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Ultimate Writing Worshop Exercises for "Believable Fiction" |
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These are responses to the prompts in the Ultimate Writer's Workshop on Believable Fiction, and necessary notes between folks. Browse, and tell me what you think about our writing and workshop. It's not too late to join up in an attempt to improve your writing. The UWW rocks. |
| If you're reading this Mike, you can see I wasn't real consistent about participating. There's always room for improvement, 'huh? sunflower   |
| I remember driving along a section of Garland Road, every day, several times a day, for months upon months. Usually there was traffic and "down time" involved, and it was then I found myself confined with my thoughts. The sounds on the radio couldn't be turned loud enough to drown my thoughts that day. I cried to God out loud, knowing He'd hear me if I asked in my head, but wanting to hear the sound of the question, to verify its authenticity. "Why didn't my life work out like everyone else's? Why couldn't I find love, have a baby, and a family of my own? Why couldn't I have had some time out of the hustle and bustle of the rat-earning race, and had a child, and known that feeling of love? Why did you leave me out God? I won't ever get that in my life now! I'll be driving to work for a pittance for the rest of my life." The sound of the words brought tears, making me feel worse because of hearing the pain in my voice. It was real, and so was my left-out feeling. I wiped the tears from my eyes in the two blocks remaining before I arrived home. My life had become a road routine, and I felt emotionally alone. I was at the end of an emotionally draining year. I resigned as a teacher, and found a job as an assistant manager at an apartment complex on the bay. I loved the job, but became compulsive about it. Drastic mood swings made me unpredictable to those around me. Since I had had a total hysterectomy the year before, I consulted my gynocologist, who listened and quickly referred me to a psychiatrist. During the first appointment, the docotor diagnosed me as manic-depressive. I didn't really know what it meant, but I knew it wasn't good. I took his prescription, but my symptoms were snowballing. Coming back home to my apartment after walking the apartment complex at 2:00 am checking lights (self-appointed task), I heard voices of men, coming distinctly from just outside my apartment. I was frightened, as these weren't people coming in from a party and being loud, but two voices in a conversation from which one could only catch phrases. I called the police. The officer lived on the complex, and took the information, but indicated there was nothing there and I was working too hard. Eventually, I realized an auditory hallucination had taken me over. The whole thing was real to me. I was indeed paranoid. I realized I probably shouldn't be living by myself. The apartment complex was sold about that time, and I was offered a job in Galveston, which I took great expense to investigate. Eventually, I realized that moving home with my mother, in Dallas, would be the best thing for me. When reality shatters, you need your family's support. My mother drove to South Texas, and helped me get my possessions boxed up and shipped to Dallas. I moved in with my mother and her new husband. My symptomology was too much for my step-father, who was in his late 70s, and soon I had a small apartment on my own. Mom took me to all my numerous psychiatrist's appointments, purchased my medicine, and did everything to help, except swallow the pills for me. I applied for a job at "Blockbuster Video," but found using their computer, with no previous skill, too much of a challenge. I quit after a month. Many months later, I read a news article that indicated the position I filled was due to a robbery and death of an employee. I was totally out of touch with the world around me. Next, I applied at a craft store as a cashier. My passion for crafts were one activity that my "mood disorder" had not extinguished. I thought I'd enjoy the atmosphere, and dealing with others who shared the love of creating for the home. Mostly, I sttod at the cash register for hours on end. My manager said I had a very creative way of recording transactions. He knew I wasn't stealing, but the register never balanced. The week before Halloween, the atmosphere in the store was manic, rude people, displays destroyed. I couldn't stand the feeling that surrounded me at work, and I quit. I couldn't get a job and keep it. I didn't feel good about myself, and the bipolar meetings weren't expecially helping. I took all the medication I was prescribed, and it left me as less capable than I had ever been. Since beginning to take Lithium for my manic-depression, I had gained 75 pounds. I spent the winter watching the leaves outside my patio window change colors and fall into the little creek which carried no water. Government help takes forever to kick in, and I went to many sessions for help and general job training during that time. In the spring, I applied for a job at a vet clinic a few blocks away from my apartment. Soon the government aid arrived, and I applied to take vet tech classes at the community college across town. I was swimming in side effects from the various and many medications I was on. I couldn't think straight. My body bulk had increased by a third. I had no friends and no social life. When I was able to think about it, my life seemed to be going backwards. If I ever did get my vet tech license, I would never make as much as I had as a teacher. But there were advantages to the no homework life style too. I learned from the animals. They all have lots of unconditional love to give, and pets in the clinic needed the extra care which I was always so ready to give. But I was broke, friendless, and all my dreams of what the future held for me had been dashed. I couldn't dream of a future that could be right. Ten years have passed since my diagnosis. I've learned many things about bipolar disorder, one thing being that it doesn't have to be a handicap. There are times when symptoms are overwhelming, and that's when you get intensive help. Having a good psychiatrist is important, because you need to communicate. I had a disagreemnt with more than one psychiatrist. I've learned the importance of speaking my mind. I've learned that even though I am "sick," I am not less of a person. I was raised Catholic, but consider myself more a spiritual person now. I don't have to know all the answers to life's problems, but I do take comfort in knowing there is a power greater than myself who loves me, and will take care of me and my future plans better than I can myself. |
| Advanced Short Story Prompt - Laurel C. Striker (1) Write a story about how violence comes to be. Focus on how it develops, less on the act itself. ~~~ People filled Butch's house every weekend, beginning Friday night after work. The guys would cash their checks, pick up some beer, and begin drinking just after 4:00. When I arrived by 7:00, every one was already drunk, so I watchedand listened mor than I participated. They say drunks don't lie. I don't know if it's true, but drunks don't back down. Every week was some variation of the same conflict. Ech man wanted the respect of the other's and would brag and lier until they reached the top of the heap, or fell out of it from being too drunk to make sense. I went for the entertainment value, as much as out of friendship for Butch. You could never tell what would happen, but usually there was an argument. There would always be loud animated conversation with flailing of arms, but no violence. This particular Friday it was Ray's turn to make the first run to the beer store. We gathered a collection of money from have half-dozen or so drinkers making merry after a week of work. The guys could blow off a whole week's steam before the night was out. Whatever was bothering them would come out somehow. Usually things said in the heat of passion were swing fodder, or overlooked in the many loud conversations. I never actually saw but one fight. While Ray was gone to the beer store, Butch started talking about how Ray wasn't treating his wife and kids right. Gina and Ray weren't technically married anymore, since Ray got out of prison, but they still had five children together. The oldest boy was now wearing a detention cuff, and under house arrest. Ray's two little girls faced a different kind of difficult situation. "When I went over to give Gina some money, there was Mija sitting on Gina's old man's lap. I didn't like they was it looked, and I told him so. He just took the money I had for Gina and told me to get out. I couldn't take Mija with me. I'm not even part of the family. But he had his hands all over her, and she looks very grown up for twelve. There's no telling what's going on in that house." The implications were clear. When Ray returned with the beer the conversation drifted back to the job. Eighteen beers later, it was Butch's turn to take up the collection for the beer store run. Ray's brother, Bobby, mentioned what Butch said while Ray had been gone. "That's not why Gina won't let him see the girls anymore. The baby is eight now, you know. Amber is no baby now. Gina used to let them spend the night with "Uncle Butch," but she didn't like what the girls told her the last time they spent the night. Yeah, sure, he's always brought the girls clothes and toys at Christmas and Easter, but they aren't his responsibility, they aren't his family. Gina just let them visit him because she wanted a might out. Hey, I can't make excuses for the old lady." "The last time they stayed with Butch, Mija said that Butch put the two of the girls in the bathtub together, and was offereing to help them clean all their dirty parts. He was right in the bathroom with them. Mija wears a bra now, and a single man like him, with his wild ways doesn't need to be able with kids in the bathtub. He was drunk too. Gina didn't let the girls come back after then. She says he don't dome to the house to see them no more since she's got a new old man. He don't like Butch. He thinks Butch got a big mouth, and nothing to back it up." The next beer run was complete, and he who carried the beer seemed to have been labled a child molestor in his absence. Everybody was Mexican except Butch, and they all knew he was sort of crazy at times. He might be capable of doing anything. Although the host of the evening, he was the outsider. Time paseed and Butch and Ray continued to work together until Ray took off with $450.00 for supplies for a job. He even called Butch to say he'd left town with the money. Ray wasn't going to be welcome back at Butch's house. But, several month's later, Ray was back with the Friday night after work drinking crowd. Sometimes Butch would fire up the grill, and everyone had a feast of chicken and beer, topped off with bourbon, and perhaps a trip to the pub down the road. Some night's were very late and very drunk times. After saying he'd never speak to Ray, there he was, fresh out of doing time in prison, and staying at Butch's house. Before two months passed, Ray was told to move out. He wasn't able to work enough to save money to get his own place, and things had begun to disappear around Butch's house, but just small things. When the letter came from the bail bonds man, Butch said Ray had to move out. He knew Ray was a thief. Ray knew Butch was a liar. Butch raised enough hell on his own that he didn't need the police knocking on his door looking for the likes of Ray. So Ray left town again, or that was what his brothers said. The next weekend Butch was out of town on a weekend contruction job, and his house was broken into. "That son-of-a bitch took everything that was important to me. He wouldn't read books, but the ones I'd just gotten from an old house, that I remembered reading as a child, are gone. They took the television, but left the remote. I can feel him laughing at me." When the bill came for the cable televsion the next month, there were over $100. in extra viewing fees. Butch was sure it was his friends who had broken into the house, because they knew he was to be gone out of town working. It could have been any thief, but Butch was certain it was Ray. The day came when they finally faced each other on the street. Nothing was said about why the tall old white guy and they young short Mexican dude got into it. Nobody watching the fight heard any explanation. Only the strong survive. There were no knives or guns that night, but there could have been, and one or the other would have been dead. They had both been drinking when he ran into each other, and started swearing and swinging. Although there were other "friends" around, nobody jumped in on either side. They fought until Butch couldn't get up from the ground and Ray couldn't see out of either of his eyes. When it was all over, they got up and went their separate ways. Are fights so simple as to ever having only one cause?  |
| Christmas the year I was five is one I remember. I remember waking up before my parents, running to the living room to see what Santa Clause had left me. The two things I wanted most were there: the rocking horse and the life sized dancing doll I could strap to my feet. The rocking horse wore out fast, because always being a big kid; I guess I broke the metal springs. It seemed like the horse did not last long. The dancing doll did. She looked like she had Raggedy Ann hair, and she wore the clothes to match. Mommy and Daddy slipped the elastic over my five-year-old feet, and I danced with my doll all Christmas day. I danced with her when we moved to Corpus Christi, when I got older. I don’t know what happened to my dancing partner doll, but I miss playing with her sometimes. I miss the love that lived in my bedroom when I was a child growing up. I grew so tall, but that doll was always the perfect partner, anytime I wanted a sister with which to dance. The toys of youth become memories, but the memories we make with the toys stay with us forever. I love you Mom and Daddy.  |
| Dear Christopher, I'm sad that you haven't written to me since you moved to south Texas. We were such good friends for so many years, I am personally hurt that you've gone off and left me like I was before, with few friends and companions to keep me company. Most of your friends don't come to visit me anymore, since Daniel's boxes have moved on. I know you don't like to write letters. But it's not like I'm asking you to send money. Friends want to keep up with each other, because they care about each other. I feel like you don't care about me anymore. I know things got kind of tough at the end of your time staying with me. You knew I would ask you to leave as soon as you let me down. I was counting on you to take me to the doctor, that morning you went off with your girlfriend, and you knew it. For my own self-respect, I had to ask you to leave. You KNEW I would, and you went of with her anyhow. You've been put out of so many of your friends homes', it seems like you plan it, more than you see it coming. I'm glad you're staying with your dad now. He can help you better than your mother at this time of your life. Daniel told me you got a job in a company that makes corrugated boxes. Congratulations on you great job accomplishment! I knew you'd finally find something. I really wish you would write me a letter, and tell me how you are. I lost your dad's address, and I DON"T want to ask you Mom for it, 'cause I don’t think she likes me much. But you owe me my friend. Specifically you owe me a Chinese dinner that you promised. But what I want most of all is a letter that just says thanks for helping you during all those bad months, when you used to come over and spill your guts about the world. I miss that. Maybe, someday, you'll send me a text message, just to say hi. Maybe you never think about me anymore. But if you do, please consider our friendship on ongoing thing, and write me a letter, cause you can do it if you work at it. I worked to get you help when you had no place to live. Please write me, and tell me how you’re living these days. I still want to be your friend.  |
| The New Kitty I'm a small little cat. They call me "Kitty, Kitty." As cats become grown I'm still little bitty. But I've been plucked From my mama's teat, Been put in a box Like some kind of thief. The door opens up The wires holding me in I make a mad dash, With a small crash built in. Under the bed Seems safe enough Arms and fingers grab, But I hiss and act tough. But they leave me in silence They leave me in the dark, Now, I'll search Because I'm the curious sort. I found a bowl, I found a plate. I drank some cream, And then I ate. Wherever I am It's a kitty space: I've found a litter box, And must make haste. With a full happy tummy, I curl up in a ball, I cry for my mama, But I can't hear her call. I awake on a new day, With a full bowl that's fine. Whoever these people are, I'll treat them like they're mine.
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