It is the day after Halloween. People scramble down the street, in the city, every one's rushing,Except them. They stand willingly for the snap shot. Molly smirks staring daringly at the camera, all the while Charlie looks away towards the hustle of the city. Molly only takes time to free herself.
They both wear button down wool coats, Molly's is tan like camel humps, charlies is black.
Little does Charlie know, Molly is aware of everything, every step, every floating paper in the street. Even aware of the baby growing inside her for the past couple weeks. She hasn't told Charlie yet, but on this busy morning she plans to tell him hes a father.
And they re only seventeen.
Just moments ago they were leaving Charlie's apartment on the east side, he had work this Saturday, but she planned to tell him on the way.
Molly isn't beautiful. She isn't smart. But there is this alluring coolness in her gaze. like she could do anything, and still walk out alive, smiling, and ready for whatever happens next. This undoubtedly cool attitude provides her with endless possibilities of grace.
They stand stone cold. Beatific on this somber, melancholy day. A day that seems they should celebrate death and not the beginning of a life.
Molly's Father would never let her leave his apartment. She snuck out all the time.
It was a curse to be a girl, her mother once told her, especially in this family, when your father is him. You will not speak. You will not move. Let him do what he wants. OR you'll be dead.
these guidlines were simple. She was never charlie's. only his.
To the neighbors, she ran into doors
To the grocer, she had been hit by a car,
To her girlfriends she had twisted her ankle in a gutter
It was a curse to be a girl
in this time
in his place
with that man
even seventeen years of it, had only burnt her heart partly black
after seventeen years, her brain was still secure, and only part of it was blue
she was only black and blue on the outside
Their hopes and dreams are not apparent in this ashy scene.
They dream of a home. Away from the city.
a chapel wedding.
Family and friends always visiting.
And molly dreams of family.
it couldn't change.
To run from Molly's father
the alcohol
the drugs
The diner Molly works at to save money for the cookie cut out home.
to Run from Charlie's gang.
the war
the death
But only Charlie looks away in this photograph, not sure if his legs will let him run. If hes ready to leave.
And if they were here now, they'd be running from the screaming, the bangs and scrunching of metal the screech of tires, the streams of blood, the tears and broken hearts. They'd be running from the car crash, that destroyed dreams and their baby girl.Eight months and two and a half weeks later. The curse was broken.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Notes on the types of short stories- notes from http://www.craftofwritingsota.blogspot.com/
• The Traditional Story
o The goal of the traditional story is to tell a simple story.
o Usually unsophisticated or simple, the author usually draws experience from his/her own life or similar experience.
o Traditional stories may use any genre (sci-fi, fantasy, western, romance, realism, action-adventure, horror, suspense, etc.) but, again, the focus of the story is on telling a simple story, usually to entertain.
o Usually the story is written in a realistic style.
• The subjective story
o The author has found his/her voice.
o The author discovers that his own personality can play a large part in a story.
o Usually these stories use first person POV and gets into the mind of its protagonist.
o The focus then of the subjective story is development of character.
o The story can be written in a realistic style, but may also begin to move toward a more complex subjective narration.
• The objective story
o The author is able to suppress his/her own feeling and view of things for the sake of a more objective presentation of his/her story and characters.
o The author’s personality or life is not found consciously in the story.
• Experimental and symbolic story
o These stories fool around with the structure of fiction.
o They are often experimental or symbolic, pushing the boundaries of what “fiction” is.
o These stories are often less obvious, more subtle in their meaning, characters, plot, etc.
o These forms play around with fiction convention, they often break the “4th wall”, may use multiple subjective narration, tell a story backwards, break fiction convention rules, etc.
• Complex story
o The author utilizes techniques from the first four groups here: (traditional, subjective, objective, experimental), combining the best techniques from all these forms.
• Universal story
o The skilled author hits upon certain human truths.
o The universal story form is similar to the complex story, except that it transcends the form to become “classic” short fiction.
o The universal story is often found in novel; many authors at this stage find novels more to their liking.
o The goal of the traditional story is to tell a simple story.
o Usually unsophisticated or simple, the author usually draws experience from his/her own life or similar experience.
o Traditional stories may use any genre (sci-fi, fantasy, western, romance, realism, action-adventure, horror, suspense, etc.) but, again, the focus of the story is on telling a simple story, usually to entertain.
o Usually the story is written in a realistic style.
• The subjective story
o The author has found his/her voice.
o The author discovers that his own personality can play a large part in a story.
o Usually these stories use first person POV and gets into the mind of its protagonist.
o The focus then of the subjective story is development of character.
o The story can be written in a realistic style, but may also begin to move toward a more complex subjective narration.
• The objective story
o The author is able to suppress his/her own feeling and view of things for the sake of a more objective presentation of his/her story and characters.
o The author’s personality or life is not found consciously in the story.
• Experimental and symbolic story
o These stories fool around with the structure of fiction.
o They are often experimental or symbolic, pushing the boundaries of what “fiction” is.
o These stories are often less obvious, more subtle in their meaning, characters, plot, etc.
o These forms play around with fiction convention, they often break the “4th wall”, may use multiple subjective narration, tell a story backwards, break fiction convention rules, etc.
• Complex story
o The author utilizes techniques from the first four groups here: (traditional, subjective, objective, experimental), combining the best techniques from all these forms.
• Universal story
o The skilled author hits upon certain human truths.
o The universal story form is similar to the complex story, except that it transcends the form to become “classic” short fiction.
o The universal story is often found in novel; many authors at this stage find novels more to their liking.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Working With Beginnings Draft 1
There's a woman lying on the ground, shaking, and five pedestrians have gathered around her.She tosses and turns relentlessly, while only the street lights spot her sorrow. Her hair is whipping at the feet of strangers, its black wisps coiling around their toes. They are watching her, not releasing their heavy gazes. Each stare weighs her down to fight harder, compose herself. Because although she is dying, she is beyond humiliation, as wet spots bleed through her clothes. One stranger, an middle aged Latino woman knows the young woman's face, she drops her groceries and while her arms shake, tries to find her cell phone, in the mess of a purse she carries, her shaking in sync with the woman's, flailing limbs. Another person, a small boy, starts crying, unsure of what else to do, runs to a small house on the corner, where a woman, his mother most likely, spots him through the screen door and slams it behind her to grasp him and check for bruises or scratches, but then she realizes the person she should check is the other woman rolling in the street. And yet another person, drops to his knees, trying to think of what to do with his ripped, callused, mechanic hands, wiping them on his dirtier jeans. He leans in and attempts to stop her hysterics. Only one person seems Reaction less. Motionless. Her deep brown eyes stare blankly. Frozen. only thinking to breathe.Forgetting about whats happening. Forgetting about the shift at the bar shes already late for. And the last person, has his cell phone out as well, but instead of calling nine one one, he is filming it with his video camera application. Eventually, the woman late for work drags herself away from it. Checking her watch, but instead of cursing at the hour, she just looks from her watch to the scene. The Man with the video camera also leaves. Only the elderly Latino woman stays, waiting for an ambulance. And the Mechanic stays. Hes worried about the woman. Shes dying, and shes young. She reminds him of his daughter, long black hair. He lifts her in his arms. And when the ambulance arrives, he lifts her with the paramedics, onto a bed. The Latino woman, remembers her now. She had seen her many times before actually, It was the waitress from the diner, she so often went to. She secretly wished she had said something, made a effort to know her. The young woman would have appreciated this very much. She was new to the city, starting over, she had no friends and was incredibly lonely. And that day after leaving work, she was especially lonely, going home to her apartment, thinking about putting up an ad for a roommate. She hated roommates, but she was so desperate for someone in her life. She suffered from Leukemia her whole life. It slowly killed her, she slowly fought it. And I believe that this woman just gave up. Stopped fighting, because she wanted something. something to happen, to change. Doctors, later that night will say it finally got her. But what she knows is that she let it get her, and as she died, She knew five people. Had five people in her life, because they all had seen her die. The Latino Woman, the small boy, The mechanic father, the lost bartender, and the man who was filming. She left knowing someone cared.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Writing Excercise sept.21.09
Faye awoke to the slamming of her mailbox. it frightened her, and she had forgotten where she was sleeping. She was so bored. Unbelievably so. But she was much happier here on the couch, with afternoon opera and infomercials, then in class. because the mailbox woke her so abruptly, she had sent the Cheetos, that were on her raising and falling stomach sailing to the floor.
"ugh." she groaned. She then realized, it might be him. It might be her pen pal! the mail man must have dropped off a letter! She was so happy she picked today to fake a stomach ache. She had been sneaking out of soccer practice early every day for the past year, ever since her and her pen pal had gotten serious, their letters had gotten well, romantic, deep and insanely passionate. And if she had gotten home at the regular time, after her mother was home, her mom would see the letter and read it. what else was her bored mom supposed to do with her life other than get into her business? She got up from the couch stretched and bended until the sleep left her body, tiptoed over the spilled Cheetos, and opened the door.
Inside the mailbox were five envelopes. One was her mother's master card bill,That was a fat one, her own Verizon bill, that one was fatter, a party invitation addressed to her brother Richie, a envelope to her father from Ruth who lives on the other side of town, which when Faye held it up was filled with money, it must have been payment from her father and her taking care of her garden while she visited her younger sister in the Florida nursing home. And the last, was in a thick very large white envelope. It was addressed to her. But had no return address. Maybe, she thought, her pen pal, Jon, from France, was trying to be all sexy and mysterious. She opened it, and pulled out, not a letter, but something long and white, with lace on the end, and pearls sewn into it. She spread it out on the coffee table. It was a veil.
"could it be?"...she thought to herself "was Jon this serious?"
They had talked about how great it would be if they were together forever, married. something heavy was also still in the envelope. She pulled out a small velveteen box, she was blown away. Inside was a beautiful diamond ring. In the center was a Heart cut diamond, surrounded by small pearls. Faye's breathing pace increased unsure of what else to do, she immediately ran to her desk and logged into Aim, hoping her pen pal would be on, so she could tell him how much she loved him for this.
Faye: I love you. We need to talk this over... im just... in shock.
faye tapped her fingers hastily waiting for a response. No response. He was on... why wasn't he responding.
Faye: hahaha I'm sorry, I almost forgot! its a yes!! <3
All of a sudden he responded, and the little ding on the computer pleasantly startled Faye.
Jon: Sorry Faye? Im not exactly understanding... I Love you 2 tho!!!!
Faye: Lmao. dont play dumb babe, I just got it!
Jon: Faye seriously... i hav no idea... What did you get sweetie?
Faye: Jon. Please dont do this... Im scared now. Tell me now if you didn't send me the package with no return address, with a veil and the ring inside???
Jon: Faye, you mean the world to me love, but.. we r, seventeen. Im definitely not ready 4 that yet...but thts pretty creepy. Jeez faye! now im like rlly worried! wtf is this????!!
(faye has signed off)
Jon:Faye???
Jon:seriously Faye i'm not jk! But babe, come on, Im sure you will b ohkay... \
Jon: I'll always love you faye.
(Jon has signed off)
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
The one-minute writer daily prompt 9/9/09
Monday- Mrongbay
Tuesday- Terachecbay
Wedenesday- Wubkebay
Thursday- Thrudiekbay
Friday- Fremoubay
Saturday- Sacermbay
Sunday- Sulfmonbay
hahahahaha! Interesting.
Tuesday- Terachecbay
Wedenesday- Wubkebay
Thursday- Thrudiekbay
Friday- Fremoubay
Saturday- Sacermbay
Sunday- Sulfmonbay
hahahahaha! Interesting.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Hate Letter to The critic btw (not a real person tis is only a prompt)
Critic,
(notice how I did not add "Dear" in front of critic. That's because you are not dear, and do not deserve it in front of your name)
Who do you think you are?????
stumbling over all your words, like "this writing is annoying" or "this writing is boring, its lame, its stupid, its horrible, its gross." but you know what? your the one who is a sucky writer, you can keep my writing all you want, go ahead read it when your lonely. Because with that attitude I assume you have no friends and all your family never stops by to see you. You can go ahead and be miserable, and spread your unhappiness to everyone! but keep my writing. So on your next birthday when there is no one wishing you a happy birthday, go ahead and read my poem about birthdays and take it from me to actually imagine what a real birthday with people who care about you is like. All these writers, are under your pressure, your big foot in the door. Your just a jackass critic with nothing better to do than be an asshole. Because unlike all of us writers, we have a passion, we have a a calling. And sorry but, I really don't think being a jerk is a talent, a passion. But i guess it is a way for you to get attention. You know what? you critics, and I mean the ones who write in the newspapers, you aren't real writers. And I bet the only fucking reason you are so horrible to everyone,is because you are jealous that you cant write like us. So just keep my writing and read it til your head falls off rolls onto the ground, trips your legs, makes you fall into the street, and as your laying in the street choking on punctured lungs from getting run over your whole family walks on you, steps on you and squishes you. To bystanders, they might think your family doesn't know who you are. But in fact they do. in fact they remark about how ugly you still are, how you look better in the street all disgusting. And i say all this because I HATE YOU. I hate your crooked teeth, your runny nose, your yellow eyes, your balding head, your big bright green suit and your cheap alligator shoes. I HATE YOUR GUTS. you know what else you can keep critic? you can keep all the rest of those people, who are hardly people but a different breed of asshole, keep them who try and convince everyone that nothing is good enough and we are all failures. People tell me when i scream about how much i hate you, that hate is a strong word. But no. for you its not. Because i absolutely positively hate everything about you. i don't think anyone has eve loved you. You don't even have a face a mother could love. So go where you belong, into the gutters, in the rains, where the homeless and the lowest of the low go. But your even worse then them, so leave them, who are way better, alone and crawl around in the trash with the cockroaches. And I honestly hope you never ever die Just live on and endure all the pain of hate surfacing in a horizon called your mind. Because if you die, you obviously would never touch heaven, but not even hell would take the likes of you. I HATE YOU. tomorrow ill be at your house with my bat going to push you with the bat into the sewer, where we established you ll be spending the rest of your days. you wont even have imaginary friends. your own imagination wont grant you that! then I'm throwing the bat out o i never have to catch or think, your hate disease that follows you around. good bye. Catch you later shit head.
- Yours truly
(notice how I did not add "Dear" in front of critic. That's because you are not dear, and do not deserve it in front of your name)
Who do you think you are?????
stumbling over all your words, like "this writing is annoying" or "this writing is boring, its lame, its stupid, its horrible, its gross." but you know what? your the one who is a sucky writer, you can keep my writing all you want, go ahead read it when your lonely. Because with that attitude I assume you have no friends and all your family never stops by to see you. You can go ahead and be miserable, and spread your unhappiness to everyone! but keep my writing. So on your next birthday when there is no one wishing you a happy birthday, go ahead and read my poem about birthdays and take it from me to actually imagine what a real birthday with people who care about you is like. All these writers, are under your pressure, your big foot in the door. Your just a jackass critic with nothing better to do than be an asshole. Because unlike all of us writers, we have a passion, we have a a calling. And sorry but, I really don't think being a jerk is a talent, a passion. But i guess it is a way for you to get attention. You know what? you critics, and I mean the ones who write in the newspapers, you aren't real writers. And I bet the only fucking reason you are so horrible to everyone,is because you are jealous that you cant write like us. So just keep my writing and read it til your head falls off rolls onto the ground, trips your legs, makes you fall into the street, and as your laying in the street choking on punctured lungs from getting run over your whole family walks on you, steps on you and squishes you. To bystanders, they might think your family doesn't know who you are. But in fact they do. in fact they remark about how ugly you still are, how you look better in the street all disgusting. And i say all this because I HATE YOU. I hate your crooked teeth, your runny nose, your yellow eyes, your balding head, your big bright green suit and your cheap alligator shoes. I HATE YOUR GUTS. you know what else you can keep critic? you can keep all the rest of those people, who are hardly people but a different breed of asshole, keep them who try and convince everyone that nothing is good enough and we are all failures. People tell me when i scream about how much i hate you, that hate is a strong word. But no. for you its not. Because i absolutely positively hate everything about you. i don't think anyone has eve loved you. You don't even have a face a mother could love. So go where you belong, into the gutters, in the rains, where the homeless and the lowest of the low go. But your even worse then them, so leave them, who are way better, alone and crawl around in the trash with the cockroaches. And I honestly hope you never ever die Just live on and endure all the pain of hate surfacing in a horizon called your mind. Because if you die, you obviously would never touch heaven, but not even hell would take the likes of you. I HATE YOU. tomorrow ill be at your house with my bat going to push you with the bat into the sewer, where we established you ll be spending the rest of your days. you wont even have imaginary friends. your own imagination wont grant you that! then I'm throwing the bat out o i never have to catch or think, your hate disease that follows you around. good bye. Catch you later shit head.
- Yours truly
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