Advanced Fiction Writing Assignment 13

Assignment 13

Author’s Note:  This is the second to last assignment that I had to complete for my writing class. In the lesson covered by this assignment, exposition, dialogue, and chapter break placement were discussed. Exposition is basically describing a setting very vividly, but the setting can be physical or mental. Dialogue was discussed as way to reveal important traits about your characters without writing long passages to describe them. Chapter breaks, to be most effective, are to be placed right in the middle of the action at the end of your scene so that your reader will have to push forward and read the next chapter because they are so intrigued. These are known as “cliff hangers.” We were supposed to write a short story incorporating all three of these elements. (And for those who don’t know:  ECT in medical lingo is short for electroconvulsive therapy, which is also known as shock treatment.)

Grade Received:  A, with many people commenting that this story reminded them of the novel “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”

Hell:  Third Floor, Second Door on the Right

Karen shifted uncomfortably in the hard plastic chair in the examination room. She had been admitted to the Chisholm State Psychiatric Asylum about a week earlier against her will after some well-intended beachgoer saw her jump off of the long elevated pier that jutted into the waters of Lake Michigan and flagged down a local Coast Guard rescue unit. They had slapped handcuffs on her almost as soon as she was pulled onto the boat’s deck and unceremoniously strapped her onto a stretcher and loaded her into the back of an ambulance as soon as they reached the shore. Since they discovered all of the heavy rocks and free weights she had shoved in her pockets and tied to her body, she wasn’t given an option as to where she was going:  Chisholm it was.

Karen felt angry and aggrieved. This was the third time this day that she’d been bellowed out of her incessant slumber by the booming voices of the orderlies to come talk to some person in the icy cold examination room. First she had to talk to some lady whose name she couldn’t remember about a topic that had so little meaning to her that she couldn’t recall any basic information about what had been said by either of them. The second time she had to make an appearance in the room, she had to talk to the extremely deaf old nurse Patti who chastised Karen for being rude because she’d raised her voice a bit because Patti kept saying “What? What? Speak up!” in response to Karen’s answers to her questions. Karen had rolled her eyes when Patti used an old-fashioned manual blood pressure cuff to take her blood pressure. There was no way that Patti could’ve gotten an accurate reading using that device:  the woman probably wouldn’t hear a nuclear warhead being detonated three inches in front of her, so being able to hear the soft, subtle sounds of Karen’s heart’s valves opening and closing was clearly out of the question. Now she was just waiting for the hospital’s psychiatrist to show up.

It was the same routine every day:  mandatory useless meetings with people who were uncaring and unfeeling and not particularly competent that accomplished nothing, just like the corporate meetings she’d attended at her most recent job—the one she’d just been downsized from, which was part of the reason as to why she was now at Chisholm. It wasn’t the only reason, though. It was just the final straw in an onerous bundle that finally broke the metaphorical camel’s back.

Karen pushed a strand of her tangled mop of blond hair, which hadn’t been combed or washed since she had arrived at Chisholm, behind her ear, folded her arms across her chest, crossed her legs, and leaned forward at the waist. Jesus, it’s cold in this place, she thought as she shivered slightly. She was only wearing two threadbare hospital gowns—one to cover her front, one to cover her back—a pair of panties, and the hospital-issued socks with rubber treads. Her grandmother had brought her a change of clothes when she had come to visit a few days earlier, but Karen hadn’t shown any interest in wearing them.

If they won’t let me die, they can at least leave me alone and let me sleep my miserable life away, she thought with depressive annoyance. And slept she had:  out of the six days she’d been at Chisholm, she’d spent maybe three or four hours total awake and upright. Life had become overwhelming and exhausting for Karen, which is why she’d jumped in the first place.

A primal, guttural shriek pierced through the exam room’s closed door, followed by the sounds of the hurried footsteps of the nurses and orderlies. Great, Karen thought, another one of the crazies here is out of control again. Another day in fuckin’ paradise. She sighed angrily, which was all the more effort and energy she could muster given her current emotional state.

God, I hate this place, she thought dejectedly.

A sharp knock sounded on the exam room’s door, and the hospital’s unsympathetic, compassionless psychiatrist, Dr. McGregor, walked into the room, took a seat at the metal office desk across from Karen, opened up a file folder containing a large volume of papers, started to shuffle through them, and then began to fire off questions in a rather brusque manner to her. He never bothered to look up and acknowledge her presence. She was just another random, unstable, self-destructive nut job who was keeping him from perfecting his golf game apparently.

“So, Miss Thompson—"

“It’s Tomcheck.”

“How are you feeling today?”

“Shitty, as usual. I hate this place! I want to go home!”

“We can’t let you do that.”

“Why not? I’ve complied with all of your demands!”

“Not really.”

“What do you mean? I’ve started coming to meals—"

“Only after we talked about putting a feeding tube in you.”

“Why should I have to eat when I’m not hungry?”

“You’ve lost fifteen pounds since your arrival.”

“So? I’ve needed to drop some weight anyway!”

“You haven’t been participating in the group therapy sessions.”

“You only said I had to go, not join in with the kum-bayh-ya! It’s all a crock of shit anyway! Instead of discussing important things like stress management or constructive ways to deal with your unpleasant thoughts and feelings, we spent an hour and a half yesterday listing any and every holiday we could think of, and a lot of people were just making shit up! Like Moses’s birthday! Apparently that’s a major holiday in some guy’s world, but he doesn’t know if it’s supposed to be on December 2 or December 10! Complete and total bullshit!”

“You’re awfully resentful.”

“Why shouldn't I be? I am on a floor with people who are actively psychotic, and they certainly act like it! I am so fucking tired of hearing screams and shrieks all goddamn day and all fucking night because I am not psychotic! I have never been psychotic! I am acutely, unpleasantly aware of reality! That is why I am here! The outside world got to be too much for me to deal with, but I never lost touch with it! I’m here because I needed a time-out from the rest of the world! Well, now I want to leave! I’m ready to go back to the real world!”

“We can’t let you do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you won’t assure us that you won’t attempt suicide ever again.”

“Of course I can’t promise that! I don’t know how I’ll react six months or six years from now! I do know that I am not actively suicidal at this moment! I just want the hell out of here!”

“What about your spiritual life?”

“What about it?”

“Well, perhaps you should turn to some sort of higher being to find solace—God, perhaps. He doesn’t give you more than you can handle, you know.”

“That’s absolute bullshit! God giving you more than you can handle is the leading cause of suicide!”

“Have you ever considered the way you interact with society? You’re very resentful.”

“Of course I’m resentful! There is nothing wrong with the way I interact with society—the problem is the way society interacts with me! I am kind, good natured, trusting, accepting, compassionate, creative, honest, pleasant, and selfless, and how do I get treated by other people time and time again? I get used and abused at every turn! No—I am not the problem—the world is a vampire, set to drain!”

She glared at Dr. McGregor in fury, tears streaming down her cheeks. He never even looked up at her.

“Perhaps we try giving you some lithium and ECT,” he said dismissively as he scribbled something on a paper in his file folder. “You can go back to your room now.”

Karen stalked out of the room, more angry at that moment than she had ever been in her whole entire life. Silent sobs of frustration violently shook her body.

Sometimes I even amaze myself...

The picture above is by the artist Man Ray. It's called "Object to Be Destroyed." I had to do a take-home test for my art history class which included a question about this piece. I got an A+ on the test. I wasn't trying to be funny in my response to the question, but my professor thought my answer was hilarious. (He pulled me aside after the class and told me so.) Here's what I wrote about the piece:

 “Object to Be Destroyed” by Man Ray was more than likely a symbolic representation of his recent ex-girlfriend Lee Miller rather than the “silent witness” he claimed to have created in order to watch him paint in his studio. He had intended to destroy it himself in front of an audience as a work of performance art, but some nihilistic Dadaists beat him to it at an exhibition of the work. The piece is creepy:  a single photographic image of a woman’s eye attached to the working arm of a commonplace metronome. The eye is oppressive, and when it is combined with the tick-tick of the swinging metronome arm, it is something that could drive one to hatred and madness, much like an ex-lover. 

I wrote that answer that way because I once saw a documentary a number of years ago about Man Ray, and if you know nothing else about him, know this:  He was a horrible, hateful, arrogant, abusive, pathological misogynist. (Brilliant artist, but creepy motherfucker.) We even touched briefly on his obsessive fixation with the female form in his works (most of his works are female nudes) and that he was not a nice dude in my art history class, but my professor didn't really emphasize his malevolence, which is fine. We're there to learn about the progression of art through the ages, not rip someone down to their Id. But having personally known men who behaved in ways like or shared attitudes towards women that are similar to those held by Man Ray, I can say with almost (like 99%) certainty that "Object to Be Destroyed," which was created shortly after Lee Miller left Man Ray, is supposed to be her. Especially since if you break up with men like Man Ray, they try to destroy you in any way they can. (Been there, done that, unfortunately.)

I wasn't trying to be funny. Seriously. But sometimes the way I say things makes people laugh. I can be really unintentionally funny sometimes, which I don't mind because I like to make people laugh. But don't ever ask me how the process works or to say something unintentionally funny on the spot. I don't know how that works. The words literally just come out of my mouth (or I write them) that way, and I say it (or write it), and people laugh. 

My brain just works in weird ways sometimes. 

A kiss with a fist...

You hit me once,
I hit you back,
You gave a kick,
I gave slap,
You smashed a plate
Upon my head
Then I set fire
To our bed.

--Florence + the Machine, "Kiss with a Fist"

Author's Note:  This incident happened when I was studying before class last Wednesday, and it's been bothering me ever since. I feel like I should've done more. Or something different. To try to work out my feelings about this, I wrote the piece below. I don't know if I would call it a poem because I've never been especially good at writing poetry, but I couldn't say what I wanted to say in the way I wanted to say it with this piece in regular prose. I'd really like feedback from anyone who reads this, so please comment or e-mail or Facebook me (to those who know my name) with your thoughts. Thanks!

Rough Day, Rough Life

Dear Lady,

Yes, You,

The one with the

Curly hair,

Hipster glasses,

Pug nose,

Loud voice,

And broad hips

In too-tight jeans:

I'm sorry.

You had a rough day.

I came to campus

Before class

To study--

Hard--

For an exam.

You were there, too,

With your man.

I sat at a table

In the tranquil lobby

And began to read.

You sat in a chair nearby.

All was quiet

Until

He started in

On you

About buying

A gallon of milk

At that exact moment.

You protested--

Your voice sonorous--

And whiny.

I need to study--

You said--

I'm failing this class!

I only have two more

Chapters to go!

Then we can go.

This made him angry.

You started to argue.

Loudly.

The guy at the table

Next to mine

Swore and said:

Jesus! Every day!

Everyone was staring

At you.

Everyone.

We couldn't help it--

Your booming voice filled

The peaceful lobby,

And your whine

Only grew

More pronounced

With each and every

Protestation you made.

Then he put his hands on you:

One on your throat,

One under your chin,

Forcing your head back

At an uncomfortable angle.

I could feel you cringe.

I stood up

And stomped towards you,

My high-heeled boots

Pounding the floor

Aggressively

And echoing through

The vacant halls beyond.

He saw me

And my angry look

Coming, coming,

So he let you go.

But I didn't stop.

I walked right up

To you two

And began to

Clear the air.

What do you think you are doing?!

People are trying to study!

You tried to mumble

That you weren't

Bothering anyone,

But I cleaved

Your argument

Into tiny slivers

Before you could finish it.

No!

You are bothering everyone!

People in the computer lab are staring!

People in the business office are staring!

Everyone in this lobby is staring at you!

You are bothering everyone!

You knock it off or go outside!

If you don't, I will call the cops!

Your man,

In his dirty, shabby clothes,

Unkempt hair,

And nasty goatee--

He looks like a fifty-year-old

Pig Pen

From the Sunday comics

And smells just as bad, too--

He glared at me.

I glared back

In fury.

I gave him my "evil eye"

That I seldom use,

But those who have seen it

Say it's the

Meanest

Coldest

Angriest

Look they've ever seen.

I channeled Dirty Harry--

Go ahead,

Make my day,

You sonofabitch.

I can take you.--

With that look.

I was not afraid.

He walked away.

You sat back down

In your chair

And went back

To your textbook.

I went back to my seat, too.

It was quiet again.

A few minutes later,

He rejoined you,

But you were quiet,

So I left you alone.

But you were whispering

Amongst yourselves--

Thick as thieves--

And casting sideways glances

At me.

You were talking about me.

I'm not stupid,

So don't try to deny it.

I've been to high school.

What did you say about me?

That I'm

Bossy?

Bitchy?

Both?

Worse?

It doesn't matter

What you said

About me.

I've been called worse--

To my face.

And I am not the one

Who sleeps with

Evil Pig Pen

And fails my classes.

Eventually you both fell silent.

Twenty minutes after

The whispering stopped,

You left with him.

I do not know

What happened

After that,

But I hope you are well.

I bare you

No ill will.

I just know

That there is

No happy ending

To dysfunctional stories

Like your own.

Author's Note:  The above image is almost exactly what the couple in this piece was doing when I confronted them. The lady had the exact same expression on her face that the woman in the picture has. I posted this picture because it is so eerily true to life.

You get by with a little help from your friends...

A big thanks to all of my friends and family who have helped me get through this rough semester! I couldn't have done it without your love and support! :)

Advanced Fiction Writing Assignment 12

Assignment 12

Author’s Note:  Lesson 12 covered the use of symbols and metaphors in your writing. While the lesson pointed out that most symbols that are used in writing are unintentional, some can be intentional. Intentional symbols are symbols that relate to an important character, setting, or theme in your story. Since the first part of the assignment was to write about an intentional symbol, I decided to use a river. (I was listening to Bruce Springsteen’s “The River” when I started to write this assignment, so I blame it on The Boss.) The second part of the assignment was to write an extended metaphor. I decided to use a method known as “synesthetic metaphor.” A synesthetic metaphor is one in which two or more bodily senses are coupled in response to a stimulus. The concept of the synesthetic metaphor is based on a psychiatric disorder known as synesthesia, which is when a person’s brain reacts in an unusual manner to a stimulus (like a person “hearing” a color or “tasting” a sound). However, when synesthetic metaphors are used in writing, no one is having issues with their mental status. The point of a synesthetic metaphor is to invoke incredibly vivid imagery through the use of most of or all of the five senses. I chose to use my own personal reaction to my favorite season, autumn, for this part of the assignment. This assignment wasn’t supposed to be very long, so these are brief.

Grade Received:  A, with a lot of positive comments from my professors and classmates about my extended metaphor

                                                                                                                     

Symbol

The river bubbled and gurgled and flowed ceaselessly onward to destinations unknown, much like Annalisa’s future. She was free now, like the river. She could plot her own course from here on out, and no one could stop her. No one.

Metaphor

The autumn rain was heavenly. The gently silken caress of the droplets on her exposed skin, the sweet, soft smell of the damp earth mixed with the cacophony of colored leaves on the ground, the crisp, sharp chill in the air—all of it filled her with such wonder and peace. It was October in Michigan, which meant that the current weather conditions would be fleeting, so she decided to enjoy it as best she could. She took a deep breath of the fresh, soothing air and allowed it to placate her body. She had never felt so alive.  

Advanced Fiction Writing Assignment 11

Assignment 11

Author’s Note:  The lesson that covered this assignment was all about how to write effective beginnings and endings to your stories. An effective beginning is supposed to draw a reader in, while an effective ending leaves your readers satisfied. The ending and the beginning weren’t supposed to be very long, so these are brief.

Grade Received:  A, with a lot of praise from my instructors and classmates about how intriguing they thought my beginning was

Beginning

She’d been keeping secrets for far too long, and now they were coming out. They were ugly, terrible, horrible secrets—secrets she had been told never to tell under any circumstance—but now that her house was a crime scene, she had no choice but to tell them. The police would find out eventually anyway. She cleared her throat, squared her shoulders, and walked towards the detectives to give her best dramatic performance yet—that of an innocent woman.

Ending

He wiped the tears from his eyes as the priest finished taking his final confession. He felt oddly at peace with the world and his upcoming fate. He would walk to the gallows with no fear—not of the hangman, not of the crowd, not of Hell. He had changed immensely since his first day of imprisonment, and surely God would recognize his present goodness.

                                                                                                                     

Advanced Fiction Writing Assignment 10

Assignment 10

Author’s Note:  The lesson covering assignment 10 was all about dialogue. We were instructed to write a scene or story featuring dialogue between two characters. I decided to parody typical small-town Midwestern talk around the dinner table at a family meal to create what, to those who are outsiders to the dynamics of what (or in this case, who) is being talked about, is probably the equivalent to trying to listen to the Abbot and Costello “Who’s on First?” sketch and figure out what’s going on. Admittedly, the dialogue section could’ve been a bit longer, but this was just supposed to be an initial draft.

Grade Received:  A

Midwestern Monologue

Tyler pulled his red Audi sports car into the long, winding driveway and up to the simple two-story white farmhouse. He got out of the smart little vehicle, proceeded around to the passenger side, opened the door, and helped his girlfriend Leeanna out.

This was a big night for Tyler—finally meeting the steady girlfriend’s parents. He was a bit unprepared as to what to expect from this. He was from an urban West Coast family—two college-educated, professional, dyed-in-the-wool liberal parents and two cookie-cutter style brothers—and now he was meeting Leeanna’s parents, who were rural Midwesterners:  salt-of-the-earth, God, guns, and country-type folks. He remembered with chagrin his parents’ disappointment when he told them what kind of people his girlfriend’s parents were:  first, his mother’s sad dismissiveness when she was told that Leeanna’s mother was a homemaker, then his father’s incredulous scoff at the fact that Leeanna’s father had been a die-hard Republican since Barry Goldwater had burst onto the scene. Clearly there were going to be delicate issues to work around should he ever decide to marry Leeanna and merge the two families. Tyler exhaled loudly and silently reminded himself to take things one day at a time as he closed the car door gingerly.

Leeanna gave him a reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry, babe. They’ll like you.”

“I hope so,” he said sheepishly as they walked towards the front door.

Leeanna’s father answered the door at Tyler’s knock. Tyler and Leeanna made their way into the farmhouse, and after the customary exchange of strained, polite greetings between The Beau and The Girlfriend’s Parents (during which Tyler nearly had all of the bones in his hand crushed by Leeanna’s father’s hearty grip) and the customary wait before the meal while the women did some last-minute putzing around in the kitchen, they sat down to eat following a short recitation of a generic grace.

Following the customary interrogation of Tyler as to his line of work and the general facts about his family, Leeanna’s parents fell into their habit of talking amongst themselves, a habit they acquired when Leeanna, their youngest, had moved out of the family homestead.

“Went into town today,” said Leeanna’s father.

“Oh really dear? Anything new?” said Leeanna’s mother.

“Yep. Saw Ginny Tolley’s son.”

“Bobby? The one who went to jail?”

“Naw. The other one.”

“Oh, Michael? He’s a good kid. What’s he up to now?”

“He’s a manager at Farm ‘N’ Feed. Gonna marry the Robertson girl next month.”

“Which one, Sarah or Diana?”

“Diana, I think. The one with the red hair. He showed me her picture.”

“Oh, that would be Marcy. She’s not a Robertson. At least not by blood. I think Joe adopted her when he got remarried.”

“He got remarried? When?”

“Oh, about ten years ago. To Phil Smith’s granddaughter.”

“Roberta or Jeannette?”

“Jeannette.”

“What was her maiden name, anyway?”

“Tolley. But she’s not related to Ginny. At least I don’t think so.”

“Oh.”

The old married couple fell into a short, comfortable silence. Tyler had been trying to follow along, but not knowing any of the aforementioned people, he became confused early on, so he looked down at his plate and picked awkwardly at his food.

Leeanna’s parents soon resumed their conversation, this time with her mother in the lead.

“You’ll never guess who I saw at the quilting bee the other day.”

“Who?”

“Miriam! Bill’s ex-wife!”

“How’s she doing?”

“Oh, she looks good. Lost some weight.”

“Good for her.”

And thus they continued for another good hour. By the time Leeanna gently interrupted her parents and suggested that she and Tyler could handle the kitchen clean up, Tyler’s head ached with confusion.

Once they were in the relative acoustic safety of the kitchen, Tyler spoke to Leeanna.

“How do you keep all of that straight?”

“You don’t,” she said matter-of-factly. “You just keep your head down and eat what’s on your plate.”

“Um, O. K. Is that a normal conversation around your family?”

“Yes. Now you see why I moved to Seattle.”

Advanced Fiction Writing Assignment 9

Assignment 9

Author’s Note:  The lesson covered by assignment 9 was all about pacing time in your writing. The assignment was relatively simple:  use a clock in a scene to drive the action in your story. While the lesson placed an emphasis on using timing to speed up the action in your story, I decided to do the exact opposite:  use a clock to slow down the action in the story.

Grade Received:  A, with positive comments from my professors about how I really influenced the mood of the scene through the use of slowed time

The Office

Tick, tick, tick.

Maxwell shifted uncomfortably in the stiff plastic chair outside of Mr. Higginsworth’s office as he listened to the generic black and white office clock positioned high on the wall on the other side of the room. He’d been summoned suddenly twenty minutes ago to the director of human resource’s office for an unknown reason.

Tick, tick, tick.

Maxwell racked his brain trying to think of something—anything—that he’d done wrong, and some sort of valid argument as to why he’d done it and a potential apology for it.

Tick, tick, tick.

The receptionist at the desk in front of Mr. Higginsworth’s closed office door typed quietly on her computer and ignored Maxwell’s obvious discomfort and nervousness.

Tick, tick, tick.

Tick, tick, tick.

Tick, tick, tick.

Dear God, it’s been thirty minutes now, he thought anxiously as he watched the mischievous red second hand on the clock deliberately plod forward ceaselessly from one number to the next. What do they want with me?

Tick, tick, tick.

Suddenly, the phone on the receptionist’s desk beeped loudly. She answered.

“Yes, sir,” she said coolly to the unknown voice on the other end of the line. She turned to Maxwell.

“Mr. Higginsworth will see you now.”

Maxwell fainted upon standing. 

Advanced Fiction Writing Assignment 8

Assignment 8

Author’s Note:  The lesson covering assignment 8 discussed proper scene structure. The correct order (according to my professor) for a scene is to include the following elements in exactly this order:  goal (the genesis for the scene), conflict, disaster, emotion, thought, decision, and action. While I beg to differ with the professor on this topic, academic success isn’t determined by disagreeing with your professor (unless, of course, you are in a philosophy class). So, here is my scene with the elements in the correct order. I got the idea for the topic of the scene from a recent lecture in my art history class about the treatment of women artists throughout history.

Grade Received:  A

Piece de Resistance

Lorelei knew what she had to do, what she had to be:  the best sculptor in the art school. She was the first woman admitted to the prestigious academy, and the Beaux Arts had only admitted her under the pressures brought on by the changing societal zeitgeist. Society was now demanding works by women artists and respect for them and their interpretations of their thoughts, feelings, dreams, and environments, but the Beaux Arts wasn’t feeling it.

Her professors, some of the most respected artisans in the world, were certainly highly displeased at having a lowly, stupid, incompetent woman in their midst.

“That is childish! Have you learned nothing? Disgusting! Absolutely disgusting! Do it again!” spat Monsieur Beauchamp, Lorelei’s human anatomy sculpting professor, as he destroyed her clay model of the nude model reclining on the stage at the front of the studio.

Lorelei sighed in frustration at the looming prospect of sitting for hours upon end, shaping and reshaping, squeezing and molding, working and reworking a large block of clay alone in order to achieve what the establishment—her professors and the academy—would consider “acceptable” or “great” art.

She watched as her professor and the rest of her classmates at the art school—all male, of course—filed out of the room as the class ended. She sat in disappointed silence as the model redressed herself slowly and left. She was so frustrated at the way she was being treated—how she was being dismissed and ridiculed and disrespected and taught absolutely nothing because she was a woman—a supposed non-entity, a non-human—like she didn’t have the worthy ideas or creative insights that were constantly being praised when they manifested mediocrely in her male classmates.

She stared at the disfigured mound of clay that now sat in front of her. She grew angry. I will show them what good art is, she thought with venomous inspiration.

She went to the supply room and selected a smooth, beautifully flawless chunk of pink granite. She picked it up and smiled as the waning sunlight delicately caressed the stone and made the gold flecks within it twinkle like stars in the night sky.

She, because she was merely an insignificant woman, was not allowed to sculpt in stone the way her male classmates were. Her smile broadened as she felt the cool contours of the block and recalled how her professor, Monsieur Beauchamp, had expressly forbid everyone from using this particular piece of granite because he was going to use it to create the piece he had planned to submit to the Exhibition.

It’s mine now, she thought to herself with a small laugh as she made her way to the stage in the studio.

She positioned the block of granite on a small wooden stool that she was careful to place in the exact center of the stage. She knew she would be expelled from the academy for this act of defiance, but she didn’t care.

This is art, she thought gleefully as she positioned the chisel, raised the mallet above her head, and struck the stone with a forceful blow.   

Advanced Fiction Writing Assignment 7

Since I turned in Assignment 6 and Assignment 7 at about the same time, I got them back at about the same time. Enjoy!

Assignment 7

Author’s Note:  Assignment 7 was relatively simple:  write a really vivid setting. The lesson corresponding to assignment 7 was all about using vivid imagery to convey certain story elements and even provide movement in the plot.

Grade Received:  A

Inferno

August in the city. The blistering heat wave continued to have the metropolis in a brutal stranglehold, as it had since it first wrapped its menacing hands unforgivingly around the urban wasteland about a month earlier.

The blinds in the apartment were drawn tightly, but the harsh orange light of the waning afternoon sun still beat down mercilessly through the small, dingy barred windows with the cracked panes. A small metal fan hummed noisily in the background while Marianne sat rapt with attention.

While it was so damned ungodly hot in the tiny apartment, it wasn’t the oppressive heat that had Marianne so still and so breathless. It was her hulking brute of a boyfriend, George.

He snored powerfully, his breath heavy and sickening with copious amounts of whiskey and rum, on the sagging, disgusting couch on the other side of the dirty room. She hated, hated, hated him and was staring at him with an anger hot enough to forge iron. But she didn’t dare move a muscle.

If he’d opened his eyes and seen that she was gone, he’d surely hunt her down like a hound dog on the trail of a fox—ceaselessly, unrelentingly, and to the ends of the earth. And what he’d do to her once he finally got his rough, gargantuan, dirty-nailed hands on her—well, Marianne didn’t dare bring the horrifying thoughts to her consciousness. He’d already done so much so cruelly and so viscously to her when she tried her hardest to be so compliant and ingratiating to him.

But now she didn’t give a damn. He would beat her anyway, his temper as firey as the outside air, so she might as well give back all—and more than—she’d gotten from the inebriate oaf over the years, she thought to herself as a bead of sweat slid down her disfigured face.

Sweat continued to trickle down Marianne’s face and back while George snored loudly. He abruptly stopped snoring briefly to clear his phlegmatic throat but soon fell back seamlessly into his alcoholic torpor. Marianne froze briefly when he did that, but then continued to glare at him in fury and disgust when he resumed his journey in the land of Nod. She silently drew in a deep breath, a final act of rebellion against the sticky summer heat.

Don’t wake up, she thought with bated breath as she delicately reached behind the grimy wicker chair she was sitting in a pulled out a long, gleaming machete.