It has always been my opinion that, as a writer, I should attempt to push myself as often as possible. It’s the reason I wrote Polyester Tears and Flat Planet, has been the influence behind some of my poems, and is why I continuously work on One Man’s Death (next week’s story). However, there is one piece that has made me push myself to my limits, if not past them. Dreams of Children Dancing and Fire was the last story I wrote at Knox and, I think, best represents how far I’ve come.
Two terms before I took my last Fiction Workshop I took a Poetry Workshop. It forced me to flex my writing skills in ways I hadn’t really tried before and, by the time I finished the course, I wanted to incorporate what I’d learned into my fiction. There was one thing that continued to elude me though: the proper uses of repetition. I had seen it used repeatedly in the professional poetry books we read (Marianne Boruch’s A Stick that Breaks and Breaks even had repetition in the title!). Some of my fellow classmates were also able to use repetition in ways that I could only dream about. By the end of the term my only ‘successful’ use of repetition was in a poem titled On Talking about Line, and even then it was clunky and minimal. So when I sat down to write what would become Dreams I had it in the back of my mind that I still wanted to ‘learn’ how to use repetition in my works.
Besides that I also wanted to try using an unreliable narrator. I am told Stephen King’s Deloris Claiborne is a good example of this style, though I have never read it myself. I’m also aware of a number of other titles including Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s short story The Yellow Wallpaper and even aspects of J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series. It’s a style that can be used in a number of ways including the mentally unstable, children, and even animals as narrators. These goals worked together very nicely, the mentally unstable Fred easily allowed for repetition which then further enhanced Fred’s voice.
However, that’s not why this piece pushes my limits. It’s a bit more difficult to get into Fred’s mind without making myself a bit crazy as well, but it’s the why Fred went crazy that’s the problem. Unfortunately I can’t explain exactly what the situation was as it’s a major driving point of the story, but I can say that the trauma that I imagine Fred going through makes me fearful of the story and almost causes unwillingness on my part to continue writing it. The main real reason I am spending time on Totally Useless Guy at present is because I’m not sure I can handle Dreams despite my desire to dive back in. Eventually I will finish it, but for right now all I can do is think about it.
A little bonus, Waiting for Genies:
During the same term as I wrote Dreams my class did an initial exercise to get into the writing and critiquing spirit. The task was to write a flash fiction piece, an entire story in 500 words or less (to give perspective, what I just told you about Dreams comes in at 496 words). Rather than spending a great deal of time talking about Waiting for Genies (it’s only 500 words!) I’ll state that this story is really the first time that I became aware of what it meant to write a ‘story’. I know that sounds silly, but it’s true. It took trying to compress an entire story into half a page to force me to come to grips with the definition of a story. In this case I can only describe said definition as it’s been described to me. A story has two things: a cross or an X where two separate things meet (people, ideas, times, etc.) and a change.
By the way, thanks for the help Alissa.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Dreams of Children Dancing and Fire
You are my wife and that is my son. There are children dancing and fire.
I know honey. There was nothing you could do. The fire spread too quickly.
There is a corner of my room I enjoy more than the others. It is in this corner that I think about sentences. Not just any sentences, my sentences, or, at least, sentences that I have thought about. There isn’t much else to do, not that I mind. I’ve thought of a sentence with three Buffalos, three buffalos, and two buffalos. I’ve thought of a sentence with eleven hads in a row. I don’t know if I’m the first person to think of these sentences, I’m sure I got them from somewhere, maybe the Voice told me once.
Sometimes I think thinking of sentences is like waiting for paint to grow or grass to dry, though why people grow grass colored paint is beyond me.
I prefer my plain concrete walls.
I like this corner because it’s the one that protects me the most. The rip is at the other end and the man in the wall cannot see me here. Mind you, I have nothing against the rip, nice people step through when it opens wide and food plops in when it opens narrow. I was even allowed through it once, though I don’t remember much. There were people I didn’t know and the room was bigger than mine and there were tables and people and space.
The Voice told me I would be spending more time in that room, the one through the rip, but then I wrote on the walls with a metal knife and the Voice changed Its mind I guess. It told me not to stab things, though I insisted I was simply writing.
I like it in my room because it’s comfortable and safe and small and lonely.
I think of sentences that I have heard.
One is of a girl with brown saucer eyes that sits in the corner away from the window. She looks and looks and sees but doesn’t. Something blocks her vision and I want it to go away and I want her eyes to be clear but they don’t.
I don’t really want to hear why.
No, it’s not the rip I stay away from. I stay away for the corner by the rip simply because the tray hits me and scatters food which must then be cleaned by Candice, who claims to be Janet, who dresses like a nurse and is always clean. I stay hidden from the man in the wall. He’s thin and dresses in a white robe that hangs loose over his shoulders. He looks sick, though I don’t know for sure. I think he wants to talk to me; he’s always looking at me. I don’t think he ever looks away. Sometimes I think he’s old, but maybe that’s just because he’s sick.
He has a white wristband like mine, though I don’t know what that means.
Mine has my name on it in small, blocky letters: FRED BECKS.
It’s in this corner that I can see the tree. When the wall opposite the man who watches me disappears, I can see it. It reminds me of something, though I can’t remember what exactly. Something about an open field and trees like the one opposite the man who watches me. There are others not like that one as well. They have broad leaves and long trunks. I think this one’s leaves are thin and prickle when I touch them, or maybe it isn’t those that prickled but the ones on tree in the playground. Tress like the one opposite the man who watches me were good places to hide because its branches hung low and the needles kept others out, though I’m not sure if that one’s the same, though it might be.
The tree people hid under hung over a neighboring yard.
A dog would get upset and complain.
I know honey. There was nothing you could do. The fire spread too quickly.
There is a corner of my room I enjoy more than the others. It is in this corner that I think about sentences. Not just any sentences, my sentences, or, at least, sentences that I have thought about. There isn’t much else to do, not that I mind. I’ve thought of a sentence with three Buffalos, three buffalos, and two buffalos. I’ve thought of a sentence with eleven hads in a row. I don’t know if I’m the first person to think of these sentences, I’m sure I got them from somewhere, maybe the Voice told me once.
Sometimes I think thinking of sentences is like waiting for paint to grow or grass to dry, though why people grow grass colored paint is beyond me.
I prefer my plain concrete walls.
I like this corner because it’s the one that protects me the most. The rip is at the other end and the man in the wall cannot see me here. Mind you, I have nothing against the rip, nice people step through when it opens wide and food plops in when it opens narrow. I was even allowed through it once, though I don’t remember much. There were people I didn’t know and the room was bigger than mine and there were tables and people and space.
The Voice told me I would be spending more time in that room, the one through the rip, but then I wrote on the walls with a metal knife and the Voice changed Its mind I guess. It told me not to stab things, though I insisted I was simply writing.
I like it in my room because it’s comfortable and safe and small and lonely.
I think of sentences that I have heard.
One is of a girl with brown saucer eyes that sits in the corner away from the window. She looks and looks and sees but doesn’t. Something blocks her vision and I want it to go away and I want her eyes to be clear but they don’t.
I don’t really want to hear why.
No, it’s not the rip I stay away from. I stay away for the corner by the rip simply because the tray hits me and scatters food which must then be cleaned by Candice, who claims to be Janet, who dresses like a nurse and is always clean. I stay hidden from the man in the wall. He’s thin and dresses in a white robe that hangs loose over his shoulders. He looks sick, though I don’t know for sure. I think he wants to talk to me; he’s always looking at me. I don’t think he ever looks away. Sometimes I think he’s old, but maybe that’s just because he’s sick.
He has a white wristband like mine, though I don’t know what that means.
Mine has my name on it in small, blocky letters: FRED BECKS.
It’s in this corner that I can see the tree. When the wall opposite the man who watches me disappears, I can see it. It reminds me of something, though I can’t remember what exactly. Something about an open field and trees like the one opposite the man who watches me. There are others not like that one as well. They have broad leaves and long trunks. I think this one’s leaves are thin and prickle when I touch them, or maybe it isn’t those that prickled but the ones on tree in the playground. Tress like the one opposite the man who watches me were good places to hide because its branches hung low and the needles kept others out, though I’m not sure if that one’s the same, though it might be.
The tree people hid under hung over a neighboring yard.
A dog would get upset and complain.
Waiting for Genies
The night sky spread wide overhead with its white speckles shining through the dark navy infinity of space, buffeted by atmosphere and air. As Harold’s eyes slid down to the horizon, the white starlight dulled as the navy turned purple, only to disappear completely behind the black smoke that extended into the air as though from a magic lamp releasing its genie. Harold could see the warm red glow of fire hugging the horizon. “It sure is pretty tonight.”
Debbie stepped out rubbing her hands on the soot-covered smock she wore when it was time to make supper. “It sure is, now come in and have some food while there’s still time.” They’d been told they were safe, that the fire would pass by without any problems. They’d been told that there was a strong breeze and it would be taken right out to the ocean where it would die, if not by the expanse of sandy beaches, then by the very water itself. Nothing had stopped them from moving right then and there, but nothing had really given them the inclination to leave either. Most people did move, afraid of the fire’s potential. They took what they could and left what they couldn’t. Half filled houses of cheap furniture and forgotten memories lined the streets as though to remind the ones who remained of the decision they’d made.
When the winds changed, and it became clear the sands of the ocean’s beaches wouldn’t be the end of the fire’s blaze, there were only a handful of people left in the city. By then it was simply too late. By then there was nowhere to go and no way to leave. “Think they gonna send us help before the blaze hits?” Debbie shook her head as she placed a slab of pork on Harold’s plate, taken from the Butcher’s shop for no other reason than it was the most expensive thing there. She nodded when he asked if she thought they were going to come look for survivors and pick up the pieces. “I’m sure you’re right. You usually are.” Debbie nodded again to herself as she moved the cut up pork around her new china plate before standing up and walking outside, leaving it uneaten.
Harold followed shortly and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “You’re thinkin’ ‘coulda’ thoughts again. What’d we talk about when it comes to them ‘coulda’ thoughts?” Debbie sighed and leaned into Harold as though he would engulf her completely and protect her just as well. “I aint’ thinking ‘coulda’ thoughts no more, and I ain’t never gonna again Harold. I promise,” She whispered to him as they watched the approaching glow disappear behind thick smoke. Harold patted Debbie’s elbow. “That’s my girl.” The night wore on and the fire continued. The cool air warmed and burned. They stood and watched, silently waiting.
Debbie stepped out rubbing her hands on the soot-covered smock she wore when it was time to make supper. “It sure is, now come in and have some food while there’s still time.” They’d been told they were safe, that the fire would pass by without any problems. They’d been told that there was a strong breeze and it would be taken right out to the ocean where it would die, if not by the expanse of sandy beaches, then by the very water itself. Nothing had stopped them from moving right then and there, but nothing had really given them the inclination to leave either. Most people did move, afraid of the fire’s potential. They took what they could and left what they couldn’t. Half filled houses of cheap furniture and forgotten memories lined the streets as though to remind the ones who remained of the decision they’d made.
When the winds changed, and it became clear the sands of the ocean’s beaches wouldn’t be the end of the fire’s blaze, there were only a handful of people left in the city. By then it was simply too late. By then there was nowhere to go and no way to leave. “Think they gonna send us help before the blaze hits?” Debbie shook her head as she placed a slab of pork on Harold’s plate, taken from the Butcher’s shop for no other reason than it was the most expensive thing there. She nodded when he asked if she thought they were going to come look for survivors and pick up the pieces. “I’m sure you’re right. You usually are.” Debbie nodded again to herself as she moved the cut up pork around her new china plate before standing up and walking outside, leaving it uneaten.
Harold followed shortly and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “You’re thinkin’ ‘coulda’ thoughts again. What’d we talk about when it comes to them ‘coulda’ thoughts?” Debbie sighed and leaned into Harold as though he would engulf her completely and protect her just as well. “I aint’ thinking ‘coulda’ thoughts no more, and I ain’t never gonna again Harold. I promise,” She whispered to him as they watched the approaching glow disappear behind thick smoke. Harold patted Debbie’s elbow. “That’s my girl.” The night wore on and the fire continued. The cool air warmed and burned. They stood and watched, silently waiting.
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