mr. tran is a writer of fiction, part 4
so this entry will consist of the writing assignments i had for homework...i've already posted one here before around halloween...in class, we read a story with a character based on the goddess artemis so our assignment was to reimagine or reinterpret a fairy tale or myth...my first idea was to do the tortoise and the hare where the two characters were serial killers who differed in the time they took to dispose of bodies...but we were told to write only one page and writing just the beginning of a story would be ok...since i like to finish things, i chose a much shorter nursery rhyme so i could do a full story...my teacher liked what i ended up writing and so did i...
the next assignment was to help us write interesting and engaging first paragraphs for our stories...it was also an exercise involving writing in different perspectives...the assignment was to write four introductory paragraphs using first person, second person, omniscient third person and close third person perspective...i wanted to challenge myself so i decided that i would do four intro paragraphs to the same story where each one would reveal more of the story and in a way make a complete story...
No End In Sight
The moon was a silver blade of a sickle in the night sky. Its bright glow silenced colors without mercy as if steadied by death's hand. The world below was stark black and white. Skeletal trees reached upwards towards the heavens mistaking the light as the life giving sun's and instead grasped nothing. They encircled a field of wild wheat where the battle between light and shadow shifted with every breeze. Among the shafts, ran two men - one persistently pursued and the other pursuing persistently. One man held a knife. One man will die tonight.
i tried to make this one sound way better than it actually turned out...my teacher called me out on it which i thought was cool...overwrought was the word she used...the latter half is better than the first...
It was hard to catch my breath. The stitch in my side was growing with every step. I hadn't run like this since high school, despite the dozen New Year resolutions I've made since then. I thought getting fit would help when I pursued women. I never thought I'd need it as I ran for my life. When the man appeared by the railroad tracks while I was walking my dog, I immediately sprinted in the opposite direction. He had already accosted me at the post office the other day raving about his daughter and her murder and scars. There was no need for words tonight. The knife he held told the whole story.
this is probably the weakest of the four...
You never thought this day would come. It's been fifteen years since your life lost all meaning. Emily would be graduating college this year. But instead, she was gone. No reason, no explanation, no body, just gone. They told you she was just a missing child. Just a missing child. Like something that had been misplaced. You knew better though; she was kidnapped and murdered. It was that boy. You saw him hanging around. You saw him talking to Emily once. You told the police, but they didn't trust you. They couldn't find any boy they said. But you saw him. You knew. You saw that scar on this hand. Like the scar on the man you saw at the post office today. The scar of your daughter's killer. Maybe you'll give him some new scars. Maybe you'll make him a missing person. Maybe tonight you'll finally sleep peacefully.
i'm good at writing about crazy people...maybe because i'm crazy...hmm...have to remember to tell my psychologist this...
Buster was confused. He and his master were walking along the railroad tracks like they do every night. Another man appeared by the tracks which wasn't too unusual. However, the man's threatening face and posture caused Buster to stop. He bristled his fur and began to growl. When his master ran off with the man chasing him, Buster barked and then gave chase. It was difficult for him to see in the darkness of the trees but he could smell both men and the trail they left. Though his legs were short, he tried his hardest to catch up. Buster felt a strong desire to protect his master and feel the touch of his hand on his back. After entering a field of wheat, the scent of the two men became stronger and intertwined. The smell of sweat and blood overpowered his senses. Buster soon came upon a large object on the ground. He nudged a part of it with his nose. It was a body.
it wasn't too easy to write from the perspective of a dog...jack london i am not...but it's not too bad...i wonder who's dead though...
the next assignment had us practicing describing locations...we had to write about two places using 300 or so words...the trick was that we had to write one using just a single long run on sentence and the other with no sentences more than six words...i wanted to challenge myself again so i picked a really small place which was a shower...and since my shower at the lake house was gross, i decided to write about a really dirty shower...
The Long and the Short of It
Long ago when the shower was just newly built, it was likely a magnificent monument of craftsmanship, a seemingly perfect melding of art and function with its straight edged gray stone tiles imported from places you read about in National Geographic and its curvaceous chromed fixtures handmade by artisans who will never enjoy a hot shower in their lives; yet as much attention that was put into its creation, just as little care went into its maintenance over the years and over the owners resulting in a transformation into a tall square four feet by four feet box of filth for its occupants to cleanse themselves in, which was not the easiest task to do as one would have to stand directly in the center of the stall - to avoid accidental contact with the mildew stained tiled walls with their once white grout turning brown like the hair of an old man aging backwards - on top of the only immaculate surface to be found, a small circle of flooring where the feet of countless washers had rubbed away any offensive build up as they turned and twirled while being cascaded by a torrent of hot water from a shower head, whose lime scaled surface resembled the terrain of an alien planet, which luckily creates a billowing cloud of steam to envelope its occupant and block their view of the dirt and grime all around as they lather and rinse in blissful ignorance behind a door of frosted glass with an extra layer of white soap scum to increase its obscurity against any curious and leering outside eyes hoping to catch a glimpse of bare skin and gentle curves inside.
writing one long sentence was annoying since i tend to write short sentences...i remember my teacher circled the last third of what i wrote and said it was filler and i was like "seriously? you make us write a 300 word sentence and complain about filler?"...the short sentence version turned out kind of weird...i remember i had to carefully craft the one sentence description but then went blazing through the second one...
The shower is a war zone. Hard water had killed the fixtures. Minerals from distant wells became explorers. They conquered new lands upon arrival. Layer by layer, they advanced. Finally, white residue smothered the chrome. They penetrated every space and gap. The handles will never fully tighten. Water perpetually drips and drops. Sometimes it is fast, sometimes slow. They are beats of war drums. The walls are tiled. Like perfect city blocks, they stood. The grout became streets. They became rivers when water came. Tiles were blanketed with mildew. The mildew had a happy home. They had a perfect view. The battlefield was below. The floor was innocent at first. However, standing puddles became breeding grounds. The mold raised an army underfoot. The drain was its fort. It was the center of activity. It was a fountain of youth. Every shower brought rejuvenating water. The jungle of hair brought adventure. Iridescent bubbles brought mystery. The metal grates brought structure. Over time, the floor was overrun. It was gray, orange and brown. Each army was a new color. The original ground was a mystery. Light came through the massive door. The door was glass but clouded. Outside was an unknown. Night and day were at odds. Moments of light were brief. Night dominated thoroughly. With light came sounds. Shaving, brushing, flushing could be heard. Daily, the giant entered the battle. Its weapon was boiling hot water. Also, it stomped with its feet. The shower's inhabitants tried to run. The floor's center was too dangerous. The feet would drag and pull. Whole armies became uprooted. Luckily, the giant is impatient. In a few minutes, it'll leave. The water will cool. Then the regiments will regroup. That's the way of the shower. That's the way it's always been. The cycle will never end. It's where unseen battles are fought. It's where giants roam.
as we reached the halfway point of the quarter, we had read a lot of short stories so our last assignment was to emulate some of the authors we had read...not exactly an easy task for a bunch of noob writers...the gabriel garcia marquez one wasn't too bad...i just had to force myself to write longer sentences, make it rural and throw in something magical...my teacher would occasionally read stuff that students wrote that she thought was good out loud at the beginning of class...this one was the only one of mine she read...
The Best Form of Flattery
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The orchards were finally ready for harvest and the villagers, who desperately depended on the crop, were preparing to celebrate the occasion. The air had become cold during the early mornings, and the people feared losing their apples to the frost. Together the village elders had the final say in deciding the time to pick the trees to the frustration of the younger generation. But today, everyone was happy and had woken up before the sun rose to gather their baskets, ladders and gloves. Once the rosy pink sun began to rise above the snow capped mountains where the local hermits lived, the town would begin their harvest with difficulty and love. Andrew had gotten up long before and stood in front of his perfectly arranged trees. The harvest wasn't on his mind. Andrew was staring at his only tree that was not dotted with fruit, at its great bough groaning under the weight of a perfect red apple that was as large as a man.
i doubt these next two bear any resemblance to the original writers...for faulkner, i think i tried to fancy up my writing...but then i chose to write about a cat...for james joyce, i think we read a depressing story so i tried to follow suit...i also put in a lot of alliterative words so hopefully that was on purpose...
William Faulkner
Tabitha had been a recent arrival in the neighborhood yet, to the chagrin of other cats, she had already made a mark. She prowled through her yard with her head held high, without giving a second glance to her feline fellows. Her owner was of equally good stock having appeared one month earlier to peruse his new residence and returning again just this morning. His absence allowed movers and decorators to accomplish their respective tasks so he may arrive to a fully furnished home. While he made his inspection inside, Tabitha made hers outside. Across the way - Tabitha was in the midst of a plot of petunias - a potential rival, in the form of a tangerine tabby, preened herself with her paw.
James Joyce
The drought had abruptly halted any good fortune Littleton had seen. As the yellow dust began to accumulate in the streets, the residents reluctantly made their exodus. No one was safe from the choking dust. They desperately clung to their town and clung desperately to their livelihoods to no avail. The poorest moved to the neighboring towns in search of work. The rich headed for the open arms of faraway friends and family. The abandoned homes stood like mirages in a sea of sand and held just as little life or hope. As the last man closed his door for the final time, Littleton was no more. When the beloved rain ultimately returned, there was no one left to rejoice.
for the last one we had to emulate a piece of music...ridiculous...so i just picked a rock song and wrote something filled with alliteration and some rhyming parts...despite my disapproval with the prompt, i kind of like what i wrote...
Cankers, cancers and corpses were all Chris could contemplate come Monday. Lying low like a lecherous leper in the haunted hospital halls had humbled and horrified him. Everyone was crying, everyone was dying, everyone was terrifying. Simply seeing the sights of symptoms, surgeries and scars soothed this once sincere suicidal musings. Passionate patients persistently pushed through pain and peril to live long lives. Maybe they were right, maybe he should fight, maybe everything was going to be alright.
the next assignment was to help us write interesting and engaging first paragraphs for our stories...it was also an exercise involving writing in different perspectives...the assignment was to write four introductory paragraphs using first person, second person, omniscient third person and close third person perspective...i wanted to challenge myself so i decided that i would do four intro paragraphs to the same story where each one would reveal more of the story and in a way make a complete story...
No End In Sight
The moon was a silver blade of a sickle in the night sky. Its bright glow silenced colors without mercy as if steadied by death's hand. The world below was stark black and white. Skeletal trees reached upwards towards the heavens mistaking the light as the life giving sun's and instead grasped nothing. They encircled a field of wild wheat where the battle between light and shadow shifted with every breeze. Among the shafts, ran two men - one persistently pursued and the other pursuing persistently. One man held a knife. One man will die tonight.
i tried to make this one sound way better than it actually turned out...my teacher called me out on it which i thought was cool...overwrought was the word she used...the latter half is better than the first...
It was hard to catch my breath. The stitch in my side was growing with every step. I hadn't run like this since high school, despite the dozen New Year resolutions I've made since then. I thought getting fit would help when I pursued women. I never thought I'd need it as I ran for my life. When the man appeared by the railroad tracks while I was walking my dog, I immediately sprinted in the opposite direction. He had already accosted me at the post office the other day raving about his daughter and her murder and scars. There was no need for words tonight. The knife he held told the whole story.
this is probably the weakest of the four...
You never thought this day would come. It's been fifteen years since your life lost all meaning. Emily would be graduating college this year. But instead, she was gone. No reason, no explanation, no body, just gone. They told you she was just a missing child. Just a missing child. Like something that had been misplaced. You knew better though; she was kidnapped and murdered. It was that boy. You saw him hanging around. You saw him talking to Emily once. You told the police, but they didn't trust you. They couldn't find any boy they said. But you saw him. You knew. You saw that scar on this hand. Like the scar on the man you saw at the post office today. The scar of your daughter's killer. Maybe you'll give him some new scars. Maybe you'll make him a missing person. Maybe tonight you'll finally sleep peacefully.
i'm good at writing about crazy people...maybe because i'm crazy...hmm...have to remember to tell my psychologist this...
Buster was confused. He and his master were walking along the railroad tracks like they do every night. Another man appeared by the tracks which wasn't too unusual. However, the man's threatening face and posture caused Buster to stop. He bristled his fur and began to growl. When his master ran off with the man chasing him, Buster barked and then gave chase. It was difficult for him to see in the darkness of the trees but he could smell both men and the trail they left. Though his legs were short, he tried his hardest to catch up. Buster felt a strong desire to protect his master and feel the touch of his hand on his back. After entering a field of wheat, the scent of the two men became stronger and intertwined. The smell of sweat and blood overpowered his senses. Buster soon came upon a large object on the ground. He nudged a part of it with his nose. It was a body.
it wasn't too easy to write from the perspective of a dog...jack london i am not...but it's not too bad...i wonder who's dead though...
the next assignment had us practicing describing locations...we had to write about two places using 300 or so words...the trick was that we had to write one using just a single long run on sentence and the other with no sentences more than six words...i wanted to challenge myself again so i picked a really small place which was a shower...and since my shower at the lake house was gross, i decided to write about a really dirty shower...
The Long and the Short of It
Long ago when the shower was just newly built, it was likely a magnificent monument of craftsmanship, a seemingly perfect melding of art and function with its straight edged gray stone tiles imported from places you read about in National Geographic and its curvaceous chromed fixtures handmade by artisans who will never enjoy a hot shower in their lives; yet as much attention that was put into its creation, just as little care went into its maintenance over the years and over the owners resulting in a transformation into a tall square four feet by four feet box of filth for its occupants to cleanse themselves in, which was not the easiest task to do as one would have to stand directly in the center of the stall - to avoid accidental contact with the mildew stained tiled walls with their once white grout turning brown like the hair of an old man aging backwards - on top of the only immaculate surface to be found, a small circle of flooring where the feet of countless washers had rubbed away any offensive build up as they turned and twirled while being cascaded by a torrent of hot water from a shower head, whose lime scaled surface resembled the terrain of an alien planet, which luckily creates a billowing cloud of steam to envelope its occupant and block their view of the dirt and grime all around as they lather and rinse in blissful ignorance behind a door of frosted glass with an extra layer of white soap scum to increase its obscurity against any curious and leering outside eyes hoping to catch a glimpse of bare skin and gentle curves inside.
writing one long sentence was annoying since i tend to write short sentences...i remember my teacher circled the last third of what i wrote and said it was filler and i was like "seriously? you make us write a 300 word sentence and complain about filler?"...the short sentence version turned out kind of weird...i remember i had to carefully craft the one sentence description but then went blazing through the second one...
The shower is a war zone. Hard water had killed the fixtures. Minerals from distant wells became explorers. They conquered new lands upon arrival. Layer by layer, they advanced. Finally, white residue smothered the chrome. They penetrated every space and gap. The handles will never fully tighten. Water perpetually drips and drops. Sometimes it is fast, sometimes slow. They are beats of war drums. The walls are tiled. Like perfect city blocks, they stood. The grout became streets. They became rivers when water came. Tiles were blanketed with mildew. The mildew had a happy home. They had a perfect view. The battlefield was below. The floor was innocent at first. However, standing puddles became breeding grounds. The mold raised an army underfoot. The drain was its fort. It was the center of activity. It was a fountain of youth. Every shower brought rejuvenating water. The jungle of hair brought adventure. Iridescent bubbles brought mystery. The metal grates brought structure. Over time, the floor was overrun. It was gray, orange and brown. Each army was a new color. The original ground was a mystery. Light came through the massive door. The door was glass but clouded. Outside was an unknown. Night and day were at odds. Moments of light were brief. Night dominated thoroughly. With light came sounds. Shaving, brushing, flushing could be heard. Daily, the giant entered the battle. Its weapon was boiling hot water. Also, it stomped with its feet. The shower's inhabitants tried to run. The floor's center was too dangerous. The feet would drag and pull. Whole armies became uprooted. Luckily, the giant is impatient. In a few minutes, it'll leave. The water will cool. Then the regiments will regroup. That's the way of the shower. That's the way it's always been. The cycle will never end. It's where unseen battles are fought. It's where giants roam.
as we reached the halfway point of the quarter, we had read a lot of short stories so our last assignment was to emulate some of the authors we had read...not exactly an easy task for a bunch of noob writers...the gabriel garcia marquez one wasn't too bad...i just had to force myself to write longer sentences, make it rural and throw in something magical...my teacher would occasionally read stuff that students wrote that she thought was good out loud at the beginning of class...this one was the only one of mine she read...
The Best Form of Flattery
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The orchards were finally ready for harvest and the villagers, who desperately depended on the crop, were preparing to celebrate the occasion. The air had become cold during the early mornings, and the people feared losing their apples to the frost. Together the village elders had the final say in deciding the time to pick the trees to the frustration of the younger generation. But today, everyone was happy and had woken up before the sun rose to gather their baskets, ladders and gloves. Once the rosy pink sun began to rise above the snow capped mountains where the local hermits lived, the town would begin their harvest with difficulty and love. Andrew had gotten up long before and stood in front of his perfectly arranged trees. The harvest wasn't on his mind. Andrew was staring at his only tree that was not dotted with fruit, at its great bough groaning under the weight of a perfect red apple that was as large as a man.
i doubt these next two bear any resemblance to the original writers...for faulkner, i think i tried to fancy up my writing...but then i chose to write about a cat...for james joyce, i think we read a depressing story so i tried to follow suit...i also put in a lot of alliterative words so hopefully that was on purpose...
William Faulkner
Tabitha had been a recent arrival in the neighborhood yet, to the chagrin of other cats, she had already made a mark. She prowled through her yard with her head held high, without giving a second glance to her feline fellows. Her owner was of equally good stock having appeared one month earlier to peruse his new residence and returning again just this morning. His absence allowed movers and decorators to accomplish their respective tasks so he may arrive to a fully furnished home. While he made his inspection inside, Tabitha made hers outside. Across the way - Tabitha was in the midst of a plot of petunias - a potential rival, in the form of a tangerine tabby, preened herself with her paw.
James Joyce
The drought had abruptly halted any good fortune Littleton had seen. As the yellow dust began to accumulate in the streets, the residents reluctantly made their exodus. No one was safe from the choking dust. They desperately clung to their town and clung desperately to their livelihoods to no avail. The poorest moved to the neighboring towns in search of work. The rich headed for the open arms of faraway friends and family. The abandoned homes stood like mirages in a sea of sand and held just as little life or hope. As the last man closed his door for the final time, Littleton was no more. When the beloved rain ultimately returned, there was no one left to rejoice.
for the last one we had to emulate a piece of music...ridiculous...so i just picked a rock song and wrote something filled with alliteration and some rhyming parts...despite my disapproval with the prompt, i kind of like what i wrote...
Cankers, cancers and corpses were all Chris could contemplate come Monday. Lying low like a lecherous leper in the haunted hospital halls had humbled and horrified him. Everyone was crying, everyone was dying, everyone was terrifying. Simply seeing the sights of symptoms, surgeries and scars soothed this once sincere suicidal musings. Passionate patients persistently pushed through pain and peril to live long lives. Maybe they were right, maybe he should fight, maybe everything was going to be alright.