22 January 2011
Exercise 4: The Unstable Self
It's five minutes 'til the curtain rises and I can barely breathe. There's no time to touch up my makeup one more time, no time to really fix my hair--I slick it back with my palms, skin bumping over the tight braid at my hairline. The rest of my dark hair is looped into a loose chignon at the back of my neck, and I touch it nervously. This is my first performance, and it might be at an underground little bar where they'll love me just because I'm new and no one knows my name, but I still feel pressure to perform. Who wouldn't? If I do well, I'll get more jobs--more jobs means less time as a barista, and then I'll be even closer to my dream. I don't want to be quiet and indie forever. I'd suffer for my art, like Daddy taught me; but I don't sing for my health. I sing to be heard. If I'm indie for always, I'll end up dying alone, as a nobody. That's not what I want.
Then the five minutes are up and Florence Adalsteinn-Cross is on stage, silhouetted against the brick wall of the basement by a bright light. She is a little girl insanely out of her depth in front of an audience of fifty-two--she counts these heads in a flash, quicker than she can snap her fingers, fifty-two fucking people watching her freeze up in front of them. A little girl dressed up like she could maybe perform, maybe keep them in their seats; she can see them getting restless. But there is one face--a lovely face, she thinks, with seafoam eyes under a cap of dusky red hair. The person wearing it offers her a smile, warm and encouraging, and that gives her strength.
And then I'm back--I return the smile, but it's soft with my nervousness, my hands are shaking so I wrap them around the microphone and lean towards it, and I begin to sing--my voice is weak, my hands are shaking, but he smiles again and then I know I can do it. And my voice soars, and they're enraptured, they're all looking at me now and they're all smiling, and I'm singing to that man with the green eyes. I can lift my hands off the mike without them shaking, I can reach and gesture like the choreographer told me to--I can't dance, so I don't, but they all watch me, and I am singing.
When it's over, for a moment I'm Florence again. The little bar is silent, dead silent; they're all looking at her and she's conscious of tears trailing her mascara down her cheeks, of blood at the corner of her lip where she's bitten it. She brings her hands up, fingertips shaking at the bottom edge of the band of ribbon at the base of her throat, tucks her chin down to hide the bitten nails. That's when the applause begins, as her shoulders hunch inward and jerk once; they're standing, they're demanding an encore, but she's just saying thank you over and over, and she seeks out the red-headed man in the crowd but he's not there.
Backstage, I wipe off the makeup. I swab my forehead with a soft cloth to free the sweat. It's been half an hour, but it feels like years have passed, and when I close my eyes I can see the man again.
Challenge: Write a story that alternates between the I and the "he" or "she" without confusing the reader. 500 words.
Then the five minutes are up and Florence Adalsteinn-Cross is on stage, silhouetted against the brick wall of the basement by a bright light. She is a little girl insanely out of her depth in front of an audience of fifty-two--she counts these heads in a flash, quicker than she can snap her fingers, fifty-two fucking people watching her freeze up in front of them. A little girl dressed up like she could maybe perform, maybe keep them in their seats; she can see them getting restless. But there is one face--a lovely face, she thinks, with seafoam eyes under a cap of dusky red hair. The person wearing it offers her a smile, warm and encouraging, and that gives her strength.
And then I'm back--I return the smile, but it's soft with my nervousness, my hands are shaking so I wrap them around the microphone and lean towards it, and I begin to sing--my voice is weak, my hands are shaking, but he smiles again and then I know I can do it. And my voice soars, and they're enraptured, they're all looking at me now and they're all smiling, and I'm singing to that man with the green eyes. I can lift my hands off the mike without them shaking, I can reach and gesture like the choreographer told me to--I can't dance, so I don't, but they all watch me, and I am singing.
When it's over, for a moment I'm Florence again. The little bar is silent, dead silent; they're all looking at her and she's conscious of tears trailing her mascara down her cheeks, of blood at the corner of her lip where she's bitten it. She brings her hands up, fingertips shaking at the bottom edge of the band of ribbon at the base of her throat, tucks her chin down to hide the bitten nails. That's when the applause begins, as her shoulders hunch inward and jerk once; they're standing, they're demanding an encore, but she's just saying thank you over and over, and she seeks out the red-headed man in the crowd but he's not there.
Backstage, I wipe off the makeup. I swab my forehead with a soft cloth to free the sweat. It's been half an hour, but it feels like years have passed, and when I close my eyes I can see the man again.
Challenge: Write a story that alternates between the I and the "he" or "she" without confusing the reader. 500 words.
Exercise 110: Sweet and Sour
We stop off on the side of the backwater road to eat a sandwich and stretch our legs; it's been almost six hours since we had a moment to take a breath, to look up from the maps and soothe the cricks in our spines. I have been here before. This is where we stop every trip, by this creek. It's a designated 'nature spot', according to my friend; he unfolds a towel from the trunk of his Peugeot 407, spreads it on the ground and drops down, a sub sandwich in hand. I am not hungry; instead I trudged to the edge of the creek to take a closer look.
The water is dense with algae, the color and texture of raw sewage. I have the distinct feeling that if I run my hand through the water it will come up coated with oil, dripping with shit and God only knows what else. The mere thought makes my hand feel dirty; I wipe it on the front of my trousers. It's not comforting. In fact, afterwards I feel worse. So I turn my attention elsewhere, to the jagged broken teeth of a dam rising up out of the water, creating a porous foam. It is the scum on a pot of coffee, brewed improperly. The dank color of the water only adds to this illusion. How long has this place been maltreated, ignored? The dam is clogged with trash, like spinach caught in teeth. It triggers a memory, one that I don't have the time or the patience to examine.
Overhead, the trees create a pattern not unlike decay in skin; bubbling and disgusting, patches of necrotic green against a sky the color of dishwater. This place is the sort that J. W. Waterhouse might have chosen to depict a maiden in, ages ago, but the light is weak. It rambles like the words of a demented old man, down between the cancerous leaves. It gives every impression of wanting to simply stop, but the constant and unrelenting pressure of gravity forces it. Weak, but heavy: The weight of the decrepit dragging down the strong, a withered limb on an otherwise strong torso. The weeds by the water's edge are molded, limp and slumped over, their heads under the surface, dragged down by the slow ooze of the creek.
Even turning to my friend offers no relief. Oil drips down his chin, onto the shirt that cost more than I make every month in the job he secured for me; there is lettuce hanging down from the sub, threatening a swan dive to a towel already spotted with tomatoes and a slab of meat like the entrails of a sacrifice. Bark falls off trees, like scabs, to spot the false-looking Astroturf grass. I need light--not the false, vague and watery light from above. And here, in the French countryside, I begin to think there is nowhere I can get it.
Challenge: Describe a natural setting from the viewpoint of someone who has just lost a parent after a bitter fight. 500 words
The water is dense with algae, the color and texture of raw sewage. I have the distinct feeling that if I run my hand through the water it will come up coated with oil, dripping with shit and God only knows what else. The mere thought makes my hand feel dirty; I wipe it on the front of my trousers. It's not comforting. In fact, afterwards I feel worse. So I turn my attention elsewhere, to the jagged broken teeth of a dam rising up out of the water, creating a porous foam. It is the scum on a pot of coffee, brewed improperly. The dank color of the water only adds to this illusion. How long has this place been maltreated, ignored? The dam is clogged with trash, like spinach caught in teeth. It triggers a memory, one that I don't have the time or the patience to examine.
Overhead, the trees create a pattern not unlike decay in skin; bubbling and disgusting, patches of necrotic green against a sky the color of dishwater. This place is the sort that J. W. Waterhouse might have chosen to depict a maiden in, ages ago, but the light is weak. It rambles like the words of a demented old man, down between the cancerous leaves. It gives every impression of wanting to simply stop, but the constant and unrelenting pressure of gravity forces it. Weak, but heavy: The weight of the decrepit dragging down the strong, a withered limb on an otherwise strong torso. The weeds by the water's edge are molded, limp and slumped over, their heads under the surface, dragged down by the slow ooze of the creek.
Even turning to my friend offers no relief. Oil drips down his chin, onto the shirt that cost more than I make every month in the job he secured for me; there is lettuce hanging down from the sub, threatening a swan dive to a towel already spotted with tomatoes and a slab of meat like the entrails of a sacrifice. Bark falls off trees, like scabs, to spot the false-looking Astroturf grass. I need light--not the false, vague and watery light from above. And here, in the French countryside, I begin to think there is nowhere I can get it.
Challenge: Describe a natural setting from the viewpoint of someone who has just lost a parent after a bitter fight. 500 words
19 January 2011
Exercise 94: Life Story
I was born on the fourteenth of March when the channels were just switching off for the evening. My birth mother's name was Marlene; I know nothing else about her. I grew up in a little house in a small suburb of Boston which had been built almost crooked so I always felt I was sliding backwards away from my goal. My mother's carpet smelled of peppermint and her aprons of chocolate; this was because she was a chocolatier. My father, who was my uncle until I was five or six, was taller than she was. She would grab his collar before he went to work, haul him to her level, and kiss him. They sometimes noticed I was there and stopped, so I came up with ways to go unnoticed.
My mother was not as much my parent as my friend. I didn't mind this. She did parental things, such as teaching me to write and taking me with her to work where I made fondant before I was nine but didn't rollerskate until I was thirteen, but above all we did friend things, like shopping, sports events, and movies. I was always very social at these events, talking to the people around me without regard for difference. It didn't occur to me that the college professor next to me might not want to hear my fourteen-year-old analysis of the newest Harry Potter movie. I did it anyway. My father brought me things and gave me advice about boys and threatened to break all the bones in my first boyfriend's body. I didn't mind.
When I was eighteen I went off to college. I had determined that I wanted to design clothes; so it was to New York, to a prestigious institute where I had won a scholarship because I was a prodigy. I doubted this and still do, but also appreciate the independence.
Now I am twenty. I go home every holiday and bring my boyfriends--or girlfriends--with me. Mother and Father just smile and pass around a tray of Mother's homemade truffles in the manner that an army sergeant passes an armed land mine. One day, they'll explode.
Challenge: Write a first-person account of someone's life. 300 words
(her name was apple.)
My mother was not as much my parent as my friend. I didn't mind this. She did parental things, such as teaching me to write and taking me with her to work where I made fondant before I was nine but didn't rollerskate until I was thirteen, but above all we did friend things, like shopping, sports events, and movies. I was always very social at these events, talking to the people around me without regard for difference. It didn't occur to me that the college professor next to me might not want to hear my fourteen-year-old analysis of the newest Harry Potter movie. I did it anyway. My father brought me things and gave me advice about boys and threatened to break all the bones in my first boyfriend's body. I didn't mind.
When I was eighteen I went off to college. I had determined that I wanted to design clothes; so it was to New York, to a prestigious institute where I had won a scholarship because I was a prodigy. I doubted this and still do, but also appreciate the independence.
Now I am twenty. I go home every holiday and bring my boyfriends--or girlfriends--with me. Mother and Father just smile and pass around a tray of Mother's homemade truffles in the manner that an army sergeant passes an armed land mine. One day, they'll explode.
Challenge: Write a first-person account of someone's life. 300 words
(her name was apple.)
18 January 2011
Exercise 3: Unreliable Third
They've been friends for forever. Everyone knows that.
Not just in the little ways, like... always pairing up for partnered projects. They weren't that kind of friendship. Those two were the kind of friends who were virtually never seen, at least by Ambrose, outside of each other's company. Maybe they were seen apart in separately-gendered locker rooms, or the time when she bled through her pad in ninth grade--no, not even then. Because it was he who handed over the clean clothes he'd brought for Mock Trial later in the day so she wouldn't have to go through the day in a pair of pants that were much too large for her. Ambrose noticed because he recognized the boy's cuff links on the jacket, and later, got the story out of a friend of his.
Part of the weird thing was that they were around the same size. The boy grew a little faster, but she caught up fast enough. By the end of eleventh grade their names were pretty much vestigial; they were called the Twins, mostly, except by his brother, who always seemed angry for some reason none of them could ever discern.
It was in college, though, that this got remarkable. Everyone thought they'd get married. Even Ambrose, who could be called crazy in love with the girl, whose name was Sibyl, could tell they were the real deal. It was in the way he looked at her, in the spark in her dark eyes. She was happiest around Luke. Luc? Luke. Whatever. And Ambrose, he never got a second look. Ambrose was just the kid sitting a row behind her where if he leaned forward enough, he could read her papers. She didn't seem to mind. Every so often she looked back at him, and the little smile around her lips and the quirked brow seemed to suggest that she thought he was being rather clever. Well, he was--too clever, in his mind, because she wasn't realizing that he was interested in her, not her damn paper. Ambrose was smart enough to take his own notes. And if he had had the good fortune to be born as Luke or whoever, then she'd know that. She'd want to love him.
Time passed. The seasons changed. And over time, there were more clues. She was looking away from Luke, her dark eyes seeking out... dare he hope? Was it him? Ambrose began dressing nicer--not quite like her stupid little middle-school boytoy, somewhere in between. Classier. A nicer haircut, too. And if his new contacts--he didn't strictly need them but he wanted them, why shouldn't he have things he wanted--made his eyes look a little more green, well. Who cared? Who would even notice? Sibyl--he heard Luke calling her Sibby, picked it up himself--looked at him more and more often. One day, he followed her home after she split off from her friend--around campus, his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He followed her up to her apartment.
Then he watched as Luke killed her.
Challenge: Write a fragment of a story from the point of view of an unreliable narrator--third person limited narration only. 500 words
It's hard to write something deliberately deceiving... How'd I do? Let me know in the comments. <o/**
Not just in the little ways, like... always pairing up for partnered projects. They weren't that kind of friendship. Those two were the kind of friends who were virtually never seen, at least by Ambrose, outside of each other's company. Maybe they were seen apart in separately-gendered locker rooms, or the time when she bled through her pad in ninth grade--no, not even then. Because it was he who handed over the clean clothes he'd brought for Mock Trial later in the day so she wouldn't have to go through the day in a pair of pants that were much too large for her. Ambrose noticed because he recognized the boy's cuff links on the jacket, and later, got the story out of a friend of his.
Part of the weird thing was that they were around the same size. The boy grew a little faster, but she caught up fast enough. By the end of eleventh grade their names were pretty much vestigial; they were called the Twins, mostly, except by his brother, who always seemed angry for some reason none of them could ever discern.
It was in college, though, that this got remarkable. Everyone thought they'd get married. Even Ambrose, who could be called crazy in love with the girl, whose name was Sibyl, could tell they were the real deal. It was in the way he looked at her, in the spark in her dark eyes. She was happiest around Luke. Luc? Luke. Whatever. And Ambrose, he never got a second look. Ambrose was just the kid sitting a row behind her where if he leaned forward enough, he could read her papers. She didn't seem to mind. Every so often she looked back at him, and the little smile around her lips and the quirked brow seemed to suggest that she thought he was being rather clever. Well, he was--too clever, in his mind, because she wasn't realizing that he was interested in her, not her damn paper. Ambrose was smart enough to take his own notes. And if he had had the good fortune to be born as Luke or whoever, then she'd know that. She'd want to love him.
Time passed. The seasons changed. And over time, there were more clues. She was looking away from Luke, her dark eyes seeking out... dare he hope? Was it him? Ambrose began dressing nicer--not quite like her stupid little middle-school boytoy, somewhere in between. Classier. A nicer haircut, too. And if his new contacts--he didn't strictly need them but he wanted them, why shouldn't he have things he wanted--made his eyes look a little more green, well. Who cared? Who would even notice? Sibyl--he heard Luke calling her Sibby, picked it up himself--looked at him more and more often. One day, he followed her home after she split off from her friend--around campus, his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He followed her up to her apartment.
Then he watched as Luke killed her.
Challenge: Write a fragment of a story from the point of view of an unreliable narrator--third person limited narration only. 500 words
It's hard to write something deliberately deceiving... How'd I do? Let me know in the comments. <o/**
17 January 2011
Exercise 2: Imperative
Cross the street without waiting for the signal. Promise to meet her there. Waste time watching the clouds from a bench; see the thin veil of white over the blue sky. Hold up your hand, so you can sight the moon along an index finger. Shoot for the moon--and then, imagine a wire, extending from you to the sky, through the atmosphere, through the world and to a place most only dream of. Consider, for a moment, that gravity might be wires; that you could so easily reach out and snip them.
Think of this idea often. Think of planets and stars and people held in their place by tiny copper trails through the world. Think of them as veins, carrying white-hot lifeblood through everything you see. Know for a moment that life is beautiful, that the world is lovely and you can trust everything. When the moment ends, stand in front of the hotel. Notice the signs of wear and tear on the statue of a pagan god. Then, see the way the edges are too uniform. Be saddened by the falseness of this age, and run your tongue along your teeth, which are strong with your youth. Wonder at the beauty of a passing woman; fantasize about the feel of her lips like hers. Extrapolate from the smooth gloss of her lips that it would not be soft and dry but rather slick and cool, and lose interest.
Go into the hotel lobby through the revolving door, which is trimmed in gold that is soft under the day's sun. Don't try to think about what someone paid in order to secure this place. Just traverse the marble floor to the elevator and slide your key into the sensor. Step back, look around; this room is cavernous and silent as a cathedral. Say something aloud; a quote from Yeats; touch your forehead as the sound echoes. Startle at the sound of the elevator door opening, and go up to the hotel room.
Once you're upstairs, cross the hotel room to the window. Look out at the cityscape, at the jagged teeth of a maw hundreds of years old. Notice how the steel rises highest, see the rose-gold of the sunset against the dark, smooth gray. Feel clearly something you tried to smother, then, recognize it as revulsion. As the rose-gold turns to violet, imagine--you, an architect, smothering your hate for these buildings that you helped construct. Stare at them. Burn the image into your eyelids. Remember your hate and bile and make it a part of you so deeply that you can't stand it. Hate those buildings for everything they aren't and everything they could be. Know that you could have done better, that in your mind you have done better, and all of this torture will someday pay off. Keep torturing yourself by staring. Hate every moment of it.
When you blink, see those harsh lines rising against the midnight sky. Consider how that's better; encourage this, because when you see those rents in the flow of the earth you see the building you dream of. Close the blinds. Watch the clock; wait. Knot the cord around your fingers, watch them turn red and mottled purple. Choose to let go: the pain is cleansing but you're no masochist. Let the colors fade. Let the cigarette burns fade. Bite back tears, because she'll be here soon and if you've been crying she'll hate you. As she arrives, let your hand fall to your side. Half-turn, to watch her seat herself on your bed; watch those narrow blue eyes trace the air near your head. Remember the copper wires; remember that moment of amusement. Cling to it as you go to her. Kiss her mouth, hide your revulsion.
Pretend you don't know they would hate you. Pretend you don't know you're punishing yourself for the buildings outside that ugly window. Pretend you're just any other man, that you don't see places in your head that don't exist and wouldn't ever exist except in your dreams, they do. See in your mind as you touch her skin the supports of a building rising out of a hill, clean glass and soft woods. And know--in that moment, you must know that you're not good enough. Torture yourself--debase yourself with this act. Kiss her. Know that you're unclean.
Never let anyone see how much it hurts, the things you see, the things you wish existed but don't. Never tell them how you're hiding something, never let them know how important this is, don't share how much this means to you. Please don't share it. Keep it safe in your heart, lock it tight under your breastbone, clench your teeth against your secrets. Debase yourself with women you don't love. Don't tell them why you need it. Please, for your love, keep it secret; don't trust them. Don't trust them and keep it in your heart: the place you see, the home you want, the temple for your dream.
Challenge: Write a fragment of a story that is made up entirely of imperative commands.
Wow. I went way over on this one but I couldn't stop, man! It's also not really a story fragment, s-sigh. How'd I do? Let me know in a comment!
Think of this idea often. Think of planets and stars and people held in their place by tiny copper trails through the world. Think of them as veins, carrying white-hot lifeblood through everything you see. Know for a moment that life is beautiful, that the world is lovely and you can trust everything. When the moment ends, stand in front of the hotel. Notice the signs of wear and tear on the statue of a pagan god. Then, see the way the edges are too uniform. Be saddened by the falseness of this age, and run your tongue along your teeth, which are strong with your youth. Wonder at the beauty of a passing woman; fantasize about the feel of her lips like hers. Extrapolate from the smooth gloss of her lips that it would not be soft and dry but rather slick and cool, and lose interest.
Go into the hotel lobby through the revolving door, which is trimmed in gold that is soft under the day's sun. Don't try to think about what someone paid in order to secure this place. Just traverse the marble floor to the elevator and slide your key into the sensor. Step back, look around; this room is cavernous and silent as a cathedral. Say something aloud; a quote from Yeats; touch your forehead as the sound echoes. Startle at the sound of the elevator door opening, and go up to the hotel room.
Once you're upstairs, cross the hotel room to the window. Look out at the cityscape, at the jagged teeth of a maw hundreds of years old. Notice how the steel rises highest, see the rose-gold of the sunset against the dark, smooth gray. Feel clearly something you tried to smother, then, recognize it as revulsion. As the rose-gold turns to violet, imagine--you, an architect, smothering your hate for these buildings that you helped construct. Stare at them. Burn the image into your eyelids. Remember your hate and bile and make it a part of you so deeply that you can't stand it. Hate those buildings for everything they aren't and everything they could be. Know that you could have done better, that in your mind you have done better, and all of this torture will someday pay off. Keep torturing yourself by staring. Hate every moment of it.
When you blink, see those harsh lines rising against the midnight sky. Consider how that's better; encourage this, because when you see those rents in the flow of the earth you see the building you dream of. Close the blinds. Watch the clock; wait. Knot the cord around your fingers, watch them turn red and mottled purple. Choose to let go: the pain is cleansing but you're no masochist. Let the colors fade. Let the cigarette burns fade. Bite back tears, because she'll be here soon and if you've been crying she'll hate you. As she arrives, let your hand fall to your side. Half-turn, to watch her seat herself on your bed; watch those narrow blue eyes trace the air near your head. Remember the copper wires; remember that moment of amusement. Cling to it as you go to her. Kiss her mouth, hide your revulsion.
Pretend you don't know they would hate you. Pretend you don't know you're punishing yourself for the buildings outside that ugly window. Pretend you're just any other man, that you don't see places in your head that don't exist and wouldn't ever exist except in your dreams, they do. See in your mind as you touch her skin the supports of a building rising out of a hill, clean glass and soft woods. And know--in that moment, you must know that you're not good enough. Torture yourself--debase yourself with this act. Kiss her. Know that you're unclean.
Never let anyone see how much it hurts, the things you see, the things you wish existed but don't. Never tell them how you're hiding something, never let them know how important this is, don't share how much this means to you. Please don't share it. Keep it safe in your heart, lock it tight under your breastbone, clench your teeth against your secrets. Debase yourself with women you don't love. Don't tell them why you need it. Please, for your love, keep it secret; don't trust them. Don't trust them and keep it in your heart: the place you see, the home you want, the temple for your dream.
Challenge: Write a fragment of a story that is made up entirely of imperative commands.
Wow. I went way over on this one but I couldn't stop, man! It's also not really a story fragment, s-sigh. How'd I do? Let me know in a comment!
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