Five writing assignments completed for the abovementioned class (postcard story, dialogue, characterization, setting, short story outline).
For the postcard story we were given the first line and the last line (Austen and Shakespeare, respectively) and expected to bring them together into a short, cohesive storyr. The rest are pretty self explanatory, all meant to be 1 page 12pt double spaced. Dialogue and Characterization were based on pictures, but I didn’t bother including them.
(Postcard Story)
Numb to the Guns
Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit down for two dances. The starched throb of the waltzes lulled her mind toward pleasant detachment. She took little notice of the empty chairs across the room, or the absence of a particular scarce gentleman who might have, on a better day, sat in one of them and gazed in her direction. But those blue eyes were lost to her now, details of a faraway dream. Bessy presented her with a tray of overcooked canapés and Elizabeth mechanically selected the closest. Beneath the squealing violin and bassoon thrum, a constant schizophrenic rumbling and sharp treble bursts, like twisting knives, played out a different sort of song. A song that in their lavish ballroom they tried hard to ignore, hinted at only by Uncle Torvald’s sober warning to the other gentlemen: “If you do stir abroad, go armed.”
(Dialogue)
“Is that the kid I beat the shit out of in elementary school? He looks kinda whacked. Hey man! Do you want a fucking breath mint! Hahahaha.”
“Jimmy. Jimmy. Calm down. You’re drunk. Let’s just go home.”
“What do you mean by the calling me drunk. I had what… 5 beers? It takes more than that to get me going!”
“Jimmy…”
“Greg, you tell her. I’m just a bit tipsy, no more.”
“Jimmy, we’re going home, and we can talk things through tomorrow morning.”
“Jim, that was rum, not beer, buddy. You are gone beyond belief.”
“Yeah. Well. I am totally obviously able to take care of myself here, people. Go on home. Bake yourselves something. Greg, why don’t you take Lindsey home and tuck her in nice. I’m sure she won’t mind. Fuck. I’m sure I won’t mind.”
“Just lay off it, okay? Lindsey’s been through enough today.”
“Oh she has, has she? Well what a fucking pity that is! You’d better tuck her in really nice then, huh? … What?”
“You’re a pretty big asshole, you know. You probably do. But, you know, in case you didn’t.”
“Oh yes! Go Greg! Get it all out! And I won’t remember it in the morning anyway. Haha. Come on, man. What have you got?”
“I don’t have anything, okay? Listen to me buddy. Let’s get you home.”
“You got nothing, huh? Then I guess by Lidnsey’s very distinguished interpetation then mathematically I must have less than nothing. Is that so, Lindsey? Lindsey?”
“Lindsey? … Shit!”
(Characterization)
Winston Northcote surveyed the gathered throng. He squinted against the sharp sunlight and tried to make his facial cringing appear austere and dignified. He cleared his throat precisely and the babble fluttered away, leaving the crowd expectant, admiring and ready to eagerly soak in his carefully chosen words.
He delivered practically the same speech he’d given at hundreds of Guns for Christ rallies all over Utah and occasionally Nevada. He substituted in the names of local officials, businesses and lawyers to get that vital personal connection, but the themes and general points remained unchanged. The crowd responded predictably with great enthusiasm; he was preaching to the converted, after all. The whoops and cheers served to remind him why he’d given up on most other sorts of social interaction where success and acceptance were far from assured.
After the speech was over Winston mingled with the more enthusiastic members of the crowd and enjoyed the complimentary sandwiches for a quarter hour or so. It was nice meeting the attendees—delivering a broad, friendly smile and seeing warmth and almost unconditional support reflected in their faces. Beyond that initial connection and some genuinely pleasant exchanges of words, though, he was never sure what to do with people, and had never been. Invite them over for tea? What if they preferred coffee! Start a squash society with them? Not worth the risk!
So he’d slide into his restored 1956 Corvette Convertible and drive down the dark, winding highway toward home. The hate letters that inevitably greeted him weren’t worth anxiety-there was always a valuable lesson to be learned from them, and he could never identify the vigorously punctuated scrawls with real human sentiment anyway. He read through each of them carefully, set them aside, set his alarm, and curled up into his bed.
(Setting)
She wasn’t here yet, so he sat down on a grey log and watched the water slide past. The river was brown. It would have been blue on a day of sun and cloudless skies, but there wasn’t any use expecting that. Every Tuesday late afternoon, at the edge of the Chimlin River in this shaded corner alcove of West Kinsman Park, it seemed the air was always heavy with grey and coyly holding back a rainy sneeze. There was a curious tension between the fear of imminent precipitation and the knowledge that it would likely amount to nothing more than a few dribbles.
A rough semicircle of haphazardly discarded concrete slabs lifted up slightly behind him, as if to retain the ring of scrub and trees beyond. The trickle of traffic on the footpath further behind was obscured by a curtain of vegetation, but the clinking of dog leashes or the whirr of bicycle wheels sporadically ventured through. Much as it might try, the lazy sounds of parklife couldn’t quite mute the distant downtown traffic hum, but the broad softly fluttering leaves put it far enough out of mind for a relaxing midday bite to eat. If she came.
The muddy ground at his feet was dappled with patches of grass or another scraggled shrub and if he looked close enough he’d see the unending bustle of hundreds of tiny insects beneath the miniature green canopy. Always some sort of bustle, even here. Out about four feet the ground gave way to the river. Its edges were frosted with thick folds of foam: white and sometimes brown. A grey sewage pipe broke the gentle curve of the shore and thrust into the water: three-foot diameter and broken by several ragged cracks, but they were only an inch or two at most. He knew that sitting on the pipe halfway out afforded a rare glimpse of the pale blue mountains usually blocked by metal and glass skyscrapers. They were beautiful. He’d show her when she arrived.
(Short Story Outline)
Faraway Trains Passing By
It is Boxing Day. Maria is waiting at a train station for the train to take her to Belleville to visit her father. She is seventeen. The wait for the train and then the journey, with all the landscape swishing past, is a good place for her to spend some time mulling about her situation.
She doesn’t know her father (Frank) well at all. Her parents divorced before she was born (and her mom remarried when she was quite young?). She’s met him only a few times: while very young going to visit him with her mother and step-father (she vaguely remembers this, he was called uncle Frank), and when she got older became interested in finding out who he was. She grilled her mother with questions, but Brenda was not very forthcoming. It became clear there was a lot of bad blood between the two grownups. Maria became determined to meet her father, but her mother (who is now single again) put up a lot of resistance and refused to take her. When she was old enough to go by herself (a year or so ago?) she jumped on the opportunity and travelled to Belleville to see him. It was awkward, to say the least. Frank came across as not the friendliest of people, a bit of a gruff loner. But Maria is convinced the gruffness is just a shield over his loneliness and misfortunes (whatever they might be) and that inside there is a father she is perfectly able to love. This time she is determined to bring some light into his life and hers and get her father back. She was going to visit him on Christmas, but her mom shot that down, and was going to shoot down this plan as well, but Maria is determined. She has the turkey dinner she plans to make for him all planned out in her head.
This will be told through various flashbacks through the train-ride. Specifically her hazy memory of her first visit, her more specific memory of her more recent one, her stand-off with Brenda and leaving the house.
She gets of the train and takes a cab to her dad’s house. The house is empty/boarded up, so she stares for a while almost dizzy and eyes stinging, and the cabby’s waiting and takes her back to the train station so she can catch another train and watch the landscape swish past in reverse.