on Champions. He's a D- student and he wants A+ work. I tried to reason with him, warned him Mr. Aaron would suspect the obvious, but he was insistent. He's paying good money, and I pride myself on giving my customers what they want. Greg is a moron who will probably make it all the way to college pro before ending his career with a busted knee. He'll end up being an over the hill bag boy or beer bellied construction worker with a trailer full of dust covered trophies from his wonder years. I'm not being petty. Okay, I'm a little petty, but I'm also realistic. I broke professionalism the other day when I suggested he might want to have something to fall back on just in case football doesn't work out. Of course, he got defensive. Said he'd find someone else to give his money to, someone who wouldn't get all preachy on him. Smoothed things over by offering to do his math homework over the weekend free of charge. Note to self: Never get personal with a client. It only causes trouble.
April 11, 1994: Everyone is talking about the vigil held for Cobain the other day. Girls are crying and hugging each other for comfort. Students are cutting class to hit the music stores so they can snag copies of Nirvana albums they already own. Even Greg was misty eyed when I handed over his work. "It's the end of an era man," he told me when I asked what was wrong. It's been bothering me all day. Not the death of some idiot musician or even every one's reaction to it, but my lack of reaction to something that is obviously a huge deal. If this is the end of an era, why don't I feel apart of it?
April 14, 1994: I'm behind on every one's school work including my own. Spent the last three afternoons locked in my room, reading up on Kurt Cobain, listening to Nevermind and In Utero, just trying to figure out what the fuss is about. Greg lent me his copy of Bleach after I promised to return it undamaged. Seems like wasted effort. Why bother when I can turn on the radio. Every station is playing Nirvana's music, and after three days of hearing the same songs over and over, I still don't get it. I wonder if it was like this when Buddy Holly died. I made the mistake of asking mom and she wanted to know why the sudden interest. I told her about Kurt. Dumb. She panicked. Asked if I was feeling depressed, wanted to talk to a psychiatrist, etc. Told dad when he came home from work. He gave me a lecture on moral responsibility and the ethics of suicide. I tried to explain my interest was merely sociological-not a total lie-but he wouldn't let me get a word in. An hour later, all my music is confiscated including Greg's cassette. He's going to be pissed. I've also been informed that we will all be attending church this Sunday-the first time since Easter. My presence is mandatory. This is why I don't tell my parents anything. For the first time in a long, long time, I feel like a teenager should: angsty and defensive. The weird thing is, it feels kind of good. Maybe I'm starting to get this grunge thing after all.
April 15, 1994: As I predicted, Greg was pissed until I explained the situation with my parents. His dad has been riding him for missing football practice this last week. "Like there aren't more important things going on in my life than throwing a freakin' ball around," he said and the look of scorn took me by surprise. I always thought he was happy being a jock.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Exercise #4: The Unstable Self
Write a story that alternates between the I and the he or she(or the name of the narrator), making sure you don't confuse the reader with the switches. This story was inspired by the Supernatural episode The Monster at the End of This Book and Richard J. Evans The Third Reich Trilogy. 500 words.
The blank page curled inside my typewriter mocks and frightens me with words I have not yet written. I am troubled, not by writer's block, but by the story I have become entangled. I pray for God to deliver me from this burden, and if He can not, for Him to give me the courage and wisdom to continue my work.
Esther's fingers throbbed from arthritis and her head hurt from a revelation induced migraine worsened by the "clickety-clack" of her Underwood. Three visions in one night. It was a record she knew she would not repeat. All three visions needed to be recorded before dawn. The clock in her study chimed midnight.
These three revelations have been delivered unto me:
Lost in a vast desert wilderness, dieing of thirst and hunger, I come upon a soldier guarding two fruit trees. The first, a plum tree, twisted and decayed, its fruit lying in a rotting heap on the sand. The second, an apricot tree, striving and lush, its ripe yellow fruit weigh its branches down. The plums smell sweet in spite of their rot. I ask the soldier for water and he offers me a sip from his canteen. Full after only one sip, the smell of the plums still entices me. I ask for a plum, but the soldier warns that the fruit of that tree is poisonous. Unable to resist, I take one of the plums and bite into it. I clutch my stomach in pain. A beast hidden in the branches falls upon me.
The plum had tasted sweet when she bit into it, but the juice burned her stomach and made her head hurt. Her mind had been bombarded with esoteric knowledge and images that lost their meaning upon waking. The knowledge the fruit gave her didn't kill her, but lying in the sand, clutching her stomach, she wished it had. The clock struck one.
Running down a forest path, chased by a beast I can't see. The path leads to a clearing with a solitary tree. A girl sitting at the base of the tree holds her arms above her head palms open. I warn her of the best on my trail. The girl can not leave. "I'm waiting for the stars to fall," she says as thousands fall from the sky in burning arcs. She reaches out to save as many as she can. The rest burn to ash as they fall to the ground.
Her eyes welled with tears at the memory of so many dead stars shaped like the yellow badges the Nazi's had forced her people to wear during the war. The clock struck two.
I wake to find the beast standing over me in my study. Its purple bloated face is as rotten as the plums from the desert and its lips are stained with juice. I tell it I know why it has come, that I can not give it what it wants. "We will see," it says. My mind and body are twisted by his magic, but he doesn't find what he is looking for. My body dies. The beast removes the page from my typewriter, reads my final message, and falls into a rage when he reads these words: The knowledge has been taken from me, given to someone for safe keeping. You should have eaten the apricots first. You will lose.
Esther nodded off at her desk.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Exercise #3: Unreliable Third
500 word exercise using the POV of an unreliable narrator. Schizophrenic bag lady or elderly woman on an acid trip? You be the judge.
Fran screamed and slapped her arms in an attempt to douse the flames burning her baggy sleeves. A gentleman wearing a top hat, calabash pipe, and a large monocle stuck in his right eye rushed to her assistance.
"What's wrong wit you, lady?" he enquired as Fran danced around sidewalk in a panic. "You sick or somethin'?"
"Are you blind?" she yelled as the flames spread all over her beautiful blue silk ball gown, the one with the white pearls sewn into the bodice that her late husband, the thirty-first duke of North Cumberland gave her for their twentieth wedding anniversary. "I've caught myself aflame. Be a dear and find a bucket of water for me."
"What are you nuts?" the man said as he stared at her with a quizzical expression while peering down at her through his monocle. "You ain't on fire."
The flames burned holes through her garment, leaving her skin-mercifully fire proof-tingle from the heat.
"You dare insult me, a duchess of the great house of Cumberland, by calling me a liar?" she exclaimed as the flames raged on, destroying what was left of her expensive gown, thankfully sparing her diamond tiara which was a gift from the queen.
"Listen lady," the man said with a puff of his calabash pipe, "I don't care if you're the duchess of cucumber sandwiches or the queen herself. You ain't on fire and that's a fact."
"Of course I am no longer on fire, you swine!" Lady Fran said, aghast at his total lack of etiquette and doing her best to cover her nakedness with her two dainty hands. "You took too long to assist me. And stop staring at my beautiful naked body. I know it is a tempting sight indeed, but you must remember your station as a gentleman and avert your eyes."
He eyed her up and down, taking in her young, nubile form with a keen discerning eye. "Ma'am, I ain't no gentleman and you sure as hell ain't beautiful."
Lady Fran gasped.
"And I knows you ain't naked, 'cause if you were, I'd be too busy screamin' in pain to look at you for long what from the hot pokers I'd be stickin' in my eyes just for to sear the image of your old, flabby carcass out of my skull."
Lady Fran slapped him good and proper. "Take that you cur!"
"What?" he said, soap bubbles inexplicably floating out of his mouth. "The lamppost done you wrong too?"
"Stop spitting those foolish bubbles at me," she said, wrapping her hands around his thick neck and squeezing for all she was worth.
The gentleman whistled and pulled a purple kangaroo with red polka dots out of his jacket pocket. It wore a saddle of finest Italian leather. The man tipped his hat to her as he climbed onto the beast's back and said, "Yeah, yeah, whatever you say you old bat."
Before Lady Fran could argue, the man hopped off down the street as fast as the kangaroo could take him. He was probably late for the queen's ball, of which, Fran also had an invitation.
"He calls me crazy!" The Duchess harrumphed as she observed his departure through her magical looking device cleverly disguised as a toilet paper tube. "I'm not the one going to the ball riding on the back of a kangaroo."
She straightened her tiara, waved her magic broomstick-cleverly disguised as the broken end of an ordinary broomstick making it inconspicuous to magic broomstick thieves-created another ball gown out of thin air, and made her way off to the ball in her magic coach-cleverly disguised as a rusty shopping cart.
Fran screamed and slapped her arms in an attempt to douse the flames burning her baggy sleeves. A gentleman wearing a top hat, calabash pipe, and a large monocle stuck in his right eye rushed to her assistance.
"What's wrong wit you, lady?" he enquired as Fran danced around sidewalk in a panic. "You sick or somethin'?"
"Are you blind?" she yelled as the flames spread all over her beautiful blue silk ball gown, the one with the white pearls sewn into the bodice that her late husband, the thirty-first duke of North Cumberland gave her for their twentieth wedding anniversary. "I've caught myself aflame. Be a dear and find a bucket of water for me."
"What are you nuts?" the man said as he stared at her with a quizzical expression while peering down at her through his monocle. "You ain't on fire."
The flames burned holes through her garment, leaving her skin-mercifully fire proof-tingle from the heat.
"You dare insult me, a duchess of the great house of Cumberland, by calling me a liar?" she exclaimed as the flames raged on, destroying what was left of her expensive gown, thankfully sparing her diamond tiara which was a gift from the queen.
"Listen lady," the man said with a puff of his calabash pipe, "I don't care if you're the duchess of cucumber sandwiches or the queen herself. You ain't on fire and that's a fact."
"Of course I am no longer on fire, you swine!" Lady Fran said, aghast at his total lack of etiquette and doing her best to cover her nakedness with her two dainty hands. "You took too long to assist me. And stop staring at my beautiful naked body. I know it is a tempting sight indeed, but you must remember your station as a gentleman and avert your eyes."
He eyed her up and down, taking in her young, nubile form with a keen discerning eye. "Ma'am, I ain't no gentleman and you sure as hell ain't beautiful."
Lady Fran gasped.
"And I knows you ain't naked, 'cause if you were, I'd be too busy screamin' in pain to look at you for long what from the hot pokers I'd be stickin' in my eyes just for to sear the image of your old, flabby carcass out of my skull."
Lady Fran slapped him good and proper. "Take that you cur!"
"What?" he said, soap bubbles inexplicably floating out of his mouth. "The lamppost done you wrong too?"
"Stop spitting those foolish bubbles at me," she said, wrapping her hands around his thick neck and squeezing for all she was worth.
The gentleman whistled and pulled a purple kangaroo with red polka dots out of his jacket pocket. It wore a saddle of finest Italian leather. The man tipped his hat to her as he climbed onto the beast's back and said, "Yeah, yeah, whatever you say you old bat."
Before Lady Fran could argue, the man hopped off down the street as fast as the kangaroo could take him. He was probably late for the queen's ball, of which, Fran also had an invitation.
"He calls me crazy!" The Duchess harrumphed as she observed his departure through her magical looking device cleverly disguised as a toilet paper tube. "I'm not the one going to the ball riding on the back of a kangaroo."
She straightened her tiara, waved her magic broomstick-cleverly disguised as the broken end of an ordinary broomstick making it inconspicuous to magic broomstick thieves-created another ball gown out of thin air, and made her way off to the ball in her magic coach-cleverly disguised as a rusty shopping cart.
Exercise #2: Imperative
This 500 word exercise called for the entire story to be made up of imperative commands. Example: Don't ask me why I chose this particular setting. Read. Enjoy.
Take off your leather coat and uncurl the long wool scarf from around your neck. Hang them both on the little hook attached to the examination room door. Remove your blouse, undershirt, and bra. Untie your shoes and slip them off, but leave your socks on because some chuckle head thought it would be a good idea to rev the A.C. up to frostbite levels, the floor is like ice, and it's not like the bastard will be examining your feet. Shimmy out of your jeans and panties. Chastise yourself for throwing on the first pair of granny panties you could find because you were running late to make the appointment. Fold each piece of clothing into a neat stack being careful to hide your bra and panties between your blouse, undershirt, and jeans. Realize what a stupid thing modesty is considering the circumstances. Set your clothes on the chair near the door with your purse, climb onto the examination table, rest your feet in the metal stirrups, and cover freezing naked body with the paper sheet the nurse gave you before she left the room.
Remember: This too shall pass.
Stare at the ceiling for what feels like an eternity. Wonder who's bright idea it was to scotch tape a poster up there, the one with the kitten hanging from a tree branch. Hang in there, it jovially commands of you. Go screw yourself, you want to say to it. You don't say it because it's just a stupid poster, an inanimate object, not worth the effort to get upset over, but mostly you don't say it because the doctor could walk in any minute and you already feel like a naked idiot with your feet stuck in the air.
Hang in there. Yeah, do that.
Wait. Stare at the ceiling for another eternity. Search the room for a clock and reach for your cell phone to check the time. Remember you are naked and mentally slap yourself. Curse yourself for leaving your phone in your pants pocket. Wait longer. Stare. Sigh. Debate if it would be worth the trouble of climbing off this stupid table to retrieve the thing because at least you could be playing solitaire while you wait or Twitter to the world that you're on a table with stirrups waiting for a guy to peek at your crotch. Mentally slap yourself again for even thinking of something so stupid. Quietly laugh to yourself because you just know someone out there is doing just that.
Make a note to check your e-mail when you get out of here. Think about the day ahead and all the errands you need to run. Don't think about what the doctor might find.
Stop worrying.
Wait some more. Drift off. Hear the knock at the door. Jolt awake. Wipe the drool from the corners of your mouth and feel a mixture of relief and dread as the doctor enters the room with the nurse. Answer all his questions as best as you can without getting distracted as he feels you up, searching for lumps that, hopefully, aren't there. Obey the doctor's command to wiggle your butt as close to the edge of the table as possible. Don't look in his direction. Don't look at the tray with all the horrifying instruments. Don't stare at that metal clamp thingy he is inserting between your legs. Don't look for your dignity and don't expect to find it until you leave this room...probably. Don't look at anything. Close your eyes and don't wiggle your butt away when you feel the pinch.
Breath in. Breath out. Pray for this to end. Be grateful you only need to go through this once a year.
Take off your leather coat and uncurl the long wool scarf from around your neck. Hang them both on the little hook attached to the examination room door. Remove your blouse, undershirt, and bra. Untie your shoes and slip them off, but leave your socks on because some chuckle head thought it would be a good idea to rev the A.C. up to frostbite levels, the floor is like ice, and it's not like the bastard will be examining your feet. Shimmy out of your jeans and panties. Chastise yourself for throwing on the first pair of granny panties you could find because you were running late to make the appointment. Fold each piece of clothing into a neat stack being careful to hide your bra and panties between your blouse, undershirt, and jeans. Realize what a stupid thing modesty is considering the circumstances. Set your clothes on the chair near the door with your purse, climb onto the examination table, rest your feet in the metal stirrups, and cover freezing naked body with the paper sheet the nurse gave you before she left the room.
Remember: This too shall pass.
Stare at the ceiling for what feels like an eternity. Wonder who's bright idea it was to scotch tape a poster up there, the one with the kitten hanging from a tree branch. Hang in there, it jovially commands of you. Go screw yourself, you want to say to it. You don't say it because it's just a stupid poster, an inanimate object, not worth the effort to get upset over, but mostly you don't say it because the doctor could walk in any minute and you already feel like a naked idiot with your feet stuck in the air.
Hang in there. Yeah, do that.
Wait. Stare at the ceiling for another eternity. Search the room for a clock and reach for your cell phone to check the time. Remember you are naked and mentally slap yourself. Curse yourself for leaving your phone in your pants pocket. Wait longer. Stare. Sigh. Debate if it would be worth the trouble of climbing off this stupid table to retrieve the thing because at least you could be playing solitaire while you wait or Twitter to the world that you're on a table with stirrups waiting for a guy to peek at your crotch. Mentally slap yourself again for even thinking of something so stupid. Quietly laugh to yourself because you just know someone out there is doing just that.
Make a note to check your e-mail when you get out of here. Think about the day ahead and all the errands you need to run. Don't think about what the doctor might find.
Stop worrying.
Wait some more. Drift off. Hear the knock at the door. Jolt awake. Wipe the drool from the corners of your mouth and feel a mixture of relief and dread as the doctor enters the room with the nurse. Answer all his questions as best as you can without getting distracted as he feels you up, searching for lumps that, hopefully, aren't there. Obey the doctor's command to wiggle your butt as close to the edge of the table as possible. Don't look in his direction. Don't look at the tray with all the horrifying instruments. Don't stare at that metal clamp thingy he is inserting between your legs. Don't look for your dignity and don't expect to find it until you leave this room...probably. Don't look at anything. Close your eyes and don't wiggle your butt away when you feel the pinch.
Breath in. Breath out. Pray for this to end. Be grateful you only need to go through this once a year.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Exercise #1: The Reluctant I
This 600 word exercise called for a 1st person POV without using the first person pronoun more than twice. Much trickier than I would have thought.
We knew it would all go bad the second Jessie spotted the bum sitting on the park bench.
It was past midnight. Jessie, Tyler, Chloe, Casey, and me, we were all out past curfew. Bored and stoned out of our minds, everyone of us. All except Casey. She was new to our group and had turned out to be a virgin in every sense of the word. Like that Sandra Dee chick in that movie Grease, she didn't drink, didn't smoke, didn't toke, had to twist her arm to get her to dye one strand of that California blond hair black. Literally. One strand. That's all she would let us do. It was barely noticeable and her parents still reamed her out over it.
The others, Tyler and Chloe, they could never figure out why Jessie would allowed her to hang out with us though Tyler suspected he just wanted the chance to bang a virgin. Chloe's lame ass theory was that he thought it was convenient having a designated driver. This was utter bull shit. Nobody in our little group had ever cared if there was someone sober behind the wheel so long as we had a vehicle that would take us where we wanted to go. That was Chloe for you. She had it bad for Jessie and she just couldn't bend her mind around the idea of a mousy little nobody like Casey being competition. Whatever the reason for Jessie's interest, she was apart of our cliche' even if her status wasn't official. This was just as well since Casey was the only one of us equipped to think straight at any given time.
She must have been keen to Jessie's mood too when she proposed we head out to the lake, the rec center, anything but the park. Jessie wasn't biting.
"Rec center's closed and the lake's frozen. Nothin' to do but get wasted and fuck," he said with a creepy smile aimed at her. His grin widened she blushed three shades of red. "But hey, if that's what you want to do..."
Casey quickly shook her head no.
"It's too cold for the lake," Chloe grumbled.
"Just as cold there as it is here," Tyler chimed in and yelped when Chloe kicked him in the shin.
Jessie turned his attention back to the homeless guy on the bench who was snoring louder than a buzz saw. He was old but not "old" old, like in his late forties maybe. He was probably younger than that even, aged from a hard life on the streets. He was greasy looking and everything he wore was shabby except the long dark trench coat that he had to have stolen or found or something. He held a bottle of something that was probably booze wrapped up in a brown paper bag gingerly in his arms. The guy was what in our comfortably suburban upper class minds, consisted the perfect stereotype of what a homeless loser had to look like. Old, drunk, filthy, and harmless.
Jessie watched him with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes that always warned of torments and humiliations to come.
He smiled at us and said, "Let's have us some fun with that old geezer."
Tyler spotted the old guy and grunted. "What you want to do, man? Steal his dime store Schnapps?"
"I want his coat," Jessie said, eyeing the man's coat like a shark eyes chum.
"You've got a coat," Chloe said in disgust, "one that doesn't smell like piss. Seriously Jessie, you can smell him from here."
"The smell just adds to the challenge."
"What?" said Tyler. "You making a game out of it?"
"Sure," Jessie said with a shrug. "Why not?"
"Because it's not your coat!" Casey said frowning in disapproval. "You can't do it."
It was the worst thing she could have said. You could just see the wheels spinning in Jessie's mind. Nobody told Jessie what he couldn't do. It didn't make him angry because it took a lot to make him angry, but it did make him playful. Well, playful in the same way as a cat plays with a live mouse just before it gobbles the damn thing whole. This game of his had started out as a way to mess around with some nameless bum. Now it was Casey's turn to be tormented. It was Jessie's idea of foreplay.
"Why not?"
"He's homeless!"
"No shit."
"He has nothing and you have everything. Why take one of the few possessions that he owns when you already have one of your own. It's too cruel," she said, looking at him as if he were more repulsive than the smelling homeless guy he wanted to prank, "even for you."
Jessie stared at her, his eyes dead pools of azure blue. Lifeless, pitiless, serial killer eyes. The rest of us, we all held our breath, even Tyler who was bigger than Jessie. Tyler was our high school's head quarter back, all muscle. He could probably take Jessie in a straight fight if he was stupid or drunk enough to try. Problem was, everybody knew if you beat Jessie down, you damn well better take him out-permanently. He was clever and patient and, above all, petty. Pique his wrath and he'd make your life a living hell just wondering what form his vengeance would take.
Casey had hung out with us long enough to realize this, but even if she hadn't, the look he gave her was enough to scare her. She gulped loud enough that it would have been comical under different circumstances, but she held her ground. She met his soul chilling stare and refused to turn away.
"Leave him alone," she said, arms folded against her chest in an act of defiance.
Jessie gave her a slow grin. "Unlike you, the rest of us aren't up for sainthood. Who else wants to play?"
"What are the rules?" Tyler asked.
"Whoever gets the coat off the smelly bastard and brings it to me wins wins the prize."
"Ooh," Chloe said, rubbing up against him. "What's the prize, Jessie?"
"Key to my dad's liquor cabinet."
Tyler grunted. "Dude, I could jimmy the lock off that thing for less trouble."
"I meant the liquor cabinet on my dad's boat," said Jessie. "He's going on vacation with his new whore and he won't be back for a couple weeks. I swiped the key from his office and mom gets seasick, so she won't bother us."
"Shit man," Tyler said with a hang dog expression, "You had the old man's yacht all this time and you brought us here? We could have invited the whole school out, made a real night of it."
"Getting wasted is more fun if you earn it," Jessie said grinning. "In spite of my father's whoring ways, he has tried to instill me with some values."
Tyler snorted. "Whatever. Let's do this thing so we can get to the real party."
He started for the bench but Jessie grabbed his arm. He turned to Casey and said, "Ladies first."
Casey's expression hardened. "Forget it."
"See, this is the problem with allowing a nun to join our group," he said. His smile faded. "Get me the coat, you cunt or you can walk back home right now. And you better believe that if you walk from our little troupe tonight, you can never come back."
Casey's eyes flared. She turned to leave without hesitation, her boots stomping the sleet covered ground as she walked away. We were all surprised. Jessie must have expected her to fold too because he watched her, open mouthed and confused before he yelled back at her.
"You willing to spend the rest of your high school career as a pariah, Casey? 'Cause that's the way this is going to play out!"
Casey paused, turned to look at him. He smiled, but the smile froze when she flashed him the bird and started walking again. Jessie yelled curses at her back while Chloe held on to him, tried to calm him down. The bum hadn't moved once, asleep and dead to the world. Guess he was used to shouting.
Have you ever had that feeling like a ton of lead was pushing against your chest or the feeling that something was clawing inside your stomach trying to rip itself out. That's what if felt like to watch Casey walk away. She was a prude and vanilla as they come, but at least she was willing to stand up for what she thought was right. She had a mind of her own and she didn't care what anyone thought of her. She didn't take Jessie's shit either. That was no small thing considering the evil things that boy could come up with when he was in one of his little moods. We watched her walk away, watched the conscience of us all leave us to our own devices, and knew she was in the right.
The look Jessie gave Casey was nothing. You should have seen his expression after I flipped him off and ran after her.
We knew it would all go bad the second Jessie spotted the bum sitting on the park bench.
It was past midnight. Jessie, Tyler, Chloe, Casey, and me, we were all out past curfew. Bored and stoned out of our minds, everyone of us. All except Casey. She was new to our group and had turned out to be a virgin in every sense of the word. Like that Sandra Dee chick in that movie Grease, she didn't drink, didn't smoke, didn't toke, had to twist her arm to get her to dye one strand of that California blond hair black. Literally. One strand. That's all she would let us do. It was barely noticeable and her parents still reamed her out over it.
The others, Tyler and Chloe, they could never figure out why Jessie would allowed her to hang out with us though Tyler suspected he just wanted the chance to bang a virgin. Chloe's lame ass theory was that he thought it was convenient having a designated driver. This was utter bull shit. Nobody in our little group had ever cared if there was someone sober behind the wheel so long as we had a vehicle that would take us where we wanted to go. That was Chloe for you. She had it bad for Jessie and she just couldn't bend her mind around the idea of a mousy little nobody like Casey being competition. Whatever the reason for Jessie's interest, she was apart of our cliche' even if her status wasn't official. This was just as well since Casey was the only one of us equipped to think straight at any given time.
She must have been keen to Jessie's mood too when she proposed we head out to the lake, the rec center, anything but the park. Jessie wasn't biting.
"Rec center's closed and the lake's frozen. Nothin' to do but get wasted and fuck," he said with a creepy smile aimed at her. His grin widened she blushed three shades of red. "But hey, if that's what you want to do..."
Casey quickly shook her head no.
"It's too cold for the lake," Chloe grumbled.
"Just as cold there as it is here," Tyler chimed in and yelped when Chloe kicked him in the shin.
Jessie turned his attention back to the homeless guy on the bench who was snoring louder than a buzz saw. He was old but not "old" old, like in his late forties maybe. He was probably younger than that even, aged from a hard life on the streets. He was greasy looking and everything he wore was shabby except the long dark trench coat that he had to have stolen or found or something. He held a bottle of something that was probably booze wrapped up in a brown paper bag gingerly in his arms. The guy was what in our comfortably suburban upper class minds, consisted the perfect stereotype of what a homeless loser had to look like. Old, drunk, filthy, and harmless.
Jessie watched him with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes that always warned of torments and humiliations to come.
He smiled at us and said, "Let's have us some fun with that old geezer."
Tyler spotted the old guy and grunted. "What you want to do, man? Steal his dime store Schnapps?"
"I want his coat," Jessie said, eyeing the man's coat like a shark eyes chum.
"You've got a coat," Chloe said in disgust, "one that doesn't smell like piss. Seriously Jessie, you can smell him from here."
"The smell just adds to the challenge."
"What?" said Tyler. "You making a game out of it?"
"Sure," Jessie said with a shrug. "Why not?"
"Because it's not your coat!" Casey said frowning in disapproval. "You can't do it."
It was the worst thing she could have said. You could just see the wheels spinning in Jessie's mind. Nobody told Jessie what he couldn't do. It didn't make him angry because it took a lot to make him angry, but it did make him playful. Well, playful in the same way as a cat plays with a live mouse just before it gobbles the damn thing whole. This game of his had started out as a way to mess around with some nameless bum. Now it was Casey's turn to be tormented. It was Jessie's idea of foreplay.
"Why not?"
"He's homeless!"
"No shit."
"He has nothing and you have everything. Why take one of the few possessions that he owns when you already have one of your own. It's too cruel," she said, looking at him as if he were more repulsive than the smelling homeless guy he wanted to prank, "even for you."
Jessie stared at her, his eyes dead pools of azure blue. Lifeless, pitiless, serial killer eyes. The rest of us, we all held our breath, even Tyler who was bigger than Jessie. Tyler was our high school's head quarter back, all muscle. He could probably take Jessie in a straight fight if he was stupid or drunk enough to try. Problem was, everybody knew if you beat Jessie down, you damn well better take him out-permanently. He was clever and patient and, above all, petty. Pique his wrath and he'd make your life a living hell just wondering what form his vengeance would take.
Casey had hung out with us long enough to realize this, but even if she hadn't, the look he gave her was enough to scare her. She gulped loud enough that it would have been comical under different circumstances, but she held her ground. She met his soul chilling stare and refused to turn away.
"Leave him alone," she said, arms folded against her chest in an act of defiance.
Jessie gave her a slow grin. "Unlike you, the rest of us aren't up for sainthood. Who else wants to play?"
"What are the rules?" Tyler asked.
"Whoever gets the coat off the smelly bastard and brings it to me wins wins the prize."
"Ooh," Chloe said, rubbing up against him. "What's the prize, Jessie?"
"Key to my dad's liquor cabinet."
Tyler grunted. "Dude, I could jimmy the lock off that thing for less trouble."
"I meant the liquor cabinet on my dad's boat," said Jessie. "He's going on vacation with his new whore and he won't be back for a couple weeks. I swiped the key from his office and mom gets seasick, so she won't bother us."
"Shit man," Tyler said with a hang dog expression, "You had the old man's yacht all this time and you brought us here? We could have invited the whole school out, made a real night of it."
"Getting wasted is more fun if you earn it," Jessie said grinning. "In spite of my father's whoring ways, he has tried to instill me with some values."
Tyler snorted. "Whatever. Let's do this thing so we can get to the real party."
He started for the bench but Jessie grabbed his arm. He turned to Casey and said, "Ladies first."
Casey's expression hardened. "Forget it."
"See, this is the problem with allowing a nun to join our group," he said. His smile faded. "Get me the coat, you cunt or you can walk back home right now. And you better believe that if you walk from our little troupe tonight, you can never come back."
Casey's eyes flared. She turned to leave without hesitation, her boots stomping the sleet covered ground as she walked away. We were all surprised. Jessie must have expected her to fold too because he watched her, open mouthed and confused before he yelled back at her.
"You willing to spend the rest of your high school career as a pariah, Casey? 'Cause that's the way this is going to play out!"
Casey paused, turned to look at him. He smiled, but the smile froze when she flashed him the bird and started walking again. Jessie yelled curses at her back while Chloe held on to him, tried to calm him down. The bum hadn't moved once, asleep and dead to the world. Guess he was used to shouting.
Have you ever had that feeling like a ton of lead was pushing against your chest or the feeling that something was clawing inside your stomach trying to rip itself out. That's what if felt like to watch Casey walk away. She was a prude and vanilla as they come, but at least she was willing to stand up for what she thought was right. She had a mind of her own and she didn't care what anyone thought of her. She didn't take Jessie's shit either. That was no small thing considering the evil things that boy could come up with when he was in one of his little moods. We watched her walk away, watched the conscience of us all leave us to our own devices, and knew she was in the right.
The look Jessie gave Casey was nothing. You should have seen his expression after I flipped him off and ran after her.
The 3 A.M. Epiphany
Years ago, I bought this great book of writing exercises called The 3 A.M. Epiphany. I didn't have time to get into it much because I was busy with school. Now that I've graduated and have found gainful employment, I've decided to give this thing another whirl and post what I write here. I don't have the author's permission to copy the exercises here so you'll have to buy the book if you want to know what the exercises are about. The stories in this blog-for better or worse-are mine. The exercises are the property of Brian Kiteley. Please ask permission if you'd like to use either. Have fun and enjoy!
UPDATE: As of today, I do have author approval. Cheers!
UPDATE: As of today, I do have author approval. Cheers!
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