Disclaimer: The style of writing and characters presented in this short work of fiction are based from Russell Banks' "Sarah Cole: A Type of Love Story" and are not intended to infringe upon copyright in any way. Written for UCF's CRW 3013 course, Fall 2011. I encourage readers to find a copy of Banks' short story and read it if for no other reason than to enjoy great fiction.
[This text should be explained. It is written from the point of view of Sarah Cole, not Banks' narrator. The writing style is tailored to her personality. If the short story is read in conjunction with this text, it should match up with her character. If not, I apologize for being a terrible writer. We all start somewhere.]
His name was Ron. I had met him in the bar, at Osgood’s. He was definitely a looker: blonde hair, kind of skinny, not so old and not so young, but definitely worth a few minutes of my drunken time. The gals from work suggested (on a dare) that I go up and talk to him. So I did. I did the talking mostly, and he just sat there, looking at me and nodding and smiling, but he still held onto the paper, as if it was waiting for him. I went to the bar again two nights later, and when I had enough drinks and thought it was time to hit the road he walked me out to my car, and we discovered that my car was damaged. God, I thought, this is embarrassing as a cried into his chest, into his strong, kind, intelligent, good looking, button-up shirt chest. I had told him about my ex-husband, and he sympathized. He once drove me to his place, and while I sat in the living room waiting for him to come in from the kitchen, I got scared, and I walked out the front door after he offered me a white Russian. One time, he was so nice that he carried my groceries up my stairs to my apartment, and when we got inside, he didn’t say a word about how much of a mess the place was. He was polite, appropriate. I kissed those kind and thoughtful lips, and then he left. I was hooked, hooked on a man whose age I didn’t even know. I was hooked because I really needed a kind man in my life. I became obsessed with his kindness. We made love at his place every time, and every time I grew more attached. Until, finally, he seemed to grow cold and distant. Eventually he broke it off with me. I think the word “broke” is appropriate. He didn’t just end it. He broke it, my heart. He broke my heart. I didn’t see him for some time, and then, when I finally grew enough courage to drive up to his place and get out of the car and walk up to the door and knock…he let me in. I sat down. I still wanted to see him, although I was living with my ex-husband. He didn’t want to see me anymore, though. I grew angry. What a bastard; what a son-of-a-bitch. What a fucking low-life, good-for-nothing piece of shit. And then he said it. He called me an ugly bitch because he could. Then I disappeared because I wanted to.
05 September 2011
CE 3 - based from "Boys" by Rick Moody
Disclaimer: The style of writing and characters presented in this short work of fiction are based from Rick Moody's "Boys" and are not intended to infringe upon copyright in any way. Written for UCF's CRW 3013 course, Fall 2011. I encourage readers to find a copy of Moody's short story and read it if for no other reason than to enjoy great fiction.
The boys enter the house, fresh, alive, jubilant, and forgetful. Their mother stands aside to let them pass into the living room where their father is waiting, expecting. A girl trails behind the blonde boy; she is shy, although educated and secretly opinionated. She reaches out to grasp the hand of the blonde boy, but her pale, thin wrists and dainty hand only brush along his rolled shirt sleeve, just missing his lightly haired fingers by centimeters. She is disappointed for a moment, a brief moment, but then lets the thought go as the mother approaches her in welcome; they begin to converse.
The boys make their way to their father, who is standing next to the beat up leather couch. They embrace, although the brunette boy holds back in favor of allowing his brother to hug their father; the blonde son and his father are much closer than the brunette son and his father. The father steps back to admire how much his sons have grown: grown up men who wear grown up clothes and eat grown up things and speak grown up thoughts and have grown up girlfriends. The father spies the blonde son’s sweetheart over the son’s shoulder. She is talking to his wife, who is holding the sweetheart’s hands in hers and saying, “Welcome to our home.” She is pretty, but not overly so; she is plain, homely, but looks intelligent. He wonders if his son has been thinking of marrying this girl. Then he wonders why his brunette son has not brought home a girl.
“I’m very glad to meet you, your son has told me so much about your family.” The sweetheart beams with thankfulness at the mother.
“You are welcome to anything in the house as long as you stay. We have a nice room set up for you down in the basement.” The mother says this with authority. She says it with the authority of a mother to her blonde son, and with the authority of a rich, giving, and cautious distant aunt to the girl. The girl beams; she loves basements and their quietness and cool atmosphere. The quiet is good for reading, thinking, dreaming. The blonde son is agitated.
“She has to sleep in the basement?” He is growing incredulous.
“We have no others rooms, dear. Besides, the basement has its own kitchen and a television. The folding bed is much more comfortable than the couch.” The mother makes the eyes at her son which say You must not do this here or now.
“It really is no trouble, babe. It’s alright. I’ll be fine.” The girl, the sweetheart, the now-basement-dweller holds out her hand to the blonde boy, gesturing to him that It’s okay, babe.
The father begins to approach the girl and introduce himself as her boyfriend’s father; he is interrupted by the blonde son’s breathy sigh and expletive. The father turns around in surprise, and he gives a look of warning, caution, and mild fury to the son, who shrivels under his father’s intense glare.
“Son, enough.” His eyes say You will not do this here or now.
“This is ridiculous. Completely stupid. I thought – I thought we had agreed over the phone. Over the phone you said that she would sleep in my room.” He keeps persisting under the glare of his father. He turns into a child now, his face contorting into convulsed grimaces and reflections of a spoiled infant. “What about Clarissa’s room?”
The family is silent. The girl is confused.
The brunette brother arms himself with dignity and grace.
“Stop.”
The blonde boy, child, brother now listens. He listens to his brother.
“Be glad you have her. Be glad she has to sleep in the basement. Be glad she’s with us. And not laying far below the topsoil.” Poetic.
Silence.
The brunette brother stares at his blonde reflection; his eyes say This has ended, here and now.
The boys enter the house, fresh, alive, jubilant, and forgetful. Their mother stands aside to let them pass into the living room where their father is waiting, expecting. A girl trails behind the blonde boy; she is shy, although educated and secretly opinionated. She reaches out to grasp the hand of the blonde boy, but her pale, thin wrists and dainty hand only brush along his rolled shirt sleeve, just missing his lightly haired fingers by centimeters. She is disappointed for a moment, a brief moment, but then lets the thought go as the mother approaches her in welcome; they begin to converse.
The boys make their way to their father, who is standing next to the beat up leather couch. They embrace, although the brunette boy holds back in favor of allowing his brother to hug their father; the blonde son and his father are much closer than the brunette son and his father. The father steps back to admire how much his sons have grown: grown up men who wear grown up clothes and eat grown up things and speak grown up thoughts and have grown up girlfriends. The father spies the blonde son’s sweetheart over the son’s shoulder. She is talking to his wife, who is holding the sweetheart’s hands in hers and saying, “Welcome to our home.” She is pretty, but not overly so; she is plain, homely, but looks intelligent. He wonders if his son has been thinking of marrying this girl. Then he wonders why his brunette son has not brought home a girl.
“I’m very glad to meet you, your son has told me so much about your family.” The sweetheart beams with thankfulness at the mother.
“You are welcome to anything in the house as long as you stay. We have a nice room set up for you down in the basement.” The mother says this with authority. She says it with the authority of a mother to her blonde son, and with the authority of a rich, giving, and cautious distant aunt to the girl. The girl beams; she loves basements and their quietness and cool atmosphere. The quiet is good for reading, thinking, dreaming. The blonde son is agitated.
“She has to sleep in the basement?” He is growing incredulous.
“We have no others rooms, dear. Besides, the basement has its own kitchen and a television. The folding bed is much more comfortable than the couch.” The mother makes the eyes at her son which say You must not do this here or now.
“It really is no trouble, babe. It’s alright. I’ll be fine.” The girl, the sweetheart, the now-basement-dweller holds out her hand to the blonde boy, gesturing to him that It’s okay, babe.
The father begins to approach the girl and introduce himself as her boyfriend’s father; he is interrupted by the blonde son’s breathy sigh and expletive. The father turns around in surprise, and he gives a look of warning, caution, and mild fury to the son, who shrivels under his father’s intense glare.
“Son, enough.” His eyes say You will not do this here or now.
“This is ridiculous. Completely stupid. I thought – I thought we had agreed over the phone. Over the phone you said that she would sleep in my room.” He keeps persisting under the glare of his father. He turns into a child now, his face contorting into convulsed grimaces and reflections of a spoiled infant. “What about Clarissa’s room?”
The family is silent. The girl is confused.
The brunette brother arms himself with dignity and grace.
“Stop.”
The blonde boy, child, brother now listens. He listens to his brother.
“Be glad you have her. Be glad she has to sleep in the basement. Be glad she’s with us. And not laying far below the topsoil.” Poetic.
Silence.
The brunette brother stares at his blonde reflection; his eyes say This has ended, here and now.
CE 2 - based from "The Things They Carried" by Tim O'Brien
Disclaimer: The style of writing and characters presented in this short work of fiction are based from Tim O'Brien's "The Things They Carried" and are not intended to infringe upon copyright in any way. Written for UCF's CRW 3013 course, Fall 2011. I encourage readers to find a copy of O'Brien's short story and read it if for no other reason than to enjoy great fiction.
Lieutenant Jimmy Cross was not accustomed to the warm greetings he received when he returned to the States, nor had he anticipated the sudden kiss of a woman he did not know. Her lips were soft, round, and yet forceful in welcoming him back from the war. He noticed the scent of gardenia, but did not dwell on its sweetness. She broke away from him, confused that he did not wish to continue. His attention was elsewhere. His pack was heavy as it tugged down upon his shoulder, and his back bent left in his attempt to keep the luggage from falling. The things he carried were much too fragile to be dropped. If they touched the floor at just the right angle, a crucial piece of his life and himself as a man could be destroyed forever. He looked left, then right – caution always directing his actions. He chose left and moved in that direction, head set forward for a mission that had not quite made itself clear yet.
He moved through the streets like a ghost, noticed by all, oblivious to his surroundings. He carried his pack through the throngs of busy people leading busy lives that had been uninterrupted by war. Within his pack was stuffed a canteen half-full of water, the remnants of his first aide kit, a tiny bottle of unused hot sauce, a pair of rusted tweezers, his father’s old pocket knife, and Lavender’s name badge –stolen right before the burial – which served as a bookmark for the found copy of Frankenstein now jabbing into his left shoulder blade. Providing insulation for these mismatched items of seeming unimportance were a fleece blanket covered with spattered red stains, his green poncho which he had used to keep his copy of Frankenstein safe, and three yellowed and wrinkled undershirts that smelled of mud, dead fish, and iron.
The pockets bulged with nothings, nothings that were somethings to Lieutenant Cross. A piece of long grass from one of the fields they took cover in during a small, but intense battle; a lock of hair from the body of a dead girl who had accidentally run out of her home while a fire fight was going on (she reminded him of his deceased sister); the bullet that had lodged itself in Lavender’s chest right before his team had burned Then Khe; a sketch he had drawn of a dog running rampant, apparently untouched, in Than Khe immediately after the fire; a small Hohner pocket harmonica Rat Kiley had chucked into the mud after Lieutenant Cross had played “a little too much” that night; Norman Bowker’s thumb trinket that he had cut from that dead boy’s hand – he had died a month after that. And last of all, Lieutenant Cross’s largest outside pocket was stuffed with a rope that measured about four and a half yards long.
Lieutenant Jimmy Cross was not accustomed to the warm greetings he received when he returned to the States, nor had he anticipated the sudden kiss of a woman he did not know. Her lips were soft, round, and yet forceful in welcoming him back from the war. He noticed the scent of gardenia, but did not dwell on its sweetness. She broke away from him, confused that he did not wish to continue. His attention was elsewhere. His pack was heavy as it tugged down upon his shoulder, and his back bent left in his attempt to keep the luggage from falling. The things he carried were much too fragile to be dropped. If they touched the floor at just the right angle, a crucial piece of his life and himself as a man could be destroyed forever. He looked left, then right – caution always directing his actions. He chose left and moved in that direction, head set forward for a mission that had not quite made itself clear yet.
He moved through the streets like a ghost, noticed by all, oblivious to his surroundings. He carried his pack through the throngs of busy people leading busy lives that had been uninterrupted by war. Within his pack was stuffed a canteen half-full of water, the remnants of his first aide kit, a tiny bottle of unused hot sauce, a pair of rusted tweezers, his father’s old pocket knife, and Lavender’s name badge –stolen right before the burial – which served as a bookmark for the found copy of Frankenstein now jabbing into his left shoulder blade. Providing insulation for these mismatched items of seeming unimportance were a fleece blanket covered with spattered red stains, his green poncho which he had used to keep his copy of Frankenstein safe, and three yellowed and wrinkled undershirts that smelled of mud, dead fish, and iron.
The pockets bulged with nothings, nothings that were somethings to Lieutenant Cross. A piece of long grass from one of the fields they took cover in during a small, but intense battle; a lock of hair from the body of a dead girl who had accidentally run out of her home while a fire fight was going on (she reminded him of his deceased sister); the bullet that had lodged itself in Lavender’s chest right before his team had burned Then Khe; a sketch he had drawn of a dog running rampant, apparently untouched, in Than Khe immediately after the fire; a small Hohner pocket harmonica Rat Kiley had chucked into the mud after Lieutenant Cross had played “a little too much” that night; Norman Bowker’s thumb trinket that he had cut from that dead boy’s hand – he had died a month after that. And last of all, Lieutenant Cross’s largest outside pocket was stuffed with a rope that measured about four and a half yards long.
CE 1 - based from "Incarnations of Burned Children" by David Foster Wallace
Disclaimer: The style of writing and characters presented in this short work of fiction are based from David Foster Wallace's "Incarnations of Burned Children" and are not intended to infringe upon copyright in any way. Written for UCF's CRW 3013 course, Fall 2011. I encourage readers to find a copy of Wallace's short story and read it if for no other reason than to enjoy great fiction.
The Daddy returned to the house carrying lump of cloth in one hand and a bottle of freshly purchased scotch in the other, and the inevitable confrontation with the Mommy was waiting for him inside. The Daddy cared very little for scotch, but his taste buds were broken from biting his tongue raw in the waiting room, and his mind was practically numb from the silent screaming which ran like a pack of wild wolves through his head. The Mommy looked blankly at the Daddy when he entered the kitchen, which was still awash with the water that had spilled from the burning pot and onto his son. The Mommy’s face retained the anguished and mangled expression it had displayed prior to the Daddy’s frantic exit from the house, and though she was just as young as she had been when the Daddy left, the Mommy seemed to have aged twenty years in the three hours that the Daddy had been away. The Mommy had not sat down, nor had she attempted to clean the water from the tile floor, which was now deeply soaked into the grout between the white, square foot stones. The Daddy stood facing the Mommy, displaying a look upon his face which matched the contempt and rage in his heart, and as he turned to open the cabinet door to pull down a small glass, the Mommy made a deep guttural sound akin to that made by a boiling pot of water. The Daddy glanced at the Mommy’s thin and transparent face, shook his head which withered on its stem, and strode out of the kitchen with the bottle of scotch and its glass companion in both of his fists.
The Mommy slowly began to turn her head from where it had been positioned for three hours and commenced her wide gaze upon the room where the incident had occurred. Her neck, once strong and supportive, was now like the Daddy’s: fragile and flimsy. The Mommy took in the sights: the water spilled upon the floor, the black pot which had fallen from her incapable hands, and the tiny diaper that had been left behind as a souvenir of their son’s last agonizing moments. The Mommy began to clean. She picked up the prone pot and washed it in the sink, making sure to wash it thoroughly. And again. And again. And again. She mopped up the water and hand dried the floor. Twice, just to be sure. She saved the diaper for last, having mopped and dried around the swollen object to avoid moving it, fearing that she would experience a sudden shock if she so much as brushed its outer cotton lining. The Mommy stood up, ventured toward the drawer where the utensils were kept, and pulled out a pair of salad tongs, and edging ever so carefully along the wall, she finally reached the diaper and gingerly picked it up between the cold metal fingers of the instrument. After this job had been completed, the Mommy sat down at the kitchen table, letting the tongs drop, clattering, to the floor. She stared blankly ahead as she had been doing when the Daddy first entered the room, and began breathing in short, shallow breaths. Her chest, now sunken from sorrow, disbelief, and guilt, was now hollow.
The Mommy thought she saw a small person out of the corner of her eye peek around the corner of the kitchen door. She could have sworn she heard the Daddy come back in from outside and turn the television on. The Mommy smiled to herself and weakly rose from her chair to fetch plates, knives, forks, and spoons from the cabinet. She set the table, and, when she had completed her task, sat down again, but no food appeared on the plate in front of her nor the plates adjacent to hers. Equally, the Daddy thought he heard the Mommy laughing. After finishing his third glass of scotch, he turned his head around to look through the porch door. He thought he saw the Mommy smiling while she sat at the kitchen table, feeding herself and another person, although this other individual was either out of view or too short for the Daddy to see. The Daddy felt quite drowsy, and he also thought he heard the sound of the radio as it played the short, whining, and jittering sounds of jazz through its small speakers. His leg started to bounce along with the music, although a little off tempo from the rhythm.
The Daddy returned to the house carrying lump of cloth in one hand and a bottle of freshly purchased scotch in the other, and the inevitable confrontation with the Mommy was waiting for him inside. The Daddy cared very little for scotch, but his taste buds were broken from biting his tongue raw in the waiting room, and his mind was practically numb from the silent screaming which ran like a pack of wild wolves through his head. The Mommy looked blankly at the Daddy when he entered the kitchen, which was still awash with the water that had spilled from the burning pot and onto his son. The Mommy’s face retained the anguished and mangled expression it had displayed prior to the Daddy’s frantic exit from the house, and though she was just as young as she had been when the Daddy left, the Mommy seemed to have aged twenty years in the three hours that the Daddy had been away. The Mommy had not sat down, nor had she attempted to clean the water from the tile floor, which was now deeply soaked into the grout between the white, square foot stones. The Daddy stood facing the Mommy, displaying a look upon his face which matched the contempt and rage in his heart, and as he turned to open the cabinet door to pull down a small glass, the Mommy made a deep guttural sound akin to that made by a boiling pot of water. The Daddy glanced at the Mommy’s thin and transparent face, shook his head which withered on its stem, and strode out of the kitchen with the bottle of scotch and its glass companion in both of his fists.
The Mommy slowly began to turn her head from where it had been positioned for three hours and commenced her wide gaze upon the room where the incident had occurred. Her neck, once strong and supportive, was now like the Daddy’s: fragile and flimsy. The Mommy took in the sights: the water spilled upon the floor, the black pot which had fallen from her incapable hands, and the tiny diaper that had been left behind as a souvenir of their son’s last agonizing moments. The Mommy began to clean. She picked up the prone pot and washed it in the sink, making sure to wash it thoroughly. And again. And again. And again. She mopped up the water and hand dried the floor. Twice, just to be sure. She saved the diaper for last, having mopped and dried around the swollen object to avoid moving it, fearing that she would experience a sudden shock if she so much as brushed its outer cotton lining. The Mommy stood up, ventured toward the drawer where the utensils were kept, and pulled out a pair of salad tongs, and edging ever so carefully along the wall, she finally reached the diaper and gingerly picked it up between the cold metal fingers of the instrument. After this job had been completed, the Mommy sat down at the kitchen table, letting the tongs drop, clattering, to the floor. She stared blankly ahead as she had been doing when the Daddy first entered the room, and began breathing in short, shallow breaths. Her chest, now sunken from sorrow, disbelief, and guilt, was now hollow.
The Mommy thought she saw a small person out of the corner of her eye peek around the corner of the kitchen door. She could have sworn she heard the Daddy come back in from outside and turn the television on. The Mommy smiled to herself and weakly rose from her chair to fetch plates, knives, forks, and spoons from the cabinet. She set the table, and, when she had completed her task, sat down again, but no food appeared on the plate in front of her nor the plates adjacent to hers. Equally, the Daddy thought he heard the Mommy laughing. After finishing his third glass of scotch, he turned his head around to look through the porch door. He thought he saw the Mommy smiling while she sat at the kitchen table, feeding herself and another person, although this other individual was either out of view or too short for the Daddy to see. The Daddy felt quite drowsy, and he also thought he heard the sound of the radio as it played the short, whining, and jittering sounds of jazz through its small speakers. His leg started to bounce along with the music, although a little off tempo from the rhythm.
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