For some reason, I had a hard time with this assignment and really thinking of what to write. Do I focus on the fear? the descriptions? the vulnerability? Focusing on a lot of things at once kinda makes my head explode. So here's the result of my brainsplosion.
POV 1:
She was dicing the carrots at two in the morning when she heard it. She stopped mid-dice and cocked her head to one side, one hand on the knife, held up in the air above the chopping board, the other resting on the edge of the board and holding down a half-chopped carrot that was screaming bloody orange.
Silence. She set the knife down and scratched her head, itchy from the red hair dye that was setting and drying against her scalp. It was probably nothing, she reasoned, but her pounding heart told her otherwise. Still, her mind prevailed. Get the onions. She turned slowly, mechanically, forcing herself to swallow away the sense of vulnerability that was choking her. Once she had the onions in hand she whipped back around towards the sink.
Thunk, thunk, thunk. Her knife kept time with her sinking heart. Suddenly--a slip! and she whirled around, back towards the fridge, checking to see if anyone was watching, as her quivering mouth nursed her bleeding finger. Really, she resembled a little kid trying not to wet her pants during a scary movie. Just take away the hair dye and the smeared mascara, and she looked about five-years-old, at the moment, complete with the runny nose. Ugh. She blew her nose and used the glossy refrigerator door as a mirror while she rubbed away the mascara. All the tears were making it run. Probably, it was the onions. But she kept the knife close while she rubbed, just in case the tears were the result of legitimate fear, and not the onions.
She loosened up a bit as the stubborn mascara came off. But suddenly--there it was again! A squeaky swish-swish sound. She almost jabbed her eye out when she heard it, and before she knew it, she'd grabbed the knife, and her ridiculous legs were throwing her forward, heart in mouth, past the corner, and into the hallway that led to her violated house door.
POV 2:
His teeth were....itching. So he'd good-naturedly gotten up, up from the soft spot on the floor where the carpet hadn't been flattened and matted yet. He'd go out to the front yard and grab a stick fallen from the tree in the yard, perhaps. It was a simple enough goal, the kind that you don't plan for. Like how Mommy got up from bed in the middle of the night to make vegetable soup because she was hungry all of a sudden and dyed her hair at the same time, because she wanted it to be nice in the morning.
But he had to belly-crawl his way through the small kitty door. It was growing a bit tight, grabbing his middle a bit on all sides. Eventually he pulled his way through. But again, his feet were still too big for him, and his tail too heavy, and he stumbled down the short cement steps. Before he knew it, he was stuck in the brambles. His breath wheezed and squealed in pain. Forget the stick. He wanted Mommy now. Cowed, he bobbed and staggered back to the kitty door.
Desperately, he nosed the door open a little and began to inch forward a little. It was easy enough, at first. But the thorns and burrs were starting to hurt, and the kitty door made a terrible protesting sound every time he moved, and the middle was impossible, sticking the pointies even deeper into his fur. He was stuck on all sides, uncertain of how to back out or move forward. Not even the smell of vegetable soup was enough.
Showing posts with label in class. Show all posts
Showing posts with label in class. Show all posts
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
Another Character Sketch
I like these. I have problems crafting stories, but I think I like focusing on small things, like a particular character :)
This is an old one...really rough, I think it's the first one I did. It was during class.
She has a strong, straight nose. Dark eyes shadowed by darker lashes, and a thin face framed by straight, dark brown hair. The styling is austere, hair cut straight across on the back. Only a few, loose strands that slip across her face unnoticed indicate that really she's still a child despite the solemness in her gaze and unsmiling, chapped, cupid's-bow lips. Sometimes, the eyes look so dark, the pupils aren't distinguishable from the iris. All these aspects don't make her look stern, however. There's something about her, perhaps it's her skinniness, that makes her look more delicate than stern.
She wears a school uniform, most times, neatly and smartly, expertly starched, crease-less perfection. She's known how to iron clothes for ages now, and the skill's embedded itself into her hands; it's an art. Putting that all aside, neatness doesn't imply form--the suit isn't flattering. It's purpose is entirely academic. All uniformity.
Anyhow, beyond the ironing, she doesn't focus on her clothes very much. But her shoes are old and kind of too small, and her skirt has gotten slightly short. Not in a miniskirt way, just awkwardly, because she's grown too big for it.
When she's nervous, her eyes flicker this way and that. She keeps looping and relooping her hair back, back, back behind her ears, or if she's standing, she stiffens up like a board, looking at hole worn into the top of her left shoe. When she feels daring at times like this, standing in front of the 62 pairs of eyes that make up her 6th grade class, she'll bring up her hand by her ears again, carefully, deliberately. And reloop her hair.
So she's quiet and reserved, keeping to herself. But she's not standoffish. She's kind--disposed to being sympathetic, and merciful when others do her wrong. And her quietness--it draws other people to her, makes them curious. Who is this child with the silent manner and the silky, solemn hair? Who is this child who seems so curled up, into herself?
She trusts herself the most. Or perhaps her dad because they're the most alike in the family. She used to trust her best friend, but then she was disappointed severely, and though they're still friends, she can't bring herself to put ultimate faith in others anymore. She doesn't quite trust her mother. She doesn't distrust her mother consciously, but inside she's aware that her brother comes first in Mother's eyes.
She doesn't really argue. But when her parents fight, she always sides with her father because she truly believes he's right, and she tries to maintain objectivity. Her older brother and younger sister side with her mother. This is how the family always divides.
Her circle of influence is rather small. She has simple hobbies. When she's bored, she loves to read. She's read just about all the books that the teachers call the "classics." She often rereads Wuthering Heights because secretly, she's a romantic, and she likes emotional stories, whether they end happily or not.
Her sadness is not so simple. She doesn't get sad about things at school, or involved in tangled reality-TV show dramas between her friends. But it makes her sad that her mother needs to work to support the house, and that her father always makes the mistake of trusting his friends with his money. It makes her sad that her father majored in politics and business when he should have been a skilled doctor or lawyer. It makes her sad that her most treasured memory is of her mother, when she came all the way to school once to bring her lunch. At the time, she was embarrassed and pretended she didn't know the woman in the gray apron, running after the school bus with her hair flying everywhich-way, in a messy ponytail.
This is an old one...really rough, I think it's the first one I did. It was during class.
She has a strong, straight nose. Dark eyes shadowed by darker lashes, and a thin face framed by straight, dark brown hair. The styling is austere, hair cut straight across on the back. Only a few, loose strands that slip across her face unnoticed indicate that really she's still a child despite the solemness in her gaze and unsmiling, chapped, cupid's-bow lips. Sometimes, the eyes look so dark, the pupils aren't distinguishable from the iris. All these aspects don't make her look stern, however. There's something about her, perhaps it's her skinniness, that makes her look more delicate than stern.
She wears a school uniform, most times, neatly and smartly, expertly starched, crease-less perfection. She's known how to iron clothes for ages now, and the skill's embedded itself into her hands; it's an art. Putting that all aside, neatness doesn't imply form--the suit isn't flattering. It's purpose is entirely academic. All uniformity.
Anyhow, beyond the ironing, she doesn't focus on her clothes very much. But her shoes are old and kind of too small, and her skirt has gotten slightly short. Not in a miniskirt way, just awkwardly, because she's grown too big for it.
When she's nervous, her eyes flicker this way and that. She keeps looping and relooping her hair back, back, back behind her ears, or if she's standing, she stiffens up like a board, looking at hole worn into the top of her left shoe. When she feels daring at times like this, standing in front of the 62 pairs of eyes that make up her 6th grade class, she'll bring up her hand by her ears again, carefully, deliberately. And reloop her hair.
So she's quiet and reserved, keeping to herself. But she's not standoffish. She's kind--disposed to being sympathetic, and merciful when others do her wrong. And her quietness--it draws other people to her, makes them curious. Who is this child with the silent manner and the silky, solemn hair? Who is this child who seems so curled up, into herself?
She trusts herself the most. Or perhaps her dad because they're the most alike in the family. She used to trust her best friend, but then she was disappointed severely, and though they're still friends, she can't bring herself to put ultimate faith in others anymore. She doesn't quite trust her mother. She doesn't distrust her mother consciously, but inside she's aware that her brother comes first in Mother's eyes.
She doesn't really argue. But when her parents fight, she always sides with her father because she truly believes he's right, and she tries to maintain objectivity. Her older brother and younger sister side with her mother. This is how the family always divides.
Her circle of influence is rather small. She has simple hobbies. When she's bored, she loves to read. She's read just about all the books that the teachers call the "classics." She often rereads Wuthering Heights because secretly, she's a romantic, and she likes emotional stories, whether they end happily or not.
Her sadness is not so simple. She doesn't get sad about things at school, or involved in tangled reality-TV show dramas between her friends. But it makes her sad that her mother needs to work to support the house, and that her father always makes the mistake of trusting his friends with his money. It makes her sad that her father majored in politics and business when he should have been a skilled doctor or lawyer. It makes her sad that her most treasured memory is of her mother, when she came all the way to school once to bring her lunch. At the time, she was embarrassed and pretended she didn't know the woman in the gray apron, running after the school bus with her hair flying everywhich-way, in a messy ponytail.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
In Class Character Sketch--Assigned Blog Post #3
So.....here is my in class character sketch. The character's name was Mariana "Mari" Ni. She's a stock broker and fears loneliness.
Uh...this is all notes and incomplete sentences....because I was in a rush :)
She's short. 5 foot 3 inches. 5'5" if she wants to impress someone and wears her fancy pumps. She's small, but she accessorizes to the point of almost, just almost excessive. It's not excessive. Just almost. She knows where the limits are.
She likes red a lot. Her long nails are red, and she's got fading red highlights in her hair, red boxy glasses, and her favorite 2-inch pumps are red. She thinks the color reflects who she is, because the deep carmine that she wears often is a color that shouldn't be messed with; it means business and getting things done. Despite her jumble of accessories, even her face sets off a quick, efficient, snappy, neat sort of mood. Brisk. Her watches and rings are simple. The small, cold silver ring in her cartilage pierce matches her sharp, bright eyes, and her short hair is quick to brush, but fashionable at the same time. In all aspects, she's a stockbroker, eyes flickering back and forth, balancing risks, measuring out costs and gains. She's admirably fearless and certain. Though physically she's tiny, her presence is huge. It's like she fills any room she enters. It makes it hard for people to notice that really, she's alone.
Meeting:
She meets her neighbor, Cecilia Thornwhistle after she's moved into a smaller neighborhood closer to the city where she works. It's a sort of crowded, dingy neighborhood, and it makes her feel uncomfortable. Claustrophobic, with a dead garden that isn't fit to feed a cow for even a day. She things her neighbor is sort of a nut, breaking glass at 2 in the morning and waking her up, but to some extent, she's okay. It makes her neighborhood seem slightly more alive. She met Cecilia first when Cecilia came over with a tray of baked welcome-to-the-neighborhood brownies. Mari thinks Cecilia looks tired and slow. Consciously, she pities Cecilia because of Cecilia's sense of emptiness and the unattractive, purple bags sitting under her eyes all the time. But unconsciously, she warmed up to Cecilia immediately. Cuz really, she's just as tired. The business world and being a stockbroker is stressful stuff. There's no trust, or sympathy, no rest, no caring. Being tough all the time is exhausting work. Although Mari sees herself and Cecilia as completely different people, they really are quite similar, both backed into the wall by a society that pushes them forward, backward, left, right, in and out of a maze without end.
Uh...this is all notes and incomplete sentences....because I was in a rush :)
She's short. 5 foot 3 inches. 5'5" if she wants to impress someone and wears her fancy pumps. She's small, but she accessorizes to the point of almost, just almost excessive. It's not excessive. Just almost. She knows where the limits are.
She likes red a lot. Her long nails are red, and she's got fading red highlights in her hair, red boxy glasses, and her favorite 2-inch pumps are red. She thinks the color reflects who she is, because the deep carmine that she wears often is a color that shouldn't be messed with; it means business and getting things done. Despite her jumble of accessories, even her face sets off a quick, efficient, snappy, neat sort of mood. Brisk. Her watches and rings are simple. The small, cold silver ring in her cartilage pierce matches her sharp, bright eyes, and her short hair is quick to brush, but fashionable at the same time. In all aspects, she's a stockbroker, eyes flickering back and forth, balancing risks, measuring out costs and gains. She's admirably fearless and certain. Though physically she's tiny, her presence is huge. It's like she fills any room she enters. It makes it hard for people to notice that really, she's alone.
Meeting:
She meets her neighbor, Cecilia Thornwhistle after she's moved into a smaller neighborhood closer to the city where she works. It's a sort of crowded, dingy neighborhood, and it makes her feel uncomfortable. Claustrophobic, with a dead garden that isn't fit to feed a cow for even a day. She things her neighbor is sort of a nut, breaking glass at 2 in the morning and waking her up, but to some extent, she's okay. It makes her neighborhood seem slightly more alive. She met Cecilia first when Cecilia came over with a tray of baked welcome-to-the-neighborhood brownies. Mari thinks Cecilia looks tired and slow. Consciously, she pities Cecilia because of Cecilia's sense of emptiness and the unattractive, purple bags sitting under her eyes all the time. But unconsciously, she warmed up to Cecilia immediately. Cuz really, she's just as tired. The business world and being a stockbroker is stressful stuff. There's no trust, or sympathy, no rest, no caring. Being tough all the time is exhausting work. Although Mari sees herself and Cecilia as completely different people, they really are quite similar, both backed into the wall by a society that pushes them forward, backward, left, right, in and out of a maze without end.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Alone
Today (meaning September 9th) was my dog's birthday. My first dog, Terry, I mean. He was put up for adoption about two and a half years ago because my mom got allergic to him. Interestingly, the writing activity today was to write about a time we felt alone.
After her mother left for grocery shopping, she switched off the TV and got up, pulling herself through the still air. She wandered the house aimlessly. She wandered past the empty food bowl set on the kitchen floor. She wandered past the unoccupied dog house in the hallway. She wandered past toys not being played with, a half-consumed chew bone that would never be finished, and an old leash that would never be taken out again. She wandered and wandered, going twice around the living room, through the kitchen, past the dining room, and down the hallway until she'd wandered into her room.
The whole house was quiet--more quiet than it had ever been in seven years. It was so quiet, the stillness was pressing in, digging in, closing in. She sat on the floor, cross-legged by the unoccupied dog bed that made her feel hollowed out inside. Slowly, her gut was crumbling in on itself. It kept crumbling and crumbling and crumbling, until it caved in on itself and an empty, endless pit had been carved in. The pit was growing so huge, even memories couldn't fill it. Slowly it grew deeper and deeper, darker and emptier until she fell in too, and she was sitting at the bottom of the pit, next to her memories.
Where did he go?
Who took him home? Was he tired or hungry, cold, or feeling abandoned by the only close people he'd known his entire life? Or was he sleeping, dreaming, content, satisfied? Though her dog was the one who'd been left at the shelter, she felt like she was the one being left behind.
Where did he go?
He'd been taken to a new home, but she hadn't gone anywhere.
After her mother left for grocery shopping, she switched off the TV and got up, pulling herself through the still air. She wandered the house aimlessly. She wandered past the empty food bowl set on the kitchen floor. She wandered past the unoccupied dog house in the hallway. She wandered past toys not being played with, a half-consumed chew bone that would never be finished, and an old leash that would never be taken out again. She wandered and wandered, going twice around the living room, through the kitchen, past the dining room, and down the hallway until she'd wandered into her room.
The whole house was quiet--more quiet than it had ever been in seven years. It was so quiet, the stillness was pressing in, digging in, closing in. She sat on the floor, cross-legged by the unoccupied dog bed that made her feel hollowed out inside. Slowly, her gut was crumbling in on itself. It kept crumbling and crumbling and crumbling, until it caved in on itself and an empty, endless pit had been carved in. The pit was growing so huge, even memories couldn't fill it. Slowly it grew deeper and deeper, darker and emptier until she fell in too, and she was sitting at the bottom of the pit, next to her memories.
Where did he go?
Who took him home? Was he tired or hungry, cold, or feeling abandoned by the only close people he'd known his entire life? Or was he sleeping, dreaming, content, satisfied? Though her dog was the one who'd been left at the shelter, she felt like she was the one being left behind.
Where did he go?
He'd been taken to a new home, but she hadn't gone anywhere.
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