Seminar Six: Alicia

Tone: Agony
Character: Kyle, 34 years old, firefighter, 2 kids, recently widowed

He couldn’t look them in the face. Not after the fire. She was there, in their eyes, and he couldn’t bear to see her. The wound was still too fresh, and it burned inside of him, feeding off his guilt. He hadn’t returned to the station yet. How could he go back to work where he was expected to save people, when he couldn’t even save his own wife?

                Their house engulfed in flames was still branded onto the back of his eyelids. Every time he closed his eyes, tried to sleep, the images of the fire would scream at him, scream in her voice.  The blame he had sutured to himself weighed on his limbs. They were too heavy to lift. He dragged himself through the days, desiring nothing more than to collapse into the heap that body was holding together.

                His children had become a source pain. He could only see them through a screen of smoke. Obscured by the billowing grey he found only her in them. How could he possibly take care of them? They had just lost their mother and needed him more than ever and yet he feared them and the agony they brought.

                The pain of his loss ripped at his insides taking everything from him. He couldn’t find the strength to stand, to eat, to move. He was lost in the smoke that was flooding his world. He was suffocating in it, and he knew that soon the fire it was borne of would find him.  

Seminar Five: Dinner Along the Amazon

Write of something taboo

She adjusted her dress before knocking on the door. As she awaited it to be opened she quickly groomed her reflection in the window next to the door. No loose strands of hair could be accepted, this was an important night, and she had to make the right impressions. The door swung open and her darling stood before her, relieved by his presence she let her shoulders relax. However at the appearance of his parents they shot back into an uncomfortably straight position. She smiled warmly and bowed her head politely. She took the moment that her hair shielded her from their gaze to take a steeling breath.  They greeted her eagerly and motioned her through the door.

                At the dinner table, as they all sipped on their drinks. She kept quiet and enjoyed the loving environment. Steve sat beside her, his hand holding hers encouragingly. Across from him sat his bother Mac and his mother Marie. His father held the head of the table. Though she was comfortable with her surroundings she never let her posture falter. There could be no poor impressions left.  She didn’t want to seem shy so she nodded and smiled throughout their conversations, however she reserved herself to only speak when spoken to – she didn’t want to come off too strong.

                As the conversations progressed, she found herself drifting away from the table. It was such a nice house, and such a close and welcoming family that she was getting lost in the joy that flavoured the air. Catching loll of her head she quickly snapped back into her perfected image, and reengaged in the table talk. However, what she heard had her struggling to keep her composure.

                “In my opinion the only way to truly enjoy all the rich flavours of man, is to get a Caucasian steak, and grill it over an open flame, no more than salt in pepper needed to season it – that way the real flavours get a chance to sing.” Mac had said it as if it were nothing. Unable to decide the correct course of action she took a sip of her drink and slowly lowered the glass again – careful to keep her hand steady.

                “I have to disagree, the only way to go is ribs; Latin American are the most flavourful,” Steve countered nonchalantly. She could feel her eyes bulging from their sockets. Quickly she excused herself form the table and went into the bathroom. Placing her hands on either side of the sink she stared herself down in the mirror. She had to gather her thoughts before going back in there. She liked this man, and she had to decide how much she was willing to overlook. “Everyone has different tastes,” she rationed. “I like escargot, I’m sure someone would be disturbed by that. I can’t just make judgements like this over the food someone eats. That’s unfair.” Resolute in her decision to work past this she replaced the strands of her hair, straightened out her dress and rejoined the family outside.

                Luckily the conversations seemed to have found new topics, which was relieving for she wasn’t sure how effectively she would have been able to maintain the proper appearance. The discussions had found its way to commenting on Mac’s past relationships, something that was obviously a running joke within the family. She smiled playfully, and adjusted herself to appear perfectly content.

                “At least my relationship with Ashley ended better that yours with James,” Mac shot at Steve. She nearly choked on the water she was sipping, before daintily dabbing at her mouth with the napkin. She wasn’t sure what this said about her, but she found this news far more disturbing than that of their choices in meat.  

                As she considering if this was perhaps the line that she couldn’t cross, a plate was placed before her. She looked down at the steak, lightly seasoned with salt and pepper. She paused with apprehension, and glanced back up at the smiling faces. Marie watched her hopefully, awaiting her guest’s judgement of her food. It would be rude if I rejected their home cooked meal, she thought, that would leave a horrible impression... 

Seminar Four: Across the Bridge

A comical purgatory
Comedy is certainly not my forte...

She pushed through the door and found that the class had been rearranged. She froze. Each desk sat alone, spaced apart from its neighbours. There was a test today, one that had been forgotten until that moment. She forced herself from the threshold and found a desk that was still unoccupied. The rest of the class flooded in behind her as the bell finished ringing, and she found comfort in their faces. Most were like her: the pause at the door, the widening of the eyes, and the unabashed horror that slowly took over their features as reality set in. The others, the ones that had clearly been aware of the test looked to be in worse shape the rest; they had hair sticking up at all angles and the telling shadows beneath their eyes. The few prodigies traipsed in, they were rested, groomed, and of course had every answer neatly folded in their heads.

                Everyone got settled in their seats, unloading their necessities, dumping the contents of their bag directly onto the desk, and rummaging for the notes that they had never actually taken, to do some last minute studying. She however, held none of these delusions. She chose to focus on getting comfortable in her chair; she knew she had no notes with her, she knew that that half hour of studying she did last week would not bring her within grasp of a passing grade, but she also knew that she, unlike everyone else, had accepted this. Unfortunately her parade was halted by the boy next to her. He was one of the golden ones. His hair and clothes were perfect, there was no toothpaste stains on his shirt, or drool trails beside his mouth. He was calm, and collected, with his row of pencils laid out meticulously at the top left corner of his desk. He was handsome, he was smart, and he, just like all the others like him, was in danger of finding her pencil trust in his temple.  The beaming smile he sent around the class only encouraged this.

                A piece of paper fell before her and brought her attention away from the blinding ball of sunshine.  Here it was – the bane of her day. She quickly glanced over the sheet, flipped through the pages, and gauged the damage this would do. She was doomed. There were no bones being thrown here.

She pulled out her pen none the less and went to write in her name. By the last letter the ink ran dry. She tested it on the corner of the page, scribbling to urge the black out of its tube. When that failed, she started to shake it. The ink shot out and covered the sheet. Annoyed, she began to push around the blob of ink with the tip of her pen, shaping it. “Cat,” she mumbled to herself as she drew in some paws. “I think he wants a hat.”  The creation on the page grew, taking up most of the sheet.  

                A tapping brought her back from her own little world. The boy in front of her was tapping his foot furiously. His whole body was shaking; she wouldn’t have been surprised if the tiles beneath his feet started to crack. Perplexed by the intense anxiety before her she found him more interesting than the test. Finally he managed to shake himself out of his seat, the tremors emanating from him, shaking the pens from the desk of Mr. Golden boy beside her. The kid made his way to the teacher’s desk. He was reluctant to give up his test, but eventually the teacher was able to pry it out of his hands. And so the grading began. The teacher glanced over the sheets. He was taking his time, milking the torture the student was putting himself through. Finally he nodded in approval, and placed the test in a pile to be formally marked later. She thought she could see the kid’s brain explode within his head. The relief almost seemed lethal. He skipped through the door, and into a more relaxing place.

                Realizing that this must mean that she’d wasted more of the time than she thought she quickly returned her attention back to the page before her. However, it wasn’t long before the people around her started to pull at her attention again. The kid on her right, one who seemed to be stuck between genders, the figure said male, but the product filled hair, and foundationed face suggested otherwise. Not even his makeup could cover the panic on his face. He stared at the paper, writing and rewriting his answer. She watched him, witnessing the gears click in his head before he put it down on paper. The cologne that wafted off of him wrapped around her and began to suffocate. What kind of punishment was this? Wasn’t failing the test enough retribution for her apathy towards the class?

                The handle on the door began to turn, it opened without hesitation, and a lazy face appeared in the doorway. Upon noting the desk orientation the student quickly turned on her heel and fled the class. Jealousy blossomed at every seat. Unable to take the blaring fluorescent lights any longer she picked up her sheet and handed her cat to the teacher. He glanced at it, and gave her a weary look. “Meow,” she said frankly, and turned to leave, relishing her ability to move beyond this class. 

Seminar Three: A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings

Incorporate magic realism in a piece of writing

“Again?” I cried in exasperation. Every day I would come home from school, and every day I would find the garden in complete disarray. Those elves would get in there each day and make a mess of everything I did. I drew nearer to the garden. I had built it a makeshift fence after the third week of this – tired of having to replant all of my work. As I bent down I found a gap tucked between the chicken wire and tree branches that made up my garden’s fortress; looks like I’d be needing a mote soon.

My brooding was interrupted when my dog slammed into the garden’s wall opposite me. He began to scratch at the posts, and dig around its edges. Perhaps the elves weren’t to blame for my growing headache. I scowled at Max and shooed him away, but I wasn’t convinced yet. Upon closer examination I found that only the skilled little hands of elves could have peeled back the wire like that. Maybe they had collaborated with Max; perhaps the whole population of my backyard was working against me.  This thought didn’t amuse me.

Why couldn’t my yard have been infested with Keebler elves like Miranda’s down the street? Then I could come home to fresh baked cookies instead of this disaster. Instead I was left with that warm aroma wafting over the houses to mock me.

Not quite willing to rebuild my defence, I sighed in temporary defeat and made my way towards the door – at least inside I was free from their destruction. However, before reaching the door I found my legs out from underneath me and my face meeting with the ground. Breathing past the initial shock and hurt, I was able to hear the tell tale chattering of those infuriating beings. I turned my head and watched as they scurried across the yard, dragging behind them an irrigation hose from the garden, my shoe being carried in tow, hooked on a sprinkler.

I debated hunting them down and retrieving my footwear, perhaps exacting some repeatedly imagined revenge, but upon seeing them crawl up the lilac tree, I decided it just wasn’t worth the humiliation. Eventually they would get bored with their new treasures and leave them abandoned for me to find.

I peeled myself from the grass, and made it to the doorway, taking extra care as I walked. Once inside I took a moment to relish the oasis I had behind these walls: no elves, no chaos, and no garden to worry about. I found my place in an oversized chair and sipped on some tea to tame the anger that was boiling beneath the surface. I glanced out the window and found three little elves hidden within the lilacs leering down at me.

Seminar Two: Dinner Along the Amazon

Do we consciously put ourselves into our writing?

I find that it is a combination of unconscious and conscious thought. The interests and opinions that have developed within a person are due to the life they have lived and the people they have known so far. The things that interest us are what flavour the things we do. Someone wouldn’t write something (willingly) unless it was something that they wanted to explore, something that inspired them – where else would the words come from? Since it is natural to write what interests us I think that the roots of anything someone writes is an unconscious reflection of them. They write about it because they are interested in it, but are most likely not considering how much of themselves they are revealing.  This is most true in unplanned work. When someone just sits down and starts to write they are working completely off of the inspiration that has taken them, there isn’t any planning or second-thinking to take the story away from the person’s self, or to add in the thought, “if I add this, it’ll really show who I am”. When someone writes in the moment every description, connection, and interpretation that is made is coming straight from who they are and what they think.

Even when working with a range of characters the author can still be found in all of them. The villain in stories reflect what the writer sees as villainous, and in turn, the protagonists created show different idealisms that the author holds, and perhaps wishes to embody.

This isn’t to say that one cannot ever be aware or plan to put themselves into their work. Of course someone can decide to write about themselves, or want to create a work of writing that embodies who they are. This would then make the incorporation of themselves into their work a very conscious thing. 

Seminar one: The Veldt

Write about an everyday event, incorperating futuristic elements in an indifferent way.

I sat in class staring blankly at the wall. A movie flickered to life, but it made little difference to me. As pictures danced across the wall a dry commentary started up – it hung heavily on my ears with no real meaning. The picture faltered and died, casting the room in darkness until the teacher smacked the brick with a couple pronounced strikes. The creases in the brick smoothed out and the images lit up the room again. The wall illuminated the sunken faces of the students, none of which were stirring. Noting the indifference of her students, the teacher opened up the vents, releasing the familiar warm air. It wafted over the class, the sweetness falling on my tongue and playing in my lungs. As I enjoyed the subtle tingling in my finger tips I watched as the class rose from their vacant slumbers. However, their new caffeine-buzz only brought their attentions further from the film, as it always did.  

Hey there world

look at me blog!