writing a story and basing much of it from Word-of-the-Day words from a dictionary source is not the best idea, as made apparent ^ up there. Sorry. haha.
writing a story and basing much of it from Word-of-the-Day words from a dictionary source is not the best idea, as made apparent ^ up there. Sorry. haha.
I'd have to agree with you.
A true firewasp ninja would never wear such a ridiculous sweater.
There's logic in nonsense.
Give me all the bacon and eggs you have.
I like the internalizing.
All that's left of what we were is what we have become.
Sidewalk Cracks & Other Dangers of the City.Originally Posted by Hannah
It's not that great 'cuase I wrote HALF of it!This is a story that Boehmke and I wrote together, for fun. We wrote it based on a "word of the day" website. We took turns each incorporating the word of the day into the story. It's not great, because it was literally written with no planning whatsoever, but I thought it was fun.I should note that the only reason the child's name in the story is Paris is because I was too lazy to think of something else.
I felt like a kid trying to run in over sized shoes writing this with Hannah!
I wrote this one for creative writing class a while back. Not my best work, but I thought I'd share.
Living By Fire
The odds of dying in a fire are 1 in 111,445.
Jill wiped the palms of her shaking, sweaty hands down the front of her smart black trousers. She subconsciously counted the clicks of her black heels on the pavement as she walked towards the building. The rhythm calmed her. The sign in front read “Burton Funeral Home”. Despite the building’s cold white concrete exterior, there was something welcoming about it. It could have been the numerous plants out front, or the fact that they parked the hearses out back. Regardless of the reason, the building welcomed Jill as she walked towards it.
Taking a deep breath, Jill braced herself for her third day (and she hoped) more successful day at Burton Funeral Home. Today she’d gotten the dress down, with her soft gray button up work shirt and long brown hair pulled back into a bun. Her hands began to shake again as she reached for the gold ornate handle on the front door. Deep breath, she thought as she inhaled sharply. Let it out. She exhaled in a long meandering breath. This was the way her therapist taught her to take the breaths. As soon as she felt the panic attack coming, or the fear, she was supposed to start with deep breaths. She was even supposed to talk to herself calmly, out loud or internally. Today she felt the onset of the panic attack first in her stomach, as her guts began to clench up and twist around with fear. Then it moved to her hands and her limbs, which would start shaking. Then it would move to her heart, which would start beating faster, like the little drummer boy. Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum. Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum. Pa-RUM-pa-PUM-PUM!
There is a 39% chance that the average American will die of heart failure.
Although Jill had gradually begun to regain control of the panic attacks during the day, she still had problems at night. Nighttime was the worst. During the day she could lose herself in work. During the evenings she could lose herself in television, preparing dinner, reading a book, but at night, lying in bed, she was alone with her thoughts. She would try to stop herself from thinking about it, tell herself that she would not think about dying tonight but the thoughts would slowly creep in like the beginning tendrils of smoke from a house fire creeps under the bedroom door where you’re trapped.
The odds of dying from smoke inhalation are 1 in 90,944.
Fire and death, dancing round and round inside her head like they were doing the waltz to horror music. The fear made her stomach clench and she couldn’t stop herself from crying out. She couldn’t stop herself from being afraid, which is why she took the job at Burton Funeral Home. She figured, with an unfailing sense of reason and logic, that if she faced her fear it’d go away. The logic was simplistic and charming, but necessary, as her life seemed to be closing in on her. The telling point was when her psychiatrist prescribed her an anti-anxiety medication which caused her to fall asleep at the wheel, resulting in an ambulance worthy panic attack. Despite the accident, her therapist was happy with her progress, or rather, pleased with the chemicals in her brain and how they reacted to the chemical in the drug he prescribed. But she wasn’t happy with the progress.
Her former job as a statistician was doing nothing to allay her fears and panic attacks. It seemed, she thought, the simplest solutions could be found in numbers and percentages, correlation and deviations. But not this solution, instead she’d have to work this out with plain old bravery and guts. She remembered a time when she was in high school, and her mother told her not to make her whole life about numbers. “You’ve got to make some of your life about heart, honey, or you’ll never really live.” Her mother had been smiling gently at her when she said this, and Jill pushed the memory forcefully out of her head. She didn’t want to remember her mother; it was too painful for Jill. She swallowed convulsively.
The odds of dying from asphyxiation due to choking on food are 1 in 334,461.
She opened the door, hurried through, and then walked gingerly across the marble-like floor to the hallway which led to the basement stairs. She was trying to keep her heels from clicking. On her way down the hall she passed Coney’s office. He was on the phone, leaning back in his chair, feet up, shoes off, winding the curly cord around his pen. He motioned her to enter his office. He laid the phone gently into the cradle as she walked into his office. “Hey, Jill! Listen, There’s a body downstairs that my dad wants you to clean. Do you think you can handle that or would you rather I do it and you can watch again?”
Her panic attack began to get worse; they always did when she was around other people. She began to snap the rubber band that she wore around her wrist. Snap! It stung her skin. Snap, again and again to give her something besides the panic attack to focus on. Deep breath. “I can do it by myself this time.” She had to face that fear.
Coney smiled at her. “Alright then, have at it. Let me know when you’re done, I think the deceased’s mother is coming by a little later to make funeral arrangements.” He turned back to his computer monitor, effectively dismissing Jill from his office.
She walked to the basement door, snapping the rubber band. Her heart was doing its little drummer boy thing again, and her heels clicked on the wooden stairs as she descended into the basement. The sterile smell of chemicals hit her first, and she took deep breaths despite the noxious odor.
The average human’s chance of dying from accidental poisoning is 1 in 14,017, unless you’re under five years old, in which case your chance of death from accidental poisoning jumps to 1 in 10,000.
Into the draining and cleaning room and the body was under the sheet. This room smelled strongly of chemicals. The tiles, which covered the walls up to waist level as well as the floor, were a pale soothing turquoise color. Calm came over her, and she had a brief second to marvel that maybe all that deep breathing, and rubber band snapping, and visualizing herself in a calm, safe place actually did help. She snapped on her gloves, pulled back the sheet over the body, and her brief second of calm was interrupted by her high-pitched scream. She didn’t know she was screaming until she was screaming. Her heart started going crazy in her chest, and she had the image of the burned body stamped onto her retinas. Closing her eyes didn’t help. She began to hyperventilate, and her memories flashed orange and hot. Fire.
Jill ran up the stairs, images flashing through her mind like counting cars at a railroad crossing. Her mother, burned to death, her father dead of smoke inhalation. Trapped. Dead. Jill slapped the curtain to one of the sitting rooms aside as she dove into it, trying to control her panic attack. She felt like her body was coming apart. Her chest was tight, her breathing was quick, her heartbeat was stampeding, her legs were shaky, and she couldn’t stop thinking about the fire and her parents. She’s tried to hard not to think about it, not to let it affect her, but now … that body under the sheet, the blackened skin, the smell. She gagged, once, then began to hyperventilate. I will not throw up, she told herself before she sat down on one of the flowered sitting chairs stuffed into the corner of the sitting room.
The odds of dying from an accidental fall are 1 in 15,614.
She leaned forward and put her head between her knees, “Oh jesus.” She muttered, as she saw the first spattering of tears fall on her black heels. And those few tears became a deluge as she remembered her parents, and mourned for them. They’d died in a fire, her mother and father trapped in the bedroom. The firemen hadn’t made it in time to save either of them, but they’d gotten to her father before he burned. He was in his library; her mother was in the bedroom. It killed Jill that they died so far apart from each other. They had determined that an arsonist started the fire, but no clues were found except for a bouquet of flowers left by the driveway to her parent’s house. The police said the flowers were Cyrtanthus, or in plain English they were called Fire Lilies. The crimson flowers that had been left at the driveway were bundled together by a black pipe cleaner. The police had seen two other fires with the lilies left at the scene. They figured it was an arsonist’s calling card.
“You alright, honey?” The voice startled Jill, who thought she was alone in the tiny sitting room. She looked up and noticed a middle-aged woman sitting on the couch across from her. The woman’s pale blue eyes looked concerned, and they were red-rimmed as if she herself had been crying.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were in here.” Jill put her head back between her knees and started taking deep breaths.
“It’s alright.” The woman got up and stood over Jill. Jill could see the woman’s blue flats, and the hose she wore. The woman had varicose veins webbing in and out on her legs, which were left bare by a pair of navy colored Capri pants. The woman began to rub Jill’s shoulder, hesitantly, as if afraid Jill would snap at her to go away. “You okay?” She repeated.
“I’m – it’s just-“ Jill took another deep breath. “I work here, this is my third day. There’s this man, and he died in a fire. My parents died in a fire. It’s … hard.” Jill choked on a sob. Her head was still between her knees.
“The dead man? That’s my son, John Wittlesby.” The woman said, and she pulled Jill up and led her to the couch. She sat down with her arm around Jill, cuddling her to her side like a parent would cuddle their small child.
“I’m sorry.” Jill looked in horror at Mrs. Wittlesby. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Don’t be. He did it to himself. Burnt my goddamn house down with him in it. I always knew he had this strong fascination with fire, but… I never suspected that it would lead to this.” Mrs. Wittlesby patted Jill’s arm. “You seem to be calming down, sweetie. Can I get you a glass of water or something to drink?”
Jill shook her head, pulling away from Mrs. Wittlesby. “It’s so hard.” She said, her brown eyes watering. “How do you deal with it so calmly?”
Mrs. Wittlesby laughed. “I just do. I guess since I can’t change it I just have to accept it and get over it. Everyone is going to die; my son just chose to die in the stupidest way possible.”
Jill nodded. She took another deep shuddering breath, and smiled weakly at the older woman.
“Well honey, since you seem to be a little better I’m going to head out. I was just stopping in here to have a little cry, and now that that’s out of my system I have an insurance adjuster to speak with about my house. You think you could give this flower order to the man who works in the office?” She handed Jill a catalog and an order form. “My John loved Fire Lilies. He used to grow them in our backyard in the summer. It was like a fire in the backyard. I figure the least I can do is give him the flowers he loved at his funeral.” She patted Jill’s hand. “You remember, honey, we can ‘t always choose how we’re going to die, but we can certainly choose how we live.” She walked through the doorway, letting the maroon curtain swing behind her as she left.
Jill turned the order over in her hand, looking at the picture of the bright red Fire Lily on the order form. “Well, I’ll be goddamned.” She said as she stared at the picture of the flower. Calm swept through her and acceptance of the inevitable and the past made her feel weak. She realized that Mrs. Wittlesby was right. You can’t control everything. You can’t keep yourself from being a statistic.
There are an estimated 6.7 billion people on Earth today. 6.7 billion out of 6.7 billion have no choice but to die, but it’s up to them how to live.
A true firewasp ninja would never wear such a ridiculous sweater.
There's logic in nonsense.
Give me all the bacon and eggs you have.
Amen. That was super sad.That clown one left such a deep longing to hug the clown man.
You are a great writer. Truly.
you're solid gold // i'll see you in hell
I like your literary device in throwing in pertinent stats between each paragraph and at the end. That goes well for the reader along with class A writing. Love it!
On a personal note; I have cleaned somewhere near 100 dead bodies and I never gotten used to it.
If I may correct one thing, your descriptions in the story are that of ANXIETY attacks not a panic attacks.
Yes Virginia, there is a difference.
All that's left of what we were is what we have become.
Thanks, Jon! My creative writing teacher hated that story. I got a high C.
Thanks for the info on the difference between panic attacks and anxiety attacks, I will edit my story to reflect the difference to be more accurate. I appreciate that input.
A true firewasp ninja would never wear such a ridiculous sweater.
There's logic in nonsense.
Give me all the bacon and eggs you have.
One more, unfinished.
Ed sat on the bed with the gun in his lap, his right hand laying on top of it protectively. The metal was a little damp, as his palms were damp. Ed had been known to say that damp palms ran in his family. It was a joke amongst his brothers. He picked up the gun, and was surprised by the way it felt in his hand, how heavy it was. Ed was 52 years old, a CPA, and had never held a gun. He preferred to hold golf clubs.
However, necessity had demanded that Ed get this gun. And in the white heat and the anger of the week he had to wait for the handgun, his plan remained the same. He had to kill him. There was no turning back at this point, Ed thought as he wiped his palms on the bedspread (his wife would nag him if she saw). There was no turning back. And frankly, Ed didn't want to turn back. He wanted to watch the crimson of the blood spread outward on his brother's shirt (most likely a long sleeved button up Van Heusen). He wanted to watch the blood spread, as his pain had spread, as his daughter's pain would continue to spread. Ed imagined that the hard part would be looking into the cold blue of his brother's eyes and finding compassion within him to shoot him clean, kill him quickly. He figured that his brother didn't deserve an easy death, but he hoped to find it within him somewhere to give his brother that, to compensate for the years that his brother had given him instruction in girls, cars, and beer. This was the very least Ed could do.
Ed wanted justice. Ed wanted revenge for his little girl. Ed wanted blood.
He had bought the handgun, and asked the store owner to instruct him on how to use it. When his questions became obvious as to his intentions, the store owner raised an eyebrow. "You plannin' on killing someone, man?" He asked, unsurprised.
Ed smiled. "I'm going to say no, because if I say yes I have a feeling I won't get that gun." And then Ed left the store, thoroughly instructed in the art of pulling the trigger, in the art of killing a man.
He had found out about his little girl, only seven, and her uncle the day before he went to get the gun. His wife told him, and she also threatened to leave him. It was his fault, of course, because it was his brother. His brother was sick, his wife had screamed at him, crying. He was sick and he needed to pay for what he did. She wanted to call the cops, have the bastard thrown in jail because he was sick. Ed disagreed. Those types of crimes, he thought, were never punished harshly enough. As far as he was concerned, any punishment that didn't contain a wooden box wasn't good enough for him. He told his wife to hold off. He told his wife not to let on that she knew. He told her what he'd do. She argued for calling the cops. She said that Ed would end up in jail, she said it'd ruin their lives. Ed disagreed. He was wealthy, he could afford to get a lawyer who would defend his cause, most likely get him off the hook because he had murdered his brother in revenge for his heinous crimes. Ed had a plan.
He talked his wife into it. She left with Missa, packing a suitcase and using their AmEx to take that sweet little girl to Hawaii. Missa loved Hawaii. And now Ed was alone, about to become a murderer, and he mused on his brother's life, and hoped that it had been sufficient. He didn't want his brother to waste away in jail. He had that much compassion for him.
Ed stood up from the edge of the bed, his palms damp again as he held the handgun. It felt so heavy to him. As heavy as his guilt would feel when this was done. He couldn't protect her. That was the agonizing part. He trusted his brother, and it was his fault, just like his wife said. It was his fault. He should have known his brother was sick. And since Ed failed to protect Missa, it was his job to right his wrongs. It was his job to give justice. It was his job to clear his conscience, to rid the world of the moster his brother had become (or maybe was all along). His hands were shaking. He felt the metal in his hand and pretended it was his driver, pretended he was doing nothing more than going to the range to drive some balls. His hands steadied. Since he didn't have a holster for the gun, and he felt weird tucking it into his waistband, he simply held it.
The next step was simple, get into his car, drive the 45 minutes to his brother's house, and kill him. In and out. Murder. Justice. It seemed that the idea of justice cancelled out the implication of murder, and rather made Ed's hand, and the gun, the instrument of justice. He could live with that. He could live with being an instrument.
Getting in the car was not hard. Ed considered this an easy task. Starting the car was not hard. Backing out of the driveway and down the long drive to the gated entrance, again, not hard. He hesitated when he had to turn onto the street that would lead him to the highway, though. He considered his nephew. He was 29, just graduated law school. He had a job in a firm in Oregon, saving the environment. Ed had always secretly thought his nephew was a little ... gay, and was not very suprised when he came out of the closet right after finishing law school. Ed's brother had disowned him immediately, cutting him off from family get togethers and holidays. Ed wondered how his nephew would feel about his father after the truth was revealed (as the truth would be revealed eventually, because Ed had no intention of going to jail, and every intention of killing his brother). He wondered how his nephew, estranged from his father, an only child, his mother gone, would feel when his only immediate family member was killed. Ed felt a strange lack of concern for his nephew's feelings, convinced that the boy would see the good in what Ed was going to do.
The 45 minute drive to his brother's place seemed like 10. Ed couldn't help but assume that his brother was home when he noticed the car in the driveway. A mercedes. Art had always been the ostentatious type. He had to drive flashy cars, wear designer clothes, and apparently secretly molest his brother's daughter. Ed clenched his fists on the steering wheel. For Missa.
The gun was laying on the passenger side seat. It didn't look as sinister as Ed would have expected. The gleam on the gray metal was comforting. It seemed to explain to Ed that what he was doing was right. He was justified. Ed shouldn't falter. He should carry on. The gleaming metal was telling Ed to have some damn balls. Ed wiped his damp palms on his khakis and picked up the gun.
A true firewasp ninja would never wear such a ridiculous sweater.
There's logic in nonsense.
Give me all the bacon and eggs you have.
Thanks, Jon! My creative writing teacher hated that story. I got a high C.
Thanks for the info on the difference between panic attacks and anxiety attacks, I will edit my story to reflect the difference to be more accurate. I appreciate that input.
Hell that's most of the things I liked about it. They were great segways.
Don't sweat it, I had a prof. in a 200 English class who regularly pronounced "Tertiary" as "turt -u rare- e."
All that's left of what we were is what we have become.
I like your style. A lot. I'd have to say that I would very much like to read pretty much anything at all you had flowing out onto the keys at this point. Very good stuff. Makes me look at things I may write with a raised eyebrow at their quality, for sure.
Because of you I'm Alive. For you I'm awake-Godsmack
What shall a man have if he gain the entire world but lose his own soul?-Book of Mark
I will fear no evil. Cuz I'm the baddest muthafucker in the valley-Jarhead
Hey, just wanted to say I really liked the shoes story (there's a focus on feet and shoes and walking going on isn't there) - and fwiw, the line that got picked out as confusing - I had no issue with that at all, the killer boxed the shoes and when they were found by the police etc they saw the light again. Seemed fine to me.
You have a distinct voice and some really interesting ideas which is a killer combination.
Living by Fire - i really liked the stats but it lost something for me with the line about her being a statistician previously - i guess i preferred it when i felt the stats were a product of her neuroses (or even something that the writer was putting in - ie: separate from the character - almost like quotes at the start of chapters etc).
I'll definitely be looking out for more
i like your sentence and paragraph structure. it flows well and easy on the eyes to read. vocabulary is good too. good descriptive words.
and i loved the clown's line:i struggle with writing dialogue like that (i forget the term for it). not how i'd expect the clown to sound (in my own head), but it's good it's creepy and it fits.“Tayg dis ba-oon, I bawd id for you.”
and it's purely my own opinion and i don't know how anyone else feels but the line:personally i'd say if you're doing to use a name for a company, don't abbreviate. so completely or don't say it at all. use credit card, charge card, debit card, platinum card, gold card, signature card, something-anything card.She left with Missa, packing a suitcase and using their AmEx to take that sweet little girl to Hawaii.
i don't know why it bugs me so, but I just don't like brand or company names unless it's important to the story or there's a lot of cards mentioned within the story and you're specifically referring to a particular one.
i guess you could sum it up in a one-liner (not the funny or thought provoking kind): it's a story, not an advertisement
Last edited by rradicob; 09-25-2009 at 11:23 AM. Reason: second thought
Thank you for the feedback!
And thanks for the input on the Amex thing - I never thought of it that way before. It could totally look like insertion of company names and such like that could be an advertisement or something, and I certainly don't want it to look that way considering how much I hate Amex right now (assholes raised my fixed 9.99 APR to a variable even though I've been a customer for over five years with no late payments or anything). I'll have to go through and change it.
A true firewasp ninja would never wear such a ridiculous sweater.
There's logic in nonsense.
Give me all the bacon and eggs you have.
That's exactly what my fella said, is that he thought the line about the stats would be more believable as an OCD type thing than as a profession. I tend to agree. I love getting this kind of feedback from people because it really helps me to look at my writing from a different angle, and also to improve on things that might be less than good.Hey, just wanted to say I really liked the shoes story (there's a focus on feet and shoes and walking going on isn't there
You have a distinct voice and some really interesting ideas which is a killer combination.
Living by Fire - i really liked the stats but it lost something for me with the line about her being a statistician previously - i guess i preferred it when i felt the stats were a product of her neuroses (or even something that the writer was putting in - ie: separate from the character - almost like quotes at the start of chapters etc).
I'll definitely be looking out for more
Thanks!
A true firewasp ninja would never wear such a ridiculous sweater.
There's logic in nonsense.
Give me all the bacon and eggs you have.
Posting Permissions
Reply With Quote
