Week 3
Awright, all caught up. Lots of writing in this one.
As Hektor rode the subway on his way to work, he found himself sitting on an airplane going somewhere unknown.
Write the opening the story with THAT ^^^ as my first sentence.
As Hektor rode the subway on his way to work, he found himself sitting on an airplane going somewhere unknown. A pretty stewardess was making her way down the aisle, and Hektor flagged her down.
“How can I help you?”
“Where am I?” Hektor was still reeling, trying to figure out how exactly he’d gotten from a subway to a plane. Did he black out? Oh god, was he crazy?
The stewardess tilted her head to one side and blinked. Hektor noticed the dark circles under her eyes. “You’re on flight N-287, Mister Peterson. Are you feeling all right?”
“How do you know my name?”
“It was on your ticket, sir.” A manicured nail tapped a piece of paper that Hektor realized, with a start, was clenched tightly in his fist. “Do you need a glass of water? Are you feeling ill?”
“S-Sure.” The stewardess relaxed, and Hektor settled back in his seat, trying to piece everything together. He accepted the plastic cup and sipped. The water was cold against his lips, and he heard the clack of the ice cubes as they slid forward, so it obviously wasn’t a dream. After taking a few deep breaths, he inspected the ticket.
PETERSON, HEKTOR.
FLIGHT N-287.
[look at an actual plane ticket for a better idea of how they’re set up]
Well, of course the destination was ripped off. Great. Come to think of it, had he been holding the ticket when he…oh hell, he didn’t even know what to call it. Had he arrived? Woken up? He decided on woken up. Had the ticket been there? He felt like he would’ve noticed the edges of the paper digging painfully into his skin. Maybe he’d been too preoccupied with everything else to notice. After all, it’s not like tickets just spawned out of nowhere.
There was an old woman across the aisle, spectacles perched upon the end of her nose, face buried in a book. Hektor leaned out into the aisle slightly. “Excuse me.” When she didn’t look up, he tried again. “Excuse me!”
The woman turned a page.
Hektor hesitated, then tapped the woman’s thin arm. “Excuse me, ma’am!”
“Oh!” the woman jumped. “I’m sorry, young man.” Her wrinkled fingers, swollen with arthritis, fiddled with her ear. “My hearing aid is rather old. Can I help you?”
“How long have we been in the air?”
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Oates “The Mark of Satan”
This story was reaaally creepy, but I really enjoyed it. Part of what made it so disturbing was the subtle references to the things the man was planning to do; the reader isn’t really sure, so they end up drawing many different conclusions, and as they continue to do so, their mind runs away with them. It’s a good psyche-out technique for the reader, and they want to keep reading to see what will happen. The story doesn’t move too quickly, allowing the tension to build as Oates slowly feeds us information and we get a disturbingly deeper look into this man’s psyche. The ending is interesting, showing how our initial view of this man we’ve classified as “evil,” is really, in fact, pathetic.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Baffled/disbelief
Describe this emotion without using the word itself, aka write a scenario where it’d happen.
His head jerks back, and he blinks. He pauses, looking at the screen, then tilts his head, eyebrows furrowing. His mind attempts to process what he saw, and eventually commits suicide trying to do so. He gives up on thinking about it and replays the scene in his head. Predicting the future…by looking into your coffee.
What.
How.
WHY.
His lips move soundlessly before he sputters and shakes his head. No way. This character on screen…he’s crazy. There’s no other way to describe it. He’s just insane. It can’t be possible to predict the future in your morning coffee. The fuck is this? And what is with that song in the background? It’s all whistling and oh Christ, now there’s kazoos. He can barely hear the dialogue over the insanity happening in the background. What is he playing? People are laughing around him and cracking jokes, quoting the game back at the screen: “CLEAR AS A CRISP SPRING MORNING!” they call in unison. “F…K! IN THE COFFEE!” The group dissolves into laughter and he can only shake his head.
How did they talk me into this again? What the hell is going on? Why are there tree zombies, brutal murders, and then this? Why does a lollipop cost ten dollars? Why do I get money for putting on my clothes?
What the hell…oh…god…I give up.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
CLASSIFIED AD: (Janesville area)
“Wanted: Someone to go back in time with me. This is not a joke. I'll pay you after we get back. Must bring your own weapons. Safety not guaranteed. I have only done this once before."
Person responds to the classified ad as a joke and actually ends up going back in time with them. Maybe tie it in with earlier entries about specific years??
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Ishiguro
As with the past two reactions, I really enjoyed Ishiguro’s story (the name escapes me now). As someone who enjoys Japanese culture and folklore, I really enjoyed how they played a subtle but major part in the story. The Japanese are quite big on honor; people may wonder why the main character’s mother chose to eat the Fugu, when in fact offending someone is a huge no-no in Japanese society. Even now, they hold honor above near all virtues, and many CEOs do commit seppuku when their business goes under because they have been dishonored.
I wondered if the story about the ghost in the well was a throwback to an old Japanese tale about a woman’s ghost in a well; she broke her betrothed’s plates and he killed her and dumped her body in the well. Since then, she haunted the well; while the two aren’t directly connected, I did wonder if Ishiguro had that image in mind when he wrote that dialogue in. I also wondered, at the end, if the father prepared the fugu wrong, to kill his son and daughter. It was more of a passing thought, but it would make sense as to why Kikoku mentions to her brother (and the reader) that Watanbe not only killed himself, but his entire family so they would not be disgraced. It just made me wonder whether their father would do the same, and fugu poisoning would seem to be a natural cause of death.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Rich
Nervous
Ill
Hungry
Describe someone’s hands who has one of those qualities.
Her fingers twitched, and she clapped her palms together, intertwining them to stop their shaking. The muscles flexed and her grip tightened, nails digging into her skin until she gave a slight hiss of pain and stuffed her hands into her pockets instead. But she looked ridiculous, sitting there in class with her hands in her pockets, so after a couple of minutes she withdrew them, tucking them under her desk, the pad of her index finger tracing patterns on her jeans. It amused her for all of three seconds, then she propped her chin in her palm, her other hand reaching up. She took her hair between her fingers, running the strands along her skin until both felt silky and her skin tingled a little. The kid to her right was giving her an odd look, so she ceased, trying to simply rest her arms on the table.
It’s all right. You’ll be fine. Think of a song you like, yeah, that’ll work. She exhaled, slowly tapping out a beat in her head, her long nails clicking against the wood of the desk. The tapping quickened and the song fled from her mind, so she sat there instead tapping frantically, almost as if she was at a telegraph. Help, stop. Not ready for this presentation, stop. I’d appreciate a divine intervention, stop.
As Hektor rode the subway on his way to work, he found himself sitting on an airplane going somewhere unknown.
Write the opening the story with THAT ^^^ as my first sentence.
As Hektor rode the subway on his way to work, he found himself sitting on an airplane going somewhere unknown. A pretty stewardess was making her way down the aisle, and Hektor flagged her down.
“How can I help you?”
“Where am I?” Hektor was still reeling, trying to figure out how exactly he’d gotten from a subway to a plane. Did he black out? Oh god, was he crazy?
The stewardess tilted her head to one side and blinked. Hektor noticed the dark circles under her eyes. “You’re on flight N-287, Mister Peterson. Are you feeling all right?”
“How do you know my name?”
“It was on your ticket, sir.” A manicured nail tapped a piece of paper that Hektor realized, with a start, was clenched tightly in his fist. “Do you need a glass of water? Are you feeling ill?”
“S-Sure.” The stewardess relaxed, and Hektor settled back in his seat, trying to piece everything together. He accepted the plastic cup and sipped. The water was cold against his lips, and he heard the clack of the ice cubes as they slid forward, so it obviously wasn’t a dream. After taking a few deep breaths, he inspected the ticket.
PETERSON, HEKTOR.
FLIGHT N-287.
[look at an actual plane ticket for a better idea of how they’re set up]
Well, of course the destination was ripped off. Great. Come to think of it, had he been holding the ticket when he…oh hell, he didn’t even know what to call it. Had he arrived? Woken up? He decided on woken up. Had the ticket been there? He felt like he would’ve noticed the edges of the paper digging painfully into his skin. Maybe he’d been too preoccupied with everything else to notice. After all, it’s not like tickets just spawned out of nowhere.
There was an old woman across the aisle, spectacles perched upon the end of her nose, face buried in a book. Hektor leaned out into the aisle slightly. “Excuse me.” When she didn’t look up, he tried again. “Excuse me!”
The woman turned a page.
Hektor hesitated, then tapped the woman’s thin arm. “Excuse me, ma’am!”
“Oh!” the woman jumped. “I’m sorry, young man.” Her wrinkled fingers, swollen with arthritis, fiddled with her ear. “My hearing aid is rather old. Can I help you?”
“How long have we been in the air?”
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Oates “The Mark of Satan”
This story was reaaally creepy, but I really enjoyed it. Part of what made it so disturbing was the subtle references to the things the man was planning to do; the reader isn’t really sure, so they end up drawing many different conclusions, and as they continue to do so, their mind runs away with them. It’s a good psyche-out technique for the reader, and they want to keep reading to see what will happen. The story doesn’t move too quickly, allowing the tension to build as Oates slowly feeds us information and we get a disturbingly deeper look into this man’s psyche. The ending is interesting, showing how our initial view of this man we’ve classified as “evil,” is really, in fact, pathetic.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Baffled/disbelief
Describe this emotion without using the word itself, aka write a scenario where it’d happen.
His head jerks back, and he blinks. He pauses, looking at the screen, then tilts his head, eyebrows furrowing. His mind attempts to process what he saw, and eventually commits suicide trying to do so. He gives up on thinking about it and replays the scene in his head. Predicting the future…by looking into your coffee.
What.
How.
WHY.
His lips move soundlessly before he sputters and shakes his head. No way. This character on screen…he’s crazy. There’s no other way to describe it. He’s just insane. It can’t be possible to predict the future in your morning coffee. The fuck is this? And what is with that song in the background? It’s all whistling and oh Christ, now there’s kazoos. He can barely hear the dialogue over the insanity happening in the background. What is he playing? People are laughing around him and cracking jokes, quoting the game back at the screen: “CLEAR AS A CRISP SPRING MORNING!” they call in unison. “F…K! IN THE COFFEE!” The group dissolves into laughter and he can only shake his head.
How did they talk me into this again? What the hell is going on? Why are there tree zombies, brutal murders, and then this? Why does a lollipop cost ten dollars? Why do I get money for putting on my clothes?
What the hell…oh…god…I give up.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
CLASSIFIED AD: (Janesville area)
“Wanted: Someone to go back in time with me. This is not a joke. I'll pay you after we get back. Must bring your own weapons. Safety not guaranteed. I have only done this once before."
Person responds to the classified ad as a joke and actually ends up going back in time with them. Maybe tie it in with earlier entries about specific years??
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Ishiguro
As with the past two reactions, I really enjoyed Ishiguro’s story (the name escapes me now). As someone who enjoys Japanese culture and folklore, I really enjoyed how they played a subtle but major part in the story. The Japanese are quite big on honor; people may wonder why the main character’s mother chose to eat the Fugu, when in fact offending someone is a huge no-no in Japanese society. Even now, they hold honor above near all virtues, and many CEOs do commit seppuku when their business goes under because they have been dishonored.
I wondered if the story about the ghost in the well was a throwback to an old Japanese tale about a woman’s ghost in a well; she broke her betrothed’s plates and he killed her and dumped her body in the well. Since then, she haunted the well; while the two aren’t directly connected, I did wonder if Ishiguro had that image in mind when he wrote that dialogue in. I also wondered, at the end, if the father prepared the fugu wrong, to kill his son and daughter. It was more of a passing thought, but it would make sense as to why Kikoku mentions to her brother (and the reader) that Watanbe not only killed himself, but his entire family so they would not be disgraced. It just made me wonder whether their father would do the same, and fugu poisoning would seem to be a natural cause of death.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Rich
Nervous
Ill
Hungry
Describe someone’s hands who has one of those qualities.
Her fingers twitched, and she clapped her palms together, intertwining them to stop their shaking. The muscles flexed and her grip tightened, nails digging into her skin until she gave a slight hiss of pain and stuffed her hands into her pockets instead. But she looked ridiculous, sitting there in class with her hands in her pockets, so after a couple of minutes she withdrew them, tucking them under her desk, the pad of her index finger tracing patterns on her jeans. It amused her for all of three seconds, then she propped her chin in her palm, her other hand reaching up. She took her hair between her fingers, running the strands along her skin until both felt silky and her skin tingled a little. The kid to her right was giving her an odd look, so she ceased, trying to simply rest her arms on the table.
It’s all right. You’ll be fine. Think of a song you like, yeah, that’ll work. She exhaled, slowly tapping out a beat in her head, her long nails clicking against the wood of the desk. The tapping quickened and the song fled from her mind, so she sat there instead tapping frantically, almost as if she was at a telegraph. Help, stop. Not ready for this presentation, stop. I’d appreciate a divine intervention, stop.