Post by fightingirishman on Apr 6, 2006 10:58:34 GMT -6
For the last couple weeks in my English class, we've had to do some creative writing. We were given 25 minutes or so to get something down with each idea, so I just thought I may as well post the results here. Some of them worked a lot better than others, so I'm interested to see what you folks think.
Description of a character
Her lips were separated by a thin, enviably straight line. No quivering, no movement at all. They were even devoid of the usual shifting that one does while deep in thought. It was unclear as to whether the partition had ever been opened: to breathe, to speak, to kiss. It was that undisturbed. Perhaps it was only for effect, painted on to give her a feeling of belonging, but secretly was the best defence one could have against unwanted utterances. There was no evidence that she’d ever pushed forth her bottom lip in a whiny displeasure, or welded them up to recognize great pleasure.
Building characters through dialogue
“Yo, what up, homeslice?” Steve asked as he strutted up to John.
“Nothing significant, my questionably-attired colleague,” John replied. “And yourself?”
“Nadda, dawg. What’s shakin’ with the briefcase and them new threads?”
“I was searching for a new place of employment. I thought it might be an excellent idea to procure some rent money,” John responded, visibly annoyed. “I managed to discover enough currency to acquire this thesaurus from the department store,” he added, holding up the book once he finished speaking.
“Dude, that’s wack. Where are you checkin’ out for a new job-izzle?” Steve asked, hastily adding the “izzle” to the end of his sentence.
“I’m applying at some places of business found on the Fortune 500 in this, the settlement of Wichita.”
“I gave your mother the Fortune 500 last night! Hi-oh!” Steve laughed heartily.
“Oh really?”
“Well, yeah. I just got a job selling magazines last week.”
Building character through actions
He walked down the bustling sidewalk, eyes fixed on the concrete about a foot in front of him. He took strides of an average length, moving too slowly for the hurried heroes of business behind him and too quickly for the stoned slackers in front. He perambulated at a consistent rate, neither slowing nor speeding. He continued his gaze on the pavement as if to ensure that one would make it in front of the other.
However, this inspection ended up proving to be futile. I did not see how it happened, but he took a mighty fall. His hands, though free to do so, did not stretch out in front of him. Rather, they remained at his side, like a soldier at attention, falling counter-clockwise until meeting the nine o’clock hour.
I glanced at my watch as I rushed over to him. It was high noon, the most upright time of day. His eyes were the lowest point visible as his lips were on the ground, as eager as an attractive woman would be kissing a man like myself.
Building characters through internal monologue
‘Anyway anyway anyway anyway,’ he rambled on in his head. ‘This is going well. Wellity wellity wellity wellity. Holy crrrrrrap! Can a person’s mouth really move that fast and still make sounds? Wow, that’s…..amazing! Just…absolutely amazing! Oh, oh, she’s done. Better. Do. Something. Nod? Oh, I already am. Fancy that. Is she expecting something more? Speak? Well, wouldn’t you know it? I am. Incredible! I seem to have stopped, but she hasn’t started yet. Why is she looking at me like that? Dubya tee eff, mate? Oh, there she goes. Spectacular! I must say, I am well-spoken when I’m drunk. Deee-runk. Drunk like a skunk. I am wayyyyyy too goddamn drunk. Ha! No I’m not! I’m inebriated, and if I still know big words, there’s no way I’m drunk. Lovely. Oh, so she’s gone, and I’m leaning up against the wall taking a leak. Whoa, it’s me! On TV! I mean, mirror, yes, mirror. Hee hee, I’m staring at myself, and breathing heavily. You are one sexy fella! Hey look, I’m smiling! I’m so happy. Happy happy happy happy. Goddamn. Frickin’. Shoes. Bloody useless! Ah, there we go. That took long enough. Bus, bus, bus, bus. Ooh. Orange! I love orange! Oh hey! Woo! Rings! Maybe I should grab one. Grab another, you say? Excellent! I’m having the time of my life! I’d tell the bus driver to never stop except that it’s more fun when he slows down because I go back and forth and back and forth and look at me I’m Tarzan! King of the whatever! Jungle? What an awesome word, jungle. Rum Jungle. Eww, rum. Unless it’s dark rum, then it’s yum. Except there now appears to be dark rum at the front of the bus. I’ll stand up and walk over and check it out. If I can get up. That might not go so well.’
Predictable setting for the above character
He lurked in his basement for the third Friday night in a row. Light strayed unfiltered from a single bulb, failing to reach him as he was slumped in the corner. The string to illuminate the room was knotted in the middle with the end of the string creating a loop that looked much like a noose. Any pressure at all with that loop, and he would be in complete darkness once again. There was a diagonal trench about an inch wide across the concrete floor, a thin depression between him and the staircase.
He heard the skittering of a rodent across the floor and crawled behind a pile of brown cardboard boxes. The boxes served many purposes for him: chairs, tables, curtains, and now, a barracks. He peered over the box that read “Jen’s Stuff” on the top, noticing the block letters as he retreated his head in fear. He gave the box a mighty kick, turning on one of his closest allies yet again. The sounds of shattering glass emanated from the general vicinity of the now-overturned furniture. The box below it said “Jen’s Stuff” as well, as did the others that he could see.
Unpredictable setting for the above character
He shuffled up to the glass doors as he did every weekday morning around this time. The sun still was not visible, but its potential was revealing itself, likely to be realized as the bright colours pushed off the blanket of darkness. He slipped his key into the lock, and heard a successful click that would likely be his only pleasant greeting of the day. He slid the door to the right, once again disappointed in his other two partners for taking that drastic step in purchasing new automatic sliding doors that only kicked in once he was inside. Once past the first obstacle, he was ready to tackle the second: remembering the alarm code. The green buttons were revealed to him like a collection of gummy green emeralds as he opened the cover. The computerized screen told him that time to enter the correct combination was briskly elapsing. He pushed the buttons in a fury, seemingly tickling the choice emeralds. After flipping the switch to activate the the doors, he looked around the waiting room of the prestigious firm of Gardner, Oliver and Daniels. He glanced toward the receptionist’s desk. The first initial of each last name emerged from the marble wall in shiny brass letters.
‘Yeah, top this, green old dog.’
The room was a challenge for a mortal to top at any rate. There were soft leather couches with rollers inside to massage the troubled clients as they waited.
Creating plot
He woke up from his nap on the sofa before the other workers arrived. He stared once again at the letters. He always got a kick out of that. He strutted through the arched doorway from the waiting room to the offices. He took a left and strolled down a long hallway. Normally, the partners in the firm were right off of the waiting room. However, he had specifically requested to remain in his office at the far end of the hall. The office was on his right, large windows peering into the doorway.
He dextrously made his way around the desk to his tall black office chair. He sat down, and after hesitating a moment, opened the drawer on his left, second from the bottom. He found a plastic bottle of clear liquid.
‘Just the way to start off a morning,’ he thought to himself, and took a swig. The liquid was tasteless sliding down his throat as he drank greedily. He stopped guzzling, took a look at the bottle, and its nutritional values. He read the ingredients. Pure water. No preservatives. ‘That’s good stuff’, he thought, and took another swing, downing the bottle.
He got up, traversed the desk again, bottle in hand.
Plot written backwards
He pulled the door to the men’s room shut, seemingly without grasping the handle. He strutted back to his office without any regard to what was behind him. He slithered around his desk, placed his hands on it, and lowered himself into the office chair, holding an empty bottle. He brought the bottle to his lips, cocked his head back, and liquid flowed up into the container. He broke the seal between the plastic and his mouth, and looked to the side, eyes shifting. At the last moment, they caught the location of the bottle where the nutritional information was located. His eyes gazed upwards along the label. He again brought the bottle to his mouth, and yet again, liquid defied gravity. He reached for his drawer, the second from the bottom, and briskly replaced container. He slowly closed the drawer, fixing his gaze on the liquid as if to make certain that it would not escape. He waited a moment, and flew up onto his feet, and carefully made his way between the desk and the wall.
He again walked strangely all the while, front foot retreating to fall behind him, and yet he remained perfectly balanced. He made a right out of his office, strutting oddly for a long spell down the hallway, eventually taking a left. He passed through the arched doorway into the waiting room, where he turned ninety degrees left and stared at the brass letters above the secretary’s desk. After a moment, he retreated to a leather sofa, sat down and quickly snapped his eyes shut, falling asleep immediately.
Free write
Let me tell you about myself. Not myself in a general sense: what I like, what I dislike, who I know. No, not that. Rather, let me tell you about myself in relation to success.
Success may be an odd frame in which to define oneself, but the success, or lack thereof, of my environment, of my family, and hence, myself, is getting to me, and it looks like it’s over. It’s all over.
Of course, I have to give some background if I am to tell such a narrow story. I was born and raised in Westlands, a minor-league city if I ever saw one. We got our kicks from beating up on the city of Lakeshore, in the next province over, but their football team always beat ours when the games were important. Oh, they could score alright, our boys, but I wouldn’t let them guard my half-empty can of cream soda, given the chance.
One year, when I was twelve, I believe, we even made the drive to Lakeshore to see one of the away games. The red and purple of the fans of the Lakeshore Land Tigers (as opposed to a water tiger?) filled the iMcApple Stadium. The game had been sold out for weeks, and the only way my father and I were able to get tickets was if we were not sitting together. He was a section below me, while I sat in between two rowdy and drunk Lakeshore supporters.
The fan on my left turned to me and said: “No purple there, my boy?”
“Nay,” said I.
The fan on my right chimed in: “You know what we do to them-types, eh?”
The first man smiled and nodded, and the two gents proceeded to douse me in the purple beer that had been sold just for the game.
The afternoon was not particularly cold --- I actually appreciated the cool-down, and I saw and watched the game with the smell emanating from me that was quite familiar already.
The teams traded points, the scoreboard seeming to be more for pinball than football, until there was a minute left in the game. The Westlands Wrought Irons were leading by two points, but the Land Tigers had the ball. The Land Tigers quarterback took the ball and dropped back to pass. A Westlands player was closing in on him with full-force. If he were to tackle the quarterback, the game would be over! He was three, two, one step away from the quarterback, until the sweet sound of contact filled the quiet stadium. My boys had made their first tackle of the season! I was too excited to see that the play was, in fact, not complete. As the quarterback was going down, the videoboard explained, he passed the ball, which was knocked down by a Westlands player. Down into the hands of a Lakeshore player, who dashed in for the game-winning points. My jaw dropped as the hooligans around me erupted once again. What appeared to be a major victory had ended up as a minor consolation prize.
I returned to the area where I had agreed to meet my father, a sea of purple and red enthusiasm engulfed me. Upon meeting me, he said to me: “Come on, you know we don’t waste.”
“What?”
“Your shirt. I’d reckon I could still get…” He gave me a sniff. “A quarter pint out of there.”
Description of a character
Her lips were separated by a thin, enviably straight line. No quivering, no movement at all. They were even devoid of the usual shifting that one does while deep in thought. It was unclear as to whether the partition had ever been opened: to breathe, to speak, to kiss. It was that undisturbed. Perhaps it was only for effect, painted on to give her a feeling of belonging, but secretly was the best defence one could have against unwanted utterances. There was no evidence that she’d ever pushed forth her bottom lip in a whiny displeasure, or welded them up to recognize great pleasure.
Building characters through dialogue
“Yo, what up, homeslice?” Steve asked as he strutted up to John.
“Nothing significant, my questionably-attired colleague,” John replied. “And yourself?”
“Nadda, dawg. What’s shakin’ with the briefcase and them new threads?”
“I was searching for a new place of employment. I thought it might be an excellent idea to procure some rent money,” John responded, visibly annoyed. “I managed to discover enough currency to acquire this thesaurus from the department store,” he added, holding up the book once he finished speaking.
“Dude, that’s wack. Where are you checkin’ out for a new job-izzle?” Steve asked, hastily adding the “izzle” to the end of his sentence.
“I’m applying at some places of business found on the Fortune 500 in this, the settlement of Wichita.”
“I gave your mother the Fortune 500 last night! Hi-oh!” Steve laughed heartily.
“Oh really?”
“Well, yeah. I just got a job selling magazines last week.”
Building character through actions
He walked down the bustling sidewalk, eyes fixed on the concrete about a foot in front of him. He took strides of an average length, moving too slowly for the hurried heroes of business behind him and too quickly for the stoned slackers in front. He perambulated at a consistent rate, neither slowing nor speeding. He continued his gaze on the pavement as if to ensure that one would make it in front of the other.
However, this inspection ended up proving to be futile. I did not see how it happened, but he took a mighty fall. His hands, though free to do so, did not stretch out in front of him. Rather, they remained at his side, like a soldier at attention, falling counter-clockwise until meeting the nine o’clock hour.
I glanced at my watch as I rushed over to him. It was high noon, the most upright time of day. His eyes were the lowest point visible as his lips were on the ground, as eager as an attractive woman would be kissing a man like myself.
Building characters through internal monologue
‘Anyway anyway anyway anyway,’ he rambled on in his head. ‘This is going well. Wellity wellity wellity wellity. Holy crrrrrrap! Can a person’s mouth really move that fast and still make sounds? Wow, that’s…..amazing! Just…absolutely amazing! Oh, oh, she’s done. Better. Do. Something. Nod? Oh, I already am. Fancy that. Is she expecting something more? Speak? Well, wouldn’t you know it? I am. Incredible! I seem to have stopped, but she hasn’t started yet. Why is she looking at me like that? Dubya tee eff, mate? Oh, there she goes. Spectacular! I must say, I am well-spoken when I’m drunk. Deee-runk. Drunk like a skunk. I am wayyyyyy too goddamn drunk. Ha! No I’m not! I’m inebriated, and if I still know big words, there’s no way I’m drunk. Lovely. Oh, so she’s gone, and I’m leaning up against the wall taking a leak. Whoa, it’s me! On TV! I mean, mirror, yes, mirror. Hee hee, I’m staring at myself, and breathing heavily. You are one sexy fella! Hey look, I’m smiling! I’m so happy. Happy happy happy happy. Goddamn. Frickin’. Shoes. Bloody useless! Ah, there we go. That took long enough. Bus, bus, bus, bus. Ooh. Orange! I love orange! Oh hey! Woo! Rings! Maybe I should grab one. Grab another, you say? Excellent! I’m having the time of my life! I’d tell the bus driver to never stop except that it’s more fun when he slows down because I go back and forth and back and forth and look at me I’m Tarzan! King of the whatever! Jungle? What an awesome word, jungle. Rum Jungle. Eww, rum. Unless it’s dark rum, then it’s yum. Except there now appears to be dark rum at the front of the bus. I’ll stand up and walk over and check it out. If I can get up. That might not go so well.’
Predictable setting for the above character
He lurked in his basement for the third Friday night in a row. Light strayed unfiltered from a single bulb, failing to reach him as he was slumped in the corner. The string to illuminate the room was knotted in the middle with the end of the string creating a loop that looked much like a noose. Any pressure at all with that loop, and he would be in complete darkness once again. There was a diagonal trench about an inch wide across the concrete floor, a thin depression between him and the staircase.
He heard the skittering of a rodent across the floor and crawled behind a pile of brown cardboard boxes. The boxes served many purposes for him: chairs, tables, curtains, and now, a barracks. He peered over the box that read “Jen’s Stuff” on the top, noticing the block letters as he retreated his head in fear. He gave the box a mighty kick, turning on one of his closest allies yet again. The sounds of shattering glass emanated from the general vicinity of the now-overturned furniture. The box below it said “Jen’s Stuff” as well, as did the others that he could see.
Unpredictable setting for the above character
He shuffled up to the glass doors as he did every weekday morning around this time. The sun still was not visible, but its potential was revealing itself, likely to be realized as the bright colours pushed off the blanket of darkness. He slipped his key into the lock, and heard a successful click that would likely be his only pleasant greeting of the day. He slid the door to the right, once again disappointed in his other two partners for taking that drastic step in purchasing new automatic sliding doors that only kicked in once he was inside. Once past the first obstacle, he was ready to tackle the second: remembering the alarm code. The green buttons were revealed to him like a collection of gummy green emeralds as he opened the cover. The computerized screen told him that time to enter the correct combination was briskly elapsing. He pushed the buttons in a fury, seemingly tickling the choice emeralds. After flipping the switch to activate the the doors, he looked around the waiting room of the prestigious firm of Gardner, Oliver and Daniels. He glanced toward the receptionist’s desk. The first initial of each last name emerged from the marble wall in shiny brass letters.
‘Yeah, top this, green old dog.’
The room was a challenge for a mortal to top at any rate. There were soft leather couches with rollers inside to massage the troubled clients as they waited.
Creating plot
He woke up from his nap on the sofa before the other workers arrived. He stared once again at the letters. He always got a kick out of that. He strutted through the arched doorway from the waiting room to the offices. He took a left and strolled down a long hallway. Normally, the partners in the firm were right off of the waiting room. However, he had specifically requested to remain in his office at the far end of the hall. The office was on his right, large windows peering into the doorway.
He dextrously made his way around the desk to his tall black office chair. He sat down, and after hesitating a moment, opened the drawer on his left, second from the bottom. He found a plastic bottle of clear liquid.
‘Just the way to start off a morning,’ he thought to himself, and took a swig. The liquid was tasteless sliding down his throat as he drank greedily. He stopped guzzling, took a look at the bottle, and its nutritional values. He read the ingredients. Pure water. No preservatives. ‘That’s good stuff’, he thought, and took another swing, downing the bottle.
He got up, traversed the desk again, bottle in hand.
Plot written backwards
He pulled the door to the men’s room shut, seemingly without grasping the handle. He strutted back to his office without any regard to what was behind him. He slithered around his desk, placed his hands on it, and lowered himself into the office chair, holding an empty bottle. He brought the bottle to his lips, cocked his head back, and liquid flowed up into the container. He broke the seal between the plastic and his mouth, and looked to the side, eyes shifting. At the last moment, they caught the location of the bottle where the nutritional information was located. His eyes gazed upwards along the label. He again brought the bottle to his mouth, and yet again, liquid defied gravity. He reached for his drawer, the second from the bottom, and briskly replaced container. He slowly closed the drawer, fixing his gaze on the liquid as if to make certain that it would not escape. He waited a moment, and flew up onto his feet, and carefully made his way between the desk and the wall.
He again walked strangely all the while, front foot retreating to fall behind him, and yet he remained perfectly balanced. He made a right out of his office, strutting oddly for a long spell down the hallway, eventually taking a left. He passed through the arched doorway into the waiting room, where he turned ninety degrees left and stared at the brass letters above the secretary’s desk. After a moment, he retreated to a leather sofa, sat down and quickly snapped his eyes shut, falling asleep immediately.
Free write
Let me tell you about myself. Not myself in a general sense: what I like, what I dislike, who I know. No, not that. Rather, let me tell you about myself in relation to success.
Success may be an odd frame in which to define oneself, but the success, or lack thereof, of my environment, of my family, and hence, myself, is getting to me, and it looks like it’s over. It’s all over.
Of course, I have to give some background if I am to tell such a narrow story. I was born and raised in Westlands, a minor-league city if I ever saw one. We got our kicks from beating up on the city of Lakeshore, in the next province over, but their football team always beat ours when the games were important. Oh, they could score alright, our boys, but I wouldn’t let them guard my half-empty can of cream soda, given the chance.
One year, when I was twelve, I believe, we even made the drive to Lakeshore to see one of the away games. The red and purple of the fans of the Lakeshore Land Tigers (as opposed to a water tiger?) filled the iMcApple Stadium. The game had been sold out for weeks, and the only way my father and I were able to get tickets was if we were not sitting together. He was a section below me, while I sat in between two rowdy and drunk Lakeshore supporters.
The fan on my left turned to me and said: “No purple there, my boy?”
“Nay,” said I.
The fan on my right chimed in: “You know what we do to them-types, eh?”
The first man smiled and nodded, and the two gents proceeded to douse me in the purple beer that had been sold just for the game.
The afternoon was not particularly cold --- I actually appreciated the cool-down, and I saw and watched the game with the smell emanating from me that was quite familiar already.
The teams traded points, the scoreboard seeming to be more for pinball than football, until there was a minute left in the game. The Westlands Wrought Irons were leading by two points, but the Land Tigers had the ball. The Land Tigers quarterback took the ball and dropped back to pass. A Westlands player was closing in on him with full-force. If he were to tackle the quarterback, the game would be over! He was three, two, one step away from the quarterback, until the sweet sound of contact filled the quiet stadium. My boys had made their first tackle of the season! I was too excited to see that the play was, in fact, not complete. As the quarterback was going down, the videoboard explained, he passed the ball, which was knocked down by a Westlands player. Down into the hands of a Lakeshore player, who dashed in for the game-winning points. My jaw dropped as the hooligans around me erupted once again. What appeared to be a major victory had ended up as a minor consolation prize.
I returned to the area where I had agreed to meet my father, a sea of purple and red enthusiasm engulfed me. Upon meeting me, he said to me: “Come on, you know we don’t waste.”
“What?”
“Your shirt. I’d reckon I could still get…” He gave me a sniff. “A quarter pint out of there.”