Writing Assignment #2
Alright, first of all, I must apologize since it turns out that my writing assignment #2 will not be the piece titled "Battle Royale: One Cats Battles Against the Father of Classical Physics". I was writing that piece and it easily breached the 2 page limit by 5 pages. At some time I will finish writing that one because it was pretty fun to work on (may little Stud rest in peace), but was also kind of funny, at least to those parties involved. In lieu of that, I decided to write a little piece about the time I burned down the kitchen when I was 12. It was also fun to write, kept within the confines of the page limit, but also served another person as an exercise in Conflict-Resolution for the book I'm reading "Immediate Fiction". Here is the final rough draft:
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Seated on a black dull lacquered piano bench, I sat practicing my music for my private lessons. At the time I was in the seventh grade, putting me square about the ripe age of twelve. I sat there working through the fingerings of a piece, completely oblivious to the fact that on the other side of the wall, there sat a pan full of grease, burning in a wonderful assortment of hues of orange and yellow. Little did I realize that my visual aid for my presentation on Kenya for Geography class was about to help give my mother that new kitchen she always wanted, as well as giving the housecat further need for psychological-related prescriptions.
Feeling smugly satisfied as to not only my meager command of music, but also of my fine culinary ability that would win the praise of my classmates (and in turn a good score for my presentation), I strolled in the kitchen to check on my skillet of grease in which I was to fry delicious authentic Kenyan banana fritters. In retrospect I cannot help but to be astounded at the idea at the idea that indigenous people living on the Serengeti ate banana donuts - thus showing that in some ways their culture was much superior to ours, even after the Renaissance.
By the time I had walked into the kitchen the cast-iron skillet I was using was a blaze of glory, quickly building towards the cabinets and generating a good deal of hazy black smoke. I immediately ran down a few stairs, jumped the rest and got my brother. Seeing how distraught I was and how I was excitedly chattering about a five-alarm fire quickly erupting in our kitchen, he drudged his way up the stairs to the kitchen where we saw that indeed, wooden cabinets would have made great winter fu-el for good King Wenceslas.
We rushed quickly and pounded on my sister’s door. Already black smoke was wafting through the house as undoubtedly at that point various baked goods in the cabinets were undergoing the metamorphosis to becoming brittle carbon. Finally after a solid minute of pounding, my sister reluctantly opened the door to be greeted by two anxious younger brothers and a welcoming committee of obsidian haze, quickly coming to greet her room. Thinking that it was a mere grease fire, she exclaimed to be going to the kitchen to throw some baking soda on the inferno. This idea of course would have been keen had we 25 pound bags of the stuff and an effective form of pneumatic dispersion. Lacking the proper logistics not allowing us to fight, we went with the never-failing biological plan of flight.
After calling the fire department from the next-door neighbors, we anxiously awaited help in the neighbor’s yard. I was a bit hysterical for a short period, but managed to settle down. It was around this time that my father was on his way home, winding his way through the rural roads to our house, likely wondering where all the fire trucks were going. By the time he pulled into the front yard and saw we were fine, the fire department had put out the fire. Thankfully just part of the kitchen was scorched, but no other major damage was really sustained. That is, no physical damage was really sustained. Our four year-old cat that already had psychological disturbances likely sustained further damage, but her story is for another day.
In the end, the insurance adjuster came and assessed the damage. We were fortunate in that not only was no one hurt, but the overall damage to the house was minimal. The cabinets ended up getting replaced, as well as the stove. My parents got a remodeled kitchen at a discount price, and I managed to maintain the family legacy of unfortuitous pyromania. All was well, ended well: I managed to have at least one interesting anecdote for my life and a new title of infamy. Not bad for a few hour's work.
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All critiques are welcome.
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Seated on a black dull lacquered piano bench, I sat practicing my music for my private lessons. At the time I was in the seventh grade, putting me square about the ripe age of twelve. I sat there working through the fingerings of a piece, completely oblivious to the fact that on the other side of the wall, there sat a pan full of grease, burning in a wonderful assortment of hues of orange and yellow. Little did I realize that my visual aid for my presentation on Kenya for Geography class was about to help give my mother that new kitchen she always wanted, as well as giving the housecat further need for psychological-related prescriptions.
Feeling smugly satisfied as to not only my meager command of music, but also of my fine culinary ability that would win the praise of my classmates (and in turn a good score for my presentation), I strolled in the kitchen to check on my skillet of grease in which I was to fry delicious authentic Kenyan banana fritters. In retrospect I cannot help but to be astounded at the idea at the idea that indigenous people living on the Serengeti ate banana donuts - thus showing that in some ways their culture was much superior to ours, even after the Renaissance.
By the time I had walked into the kitchen the cast-iron skillet I was using was a blaze of glory, quickly building towards the cabinets and generating a good deal of hazy black smoke. I immediately ran down a few stairs, jumped the rest and got my brother. Seeing how distraught I was and how I was excitedly chattering about a five-alarm fire quickly erupting in our kitchen, he drudged his way up the stairs to the kitchen where we saw that indeed, wooden cabinets would have made great winter fu-el for good King Wenceslas.
We rushed quickly and pounded on my sister’s door. Already black smoke was wafting through the house as undoubtedly at that point various baked goods in the cabinets were undergoing the metamorphosis to becoming brittle carbon. Finally after a solid minute of pounding, my sister reluctantly opened the door to be greeted by two anxious younger brothers and a welcoming committee of obsidian haze, quickly coming to greet her room. Thinking that it was a mere grease fire, she exclaimed to be going to the kitchen to throw some baking soda on the inferno. This idea of course would have been keen had we 25 pound bags of the stuff and an effective form of pneumatic dispersion. Lacking the proper logistics not allowing us to fight, we went with the never-failing biological plan of flight.
After calling the fire department from the next-door neighbors, we anxiously awaited help in the neighbor’s yard. I was a bit hysterical for a short period, but managed to settle down. It was around this time that my father was on his way home, winding his way through the rural roads to our house, likely wondering where all the fire trucks were going. By the time he pulled into the front yard and saw we were fine, the fire department had put out the fire. Thankfully just part of the kitchen was scorched, but no other major damage was really sustained. That is, no physical damage was really sustained. Our four year-old cat that already had psychological disturbances likely sustained further damage, but her story is for another day.
In the end, the insurance adjuster came and assessed the damage. We were fortunate in that not only was no one hurt, but the overall damage to the house was minimal. The cabinets ended up getting replaced, as well as the stove. My parents got a remodeled kitchen at a discount price, and I managed to maintain the family legacy of unfortuitous pyromania. All was well, ended well: I managed to have at least one interesting anecdote for my life and a new title of infamy. Not bad for a few hour's work.
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All critiques are welcome.