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PAGE THREE Exercise Assignment April 5, 1999 Exercise 14: "Sweet Revenge": For your assignment this week--should you choose to accept your assignment--we are going for revenge--pure and simple revenge for a real or imagined injustice. You will need to set a peaceful, even happy scene of a victim and a hero prior to the injustice. This will make the wrong which is done appear even worse and encourage reader empathy. Your antagonist and the real or imagined crime against the victim must invade this
happy scene. Your hero, the protagonist must try every available legal route to see that justice is done. Yet, the antagonist walks away unscathed. Now, here comes the good part. The protagonist must take matters into his/her own hands and obtain the sought after justice by any means available. We as readers should be able to empathize with your victim. We must care that they were wronged, just as the hero does. We must identify with your protagonist, feel the frustration of seeking the normal routes of obtaining justice, and come to the decision with them that justice can only be achieved outside the normal avenues. We, as readers must love to hate the antagonist, and rejoice with the protagonist at that final moment just before justice will finally prevail. Maybe it sounds like a tough assignment, but I think once you get into it you will be delighted by what your devious little mind can create. :-) Your crime could be a theft, a lie, a murder, a rape, abuse, etc. Make it pure and straightforward, fill it with twists and turns, it is your story. Make it a romance, a mystery, a fantasy, etc., it's your work. Luglenda RAPUNZEL’S REMEDY By Graham Weeks The nuptials of Sir Everard and the damsel Rapunzel: it was the event of the season at Camelot. The story had spread far and wide. Kings, Princes, Lords and Knights showed up with their Ladies and entourages, eager to see the famous stair of hair up the which Sir Everard clambered to rescue his beloved from the tower of the evil gnome Rumplestiltskin. They vied with each other in the bestowing of expensive presents. Magical suits of impenetrable armour, costly fabrics spun from griffin fur, sacred pictures framed with wood from the One True Cross, and all manner of knick-knacks carved from dragons’ teeth cluttered the brand new semi-detached castle given to the happy couple by King Arthur himself. Even Merlin appeared, literally, conjuring himself out of a choking cloud of pink smoke just before the feast began. In fact no one was surprised. He always did this, never tiring of the little trick (more than could be said for the others present), and anyway, he was the damsel Rapunzel’s godfather. It would have looked bad if he hadn’t called round bearing a gift or two. To the bride he gave a little pot of unguent (he didn’t explain what it was and she knew better than to ask). For Sir Everard he brought the last word in lances, an instrument longer, thicker, sharper and above all harder than any lance ever seen in those parts. The knight’s gratitude was boundless, and the lance never left his hand all day, causing a certain amount of consternation during the evening dance, and difficulties during his frequent visits to the cramped castle latrine. But on the whole everything went splendidly, and the day was rounded off in traditional manner, with a crowd of drunken knights gathered beneath the happy couple’s bedchamber window, cheering as Rapunzel noisily lost forevermore the right to the title ‘damsel'. The great occasion was all that was talked about for months afterward. Little by little, however, other topics of conversation began to take over. A wink bestowed on Launcelot by Queen Guinevere. The forthcoming Great Tournament. And above all, a sadness that descended on Camelot as whispers proliferated; Rapunzel was seen less and less in public, and more and more sitting in a high window of her castle, spinning disconsolately and dabbing frequently at her eyes with the muslin veil that hung from the high point of her hennin. The sad fact was that Sir Everard was out every night until the early hours. Exterminating dragons, claimed he, or following up surefire clues to the whereabouts of the Holy Grail. But he staggered in at three or four in the morning, thrashed about in the kitchen in search of cold leftovers from supper, swore as he dented his breastplate on the four-poster, and left his armour strewn around the room for Rapunzel to pick up in the morning. Then he’d snore and fart the whole night through, and be a big sorehead in the morning. Rapunzel was a woman with wants and needs; finally she could take it no longer. "Thou art nought but a piss-head, Sir," she said to Everard, when other, sweeter blandishments had failed. "Get thee off my case, Dame," he snapped back, and made as though to buffet her with the back of his gauntlet. She stared him down. Controlling himself, the Knight crept away shamefaced, in search of water from the mystical well of Al-kaselza, which was said to be efficacious for tirednesses such as his. If it had just been the drinking, she could probably have put up with it. After all, knights were expected to have a wassail once in a while. It sort of went with the job. But there was more. The lipstick on his doublet. The lady’s favour tied to the beak of the bronze raven which crowned his helmet. Rapunzel was desperate. The day after the almost-buffet, she was wandering, deep in woe and in deep in the woods near their castle, when she found herself suddenly enveloped in a cloud of acrid pink smoke. "I wish thou wouldst not do that, Godfather," she coughed, batting at the air with her hands. "Ah, Rapunzel," said Merlin, also coughing, "my dear goddaughter. I have observed your sadness in my crystal. What are we to do? Should I turn him into a toad?" "What difference would that make?" she asked bitterly, but then relented. "He’s not a bad man, Merlin. Its just that crowd he hangeth out with, Launcelot and Galahad and the rest. They’ve got this big macho thing going, they’re afraid to look like wimps in front of the ladies of the Court. So its pint after pint of mead and a quick gallop round the cloister with any dame of easy virtue who’s slim enough to be hoisted onto a charger. When he gets home, he’s good for nothing. It’s pathetic, really, but I know not how to get him out of it." "Ah, my child. The remedy is in your hands. Thou rememb’rest the pot of lotion I gave to you?" And then Merlin bent and whispered urgently for several minutes into Rapunzel’s shell-like ear. The following day was the Great Tournament. For once Sir Everard had come home early, and spent the evening polishing his armour and caressing his lance. He slept soundly, and heard not as Rapunzel crept out of bed at the witching hour, and rubbed Merlin’s magic cream into the shaft of his lance, whispering strange words the while. In the morning, Everard rode off to the Tournament on his great warhorse, armour shining like the sun and his extra-long, extra-hard lance a sight to inspire terror in dragons and infidels, or lust in any number of drooling Court floozies. Pennants fluttered, trumpets trumpeted, and his turn came. He thundered into the lists, all hooves and belligerence, when Lo! His famed lance suddenly drooped like melted wax. He received a brainjolting blow from his opponent which left him sitting on the grass wondering why the noonday sky was full of stars. He picked up his lance; the point hung, a flaccid shadow of its former self. Everard became aware of the sound of ribaldry, and, looking about, saw Launcelot, Galahad, and the whole Court (especially certain décolleté ladies), falling about with unseemly mirth. Sir Everard hung his head, put his wilted lance over his shoulder and walked home. "I’ve been a bad Knight," he said to Rapunzel that night, "but shall be no more!" "To bed, then, my love," said his wife, eagerly. "Thou hast it," he said. "What’s more, feeling a little saddle-sore, I have rubbed my parts with a pot of soothing unguent I found in the bathroom. It shall be a night to remember, by my troth!" "Oh, gadzooks," quoth Rapunzel, turning her eyes to Heaven. © 1999 Graham Weeks Exercise Assignment April 12, 1999 Exercise #15: "Three Travelers": Three people are traveling together on a long trip.
You take it from here. Tell us about these three people. Who are they? What are they like? Make us know them and what motivates them. What is the reason for this trip? Where are they going? Oh yes, I almost forgot: One of them has a secret--problem, ulterior motive or something else that is unknown to the other two. You decide what kind of secret, how it will be revealed, and its effect on the other two. Now, open your word program, stare at the blank screen for two minutes (max) and start writing your story. Good Luck, all! Luglenda, REVISITED By Chris Curtis "Third star to the right, and straight on ‘till morning." Jarek looked at the stars around them and then at Gabriella beside him. With one leg hung over her chair and her head laid back against the headrest she gave the impression of bored impatience. "Sorry, My Lady?" "A line from their ‘Peter Pan’. It’s the course for Never-Never Land. The place where dreams are made." "Oh, I see." He didn’t really. He was not educated in their literature. "And is that where you think we are going? To Never-Never Land?" She shifted her weight and stared out at the darkness. "No, not really. It’s just that the stars look so different. Never-Never Land is a fictitious place of theirs.… How much longer will it be before we arrive?" Jarek looked down at the instrument panel. "About —" "Don’t be so impatient, Gabriella, my dear. We’ll soon be there amongst the heathens." Jarek turned to look at Caleb, his other passenger. A rough, impertinent fellow of Royal blood, he’d taken an instant dislike to him the moment they met prior to takeoff in the departure building. Caleb was the reason for their mission, to collect, or more to the point, to reclaim what he had left behind on his last mission. Not one to take a profound dislike to anyone, Jarek found it hard to like someone so blatant in his condemnation of other races. "Did you enjoy your sleep, Sir?" "Sleep! In those contraptions? I should be home, surrounded by my adoring wives! Not off on some stupid mission." He strode over and stood next to Gabriella. "Last time I was here, Jarek, they nearly caught me. I needed all my strength and cunning to get away." He looked down into Gabriella’s coal black eyes and stroked her pointed chin with mock amusement "Anyway, I’m sure our sweet Gabriella has kept you entertained. The rumours are well known of how our lady can charm the heart of any beast. Isn’t that so, Lady Gabriella?" "You mistake wisdom for charm," she answered and brushed aside his hand. "I am here to make sure we reclaim what is ours, and to ensure you do not cause anything to compromise our mission. You made one mistake, you will not make a second." The look on Caleb’s face, and his sudden step back with arms open wide in mild bewilderment, were as false as his bravado. Jarek hated him. "Gabby! Do you accuse me of a crime? I merely took advantage of the catastrophe and made my escape. Can I be blamed for the mistakes of others?" Jarek winced. Not even the Council leader used the diminutive of her name. Caleb’s connivance, and utter lack of camaraderie, had left four of his crew to their fate. Some leader. How he managed to escape retribution by the Council, no one knew, but rumours were awash with speculation that he’d sold them out to save his own skin. Gabriella rose from her chair, turned to Caleb and pointed a slender finger at him. "Get down below and see to the cargo. If I hadn’t argued your case to get you on this mission you would be at home tending crops. You could still be if I fail to see any improvement in your manners!" Jarek smiled. So that is why he came. "That’s his job!" retaliated Caleb. "Jarek is not your concern," continued Gabriella. "You may be of noble birth, but I can assure you, that on my return you will lose that exalted status and everything your position holds if you refuse to obey me." The amusement on Caleb’s face changed to anger. Before he could get close to Gabriella, Jarek interceded and held him back. "You do not confront a High Priestess in such a fashion," he warned him. "Remember who you are!" Caleb pushed him off. "And remember who you are, Jarek. A mere pilot." For a short time no one moved. Jarek knew he shouldn’t have touched him, Caleb could, if he wanted to, have him put to death. But his loyalty lay with the Lady Gabriella. "You will curb that temper of yours," continued Gabriella. "If you do not, it will only make my resolve even stronger. Now get below!" The thought of the high and mighty Caleb reduced to a cargo hand lifted Jarek’s moral, and he watched him slope off to obey. Talia, Samara, Chaim and Uriel, the emissaries Caleb had left to their fate, were now worshipped as lost heroes. He’d left them to die in a strange land. And while statues were raised to honour their lost comrades Caleb had used his position to lie and cheat his way out of any retribution for his actions. But for all his self-preservation, Jarek now knew Gabriella had his measure. And she wouldn’t be swayed by his roguish charm. "Are we nearly there?" Jarek took his seat, pressed a few buttons to display their trajectory, time and space and pointed at the sun looming before them. "We should arrive about high noon." Gabriella relaxed back down in her chair. "I take it you like to watch their old movies?" Thankful the incident had passed without any repercussion, and confident in the knowledge Gabriella would stand up for him if Caleb demanded retribution he nodded. "The westerns are my favourite. I have quite a large collection at home: High Noon; The OK Corral.… How about you?" "Think yourself lucky, Jarek. I have to concern myself with their politics, and how to infiltrate ourselves into their society without causing too much mayhem. I have no time for such pleasures. It’s not going to be easy for us to be accepted by them." "Forgive me for asking, Gabriella. As a mere officer in transport I find it quite strange that you, as High Priestess to the Council, should be on this mission." She turned to look at him, and for the first time since their departure Jarek noticed her beauty; the smoothness of her skin, the subtle gracefulness of her movements. She was indeed one to be admired and followed. "My reasons are not your concern, Jarek. But you may rest assured that you will find the outcome most rewarding." Her coy smile, meant to address any concerns he may have, had the opposite effect. This was to be a mission he could tell his grandchildren about for years to come. "If you wish to sleep, Lady Gabriella, I will inform you when we arrive." "Thank you, Jarek." **** "They have seen us!" Gabriella struck his cheek. "Quiet, Caleb. Jarek needs all his concentration." The fighters, four of them, were in classic formation working in pairs. Jarek knew all to well from his earlier missions how they planned to intercept them. First they would relay images of them to their AWAC high above them, and from there to their ground control. Then they would come for a closer look. If they perceived them to be hostile, or if Jarek made any defensive manoeuvre, then they would not hesitate to fire. To gain the upper hand on them would be child’s play, but Gabriella had given him his orders — allow the fighters to escort them down. "I tell you, Gabriella, they will shoot us down like they did before. Are you forgetting our lost comrades?" A quick glance at Gabriella told Jarek all he wanted to know. She was calm. And all the belly aching in the world from Caleb wouldn’t sway her judgement. "This was supposed to be —" The missile track streaking across the sky cut Caleb’s objection short. One of the fighters had panicked, of that Jarek was sure. "Do I destroy the missile, My Lady?" "Evade it." From what he had learned of their military might, the missile would most likely be either heat seeking, or laser guided. Jarek assumed the first. Then another fighter sped before them, and they watched a bright flare shoot from the rear of the plane into the path of the missile. Jarek held his course, ready to manoeuvre should the attempted antimissile device fail. In a bright orange flash the missile exploded in front of them. "I demand we return home." Jarek wanted to slap his face as Gabriella had done earlier. The high and mighty Caleb was a coward. "It was an error of judgement," he offered, and then, to incite Caleb even more, he added: "You should know of these things." The fighters took up position either side of them, and Gabriella smiled when they tilted their wings to acknowledge their intention. "Is the cargo safe and secure, Caleb?" "As a new born," he answered with malice. Jarek didn’t wait for her next command, and copied the manoeuvre. Beside them they could see one of the pilot’s point towards the ground. "They want us to land." "When we get back I will inform the Council of your reckless behaviour, Gabriella. This mission was supposed to be covert. Straight in, and straight out." Jarek watched her swivel round in her chair to address Caleb sat behind them. He couldn’t tell if she were angry or quietly amused by his condemnation. With her arms rested against her chair, and her long fingers curled around the armrest she seemed at peace with herself. "When were you last here, Caleb?" "You know when, Gabriella. It was in July ‘47." "And you escaped." "What is this? I’ve told you, as I’ve told the Council. We were fired upon, the others went down and crashed in the desert. I escaped! It’s as simple as that." Jarek doubted that, but it was not the time to question his behaviour. "We are coming in to land, Gabriella. I can see one of their air base’s in the desert below us." "Follow them down," she answered, not taking her gaze from Caleb. "And when we land, you go and make ready our cargo. Our gift should please them greatly, and reassure them of our peaceful intention." Around the airstrip a multitude of cars of all description raced forward, while above them the fighters patrolled the area like annoying flies. But what troubled Jarek was his Lady’s gift, the escape pod. He’d originally assumed it was for their benefit, should they be attacked, so they would be able to get home, albeit at a much slower speed. While Caleb went back to make busy with the cargo, Jarek went through the motion of shutting down the power before he turned to Gabriella. "I don’t understand, My Lady. Caleb might be right. My instructions were to avoid all contact." Gabriella stretched her long arms and stood up. "Your orders have changed. I have my own mission, endorsed by the Council. The previous actions of Caleb advanced our timetable sixteen years. We did not intend to make our objectives known for another forty years. Out of the four emissaries he left to die in the desert, one lived for a short time; she was my sister, Samara. I watched the broadcast they showed of her in their hospital...." Her eyes went the faintest of grey in sorrow, and Jarek felt his heart go out to her. "Today that fact will be re-addressed," she continued and her eyes changed back to their coal black colour. She turned and looked him at hard. "The decision has been made. Caleb will stay behind. He will show them our science, and instruct them in our ways. And in return we will take back the bodies of our dead comrades." Jarek could only nod at the logic. Around them, on the airstrip, they had set up cameras to record the event while hoards of excited people looked on. A thought from Gabriella made him look up. "Pardon, My Lady?" "It should be interesting to see how he communicates with the humans." "True indeed," thought Jarek in answer. Once again Rockwell Air Base, home to the 509th Heavy Bomber Group, had been revisited. Copyright by Chris Curtis 1999. All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced without the express written permission from the author. Exercise Assignment April 19, 1999 Exercise #16: "Photos #02": I've heard it said a picture is worth a thousand words. As writers we provide the words to describe the pictures. That is what we will be doing for this week's exercise assignment.
Select ONE of the scenes from the Photo Site. Write a short story (or the beginning of a larger story) using the scene you have selected.
BRIDESMAID By Lauren Roche Dead people look so different to living ones; in an instant the change is apparent. It’s not just a matter of the animation, heat or exhalations of the living – it is nothing so ethereal as that. The dead almost look as though they’ve been relieved of a great burden, their spirit a weight that’s become too heavy to bear. Or so it seems to me, and I’ve seen my share of death. I don’t mean to talk forever of these things, dear – it’s just when you get to my age, so much that you knew has passed on. Drink your tea, and have a piece of my special cake. I made it just for you – I knew you were coming. This big house once sheltered my parents, brothers, a sister, and the occasional cousin or friend. Now they’re gone – all gone. Only I remain to keep their memories alive, to sit on the big porch at night, listening to the owls, and awaiting my fate. I’ve been here too many years now. Surely my turn will soon come. So many dead. Some of my former family and acquaintances met their death quietly, with the remoteness and dignity that befits such an occasion. Others struggled – their burden of life willingly borne, they protested, as they fought Death’s claim. They met their maker anyhow – a little more battered and bruised, perhaps - but He got them in the end. They really should have saved their breath, and passed in peace, as I shall someday do. As the sole unmarried daughter, the task of caring for the ill and indisposed fell to me: so it was that I witnessed the final weeks, then moments of my father’s life. He was a fearsome man – fond of the bottle, the strap, and the Good Book. A violent and abusive husband and father, he beat his wife and children, both when sober and when drunk, and on the Lord’s day as often as on any other. His illness, when it came, falsely promised us some respite. His failing physical strength was at first an irritation to him, then a puzzlement – finally a huge betrayal. His temper didn’t diminish as quickly as his health did – he was a pitiful creature right near the end, but still a vile one; a cruel man, who deserved to die cruelly. Long and drawn out was his end, the pain too much for him to tolerate. He begged me for relief, for the priest, the doctor –finally for the shotgun. He was denied these easy ways out. I let him wallow in his misery and excretions as long as possible before I would assist him. I spent as much time as possible out of his arm’s length, letting him beg me for contact, for forgiveness. I loved the pleasure of denying him both. Seeing him expire in such a fitting manner made the efforts I expended on him seem worthwhile. It also gave birth to my first true passion. I offered myself as Death’s bridesmaid; and found myself accepted. Mother was the next to die. The void left by widowhood she filled with religion, with breast beating, with remonstrations and hate. She became unbearable to live with. I wanted her to go. Father’s church welcomed us, I sang in their choir, and assumed the pious mask I wear today. No one has ever seen through it. I wear it well, don’t I? I can see you will find my story difficult to believe, but lie I will not. There is no place for fiction at this end of life. I have done what I have, and am at peace with my soul, and those which hover like moths in the porch light every day after dark. Pardon me, dear – excuse the tears of a lonely old lady. It is so nice of you to visit me like this. Mother drowned unexpectedly one day, while washing her hair. A seizure, they thought, a sudden loss of consciousness and then death in a pail of soapy water. She had some bruises – no doubt caused by the flailing around while having the fit – her first. Her death was not so easy. She fought it initially, before meekly obeying, and breathing deeply of her new liquid environment. Death smoothed her features, returned her to the woman who had once loved me. I loved Him for it. Of course, being the one who spent all of my life at home, I found her drowned body – a terrible shock - and had to seek further solace in the bosom of the church. My hosannas never sounded so pure, so sweet, as they did winging their way after her soul. All three brothers went to war, only one, Dougie, returned to be cared for. The others met manly deaths, battlefield deaths. Not Dougie; he was denied that. He was a loner, and had been Mother’s favourite. He had never married, but still knew all about the pleasures of the flesh. After drunkenly seeking pleasure in mine one night, he disappeared, to be found in a streambed a few weeks later. Very dead – stabbed a hundred times. A man had obviously killed him – maybe a dispute over a paramour – as one of the knife wounds had almost removed his neck from his shoulders. No woman could have such strength. Now I was alone in the big house. Too grief-stricken to attend the church, it came to me. The ladies baked me cakes, and brought helpings of casseroles and other hot dishes, so I could put my time to healing the wounds all these bereavements had caused. Only I knew that a sprained wrist and a few scratches were all I had suffered. The rewards I had gained as the extinguisher of the unworthy far outweighed these minor irritations. Of course there were others – a few of them. I had to become careful though – much more annihilation of my nearest and dearest would no doubt make people wonder. I took to travelling on the bus, spending my time visiting shut-ins, and buying tea and cake for the homeless whom I met on my travels. These people welcomed all of my ministrations, succumbing - as they should - quietly, with a full belly and a smile on their newly dead faces How many, you ask? Twenty, maybe twenty-five. I once knew all their names, keeping a mental register for my Associate, to whom I’ve introduced them all. The funny thing is, He is ignoring me – it is many years past my time. I think He’s toying with me. Most unfair, dear, don’t you think? After all I’ve done for Him? Don’t look at me like that, dear. They’ve told you I’m a bit weak in the head, haven’t they? Of course I am, love, think of the life I’ve had. Excuse my tears dear – these sniffles are quite common at my age. Enjoy your cake, love. Baked it myself this morning – an old family recipe. No, I won’t have any – no good for my digestion these days. What’s that? Oh dear, you look ill. Don’t struggle – that’s right. Let me watch your face dear. Relax – it won’t take long – it’s quick-acting. I’ll be here with you until the end. I’ll be waiting here forever it seems – always the bridesmaid, never the bride… © 1999 Lauren Roche Exercise Assignment April 27, 1999 Exercise #17: Story Starter: Marie added the finishing touches to her hair and took a step back to see the full effect in the mirror. Her makeup was perfect and she wore her favorite turquoise silk dress. He had promised her a night out on the town--just the two of them--something they had not done for months. She dreamed of him dressed in his best, just for her. She envisioned a romantic evening with flowers and candles. It would be the perfect setting for them to finally talk about.... The ringing doorbell interrupted her thoughts. Hurriedly she made her way to let him in. But, it wasn't him!--YOUR TURN: Marcello Mastroianni By Graham Weeks "Pick you up at eight, then." "Eight’s fine," said Marie. She plucked at the phone cord with a long, painted fingernail. "I’m really excited." "Me too, babe. Ciao." Marie lowered the receiver slowly, dropped it the last couple of inches into its cradle, then stared at it for long moments. Nerves in his voice, but maybe this would be it. Maybe he’d be the one. The clock said seven fifteen. At five minutes to eight, Marie was adding the finishing touches to her hair. A step back and she saw the full effect in the mirror. Perfect makeup and her favorite turquoise silk dress. Short, but not too short. Cut just low enough at the front. He’d promised her a night out on the town--just the two of them--something she had not done for months. She dreamed of him dressed in his best, just for her. She envisioned a romantic evening with flowers and candles. It would be the perfect setting for them to talk about.... The ringing doorbell interrupted her thoughts. Hurriedly she made her way to let him in. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t the man she had spoken to on the telephone, the one with the dark, husky voice, the slightly nervous lisp, so romantic and so sexy at the same time. On the doorstep stood a short, fat man in an expensive but ill-fitting jacket--as though it had been bought years before, when he was slimmer. Thinning blonde hair clung to his head. A straggly moustache hung on his lip like an afterthought, the way Marie might select a brooch to accompany her dress. "Hi, babe," he said. It was him after all, Marie thought. He just didn’t look like his voice. Disappointed, she hesitated only for the tiniest moment before saying, "Well Hi, Robert. You’re right on time. I like that in a man. Let me get my coat." Dinner was candlelit. Expensive wine glowed as red as the roses that graced the table. The waiters might have been serving a King and his concubine. As the evening progressed, Marie thought less and less about the odd physical aspect of the man before her. She allowed herself to be seduced by his gruff, lilting voice. The bottle of wine diminished, and he lost his nervousness, becoming more sure, more assertive. She was grateful. It made it easier to imagine she was sitting opposite Marcello Mastroianni. She allowed her mind to wander through an enchanted wood of romance, his words the flowers beside the path, the light in his eyes the magical radiance of the moon. Maybe he’d be the one after all. She didn’t listen to the words, of course; they were always the same. Problems at the office. The wife. The evening too, ended in the usual way. Cocktails at Harry’s Bar and back to Marie’s apartment. This was where it got hard to keep up the fiction. Not for him, for she was good at that. For herself, It was hard to keep up the romantic pretense with a naked, sweating stranger thrusting at her, suffocating her in the dark. He crept away, shamefaced, in the early hours of the morning, back to that problematic wife. Marie stared for a long time at the ceiling, her face expressionless, before getting up to count the small pile of bills he had left on the dressing-table. She switched off the phone and lay back, hoping for sleep in the hot silence of her bedroom. © 1999 Graham Weeks
Exercise Assignment April 27, 1999 Exercise #18: Amnesia: You awaken slowly and as you groggily open your eyes you realize you do not recognize the room you are in. Hesitantly, on shaky limbs you crawl out of bed and go to the window. You pull back the drapes and the scene beyond the pane is unfamiliar even the hand holding back the fabric, does not seem to be your own. Beginning to panic, you realize you can't remember your name or any personal information. You rush to the dressing table mirror and stare at the reflected face of a frightened stranger.
This is your basis for Exercise #18. It does not have to be written in first person. It can be any genre. It's your situation and your story.
WARNING! This work contains the subject matter of rape and some language which might not agree with some, so please read it only if you want to. There are no graphical representations within, only a short paragraph about an incident to give the story the plot. The rest is, as the title reflects, more of retribution. AN EYE FOR AN EYE By Chris Curtis The soft strains of music reached his consciousness in a rich sound from a romantic interlude unknown and yet somehow remembered. He stirred and felt the coolness of the sheets beneath, and took a deep breath to fill his lungs from his slumber. Cherry blossoms filled the air. Another memory. Of what he had no idea, but the smell registered as familiar as any scent. Then he felt the constraints around his wrists and ankles. He opened his eyes and stared at the leather cuffs on each arm attached to either side of the headboard. Nothing made sense. When he tried to look at his feet he jerked his head back at the sight of a large white tent structure from his neck to the bottom of the bed. Hospital. He must have been in an accident. But why spread-eagled and bound? From what he could see of the room it didn’t look like any ward he’d been in before; with floral wallpaper, in peach and cream, it looked like a woman’s bedroom. The tent like structure hid most of the room, but to his side, inches from his hand, the sun streamed through a window half covered with drapes in a light dusky shade of pink. He stretched his fingers and pulled it aside. Pleased to see no bars he almost smiled in relief until he saw his manicured nails in a deep provocative red, and the smooth, hairless skin on his arm. Outside he could see the white and red flowers on the Cherry Blossoms. Their petals floated and twisted in a light breeze to settle against the windowsill outside in a mat of colour. He’d never been here before, he was sure of that. On the other side of the bed there stood the usual accoutrements one recognised with a hospital; a kidney shaped dish; a pitcher of water; and a syringe with small test tubes for taking blood. Above him, on a shelf, he could make out a monitor with leads that travelled beneath his tent like structure. Now he knew. This had to be a private hospital. He swallowed to place some moisture into his mouth and wondered what had happened to him — on his wages there was no way he could afford such luxury treatment. He couldn’t even afford.… He stared out the window and blinked. It was summer time! The last thing he could remember was the smell of rotting leaves in the rain, and the rush of adrenaline as he made his escape through the copse that surrounded the property. With that awful thought of lost time came a stronger one. He couldn’t remember his name. He started to panic, and the monitor above his bed echoed his unease with shrill bleeps. He tugged at his restraints, but they held him tight; the soft leather rubbing against what had once been hairy wrists reinforced the conclusion his mind had already reached — they’d finally caught him. After eighteen months, and sixteen unsolved rapes, somehow they had got him. After what seemed like minutes, but he was sure could have been only seconds, he forced himself to calm down, to try and remember what had gone wrong. The house was nothing special. As much the same as the other rich properties he’d taken his conquests on. He could remember peeping at the woman through the curtains; a young brunette with breasts the size of melons constrained in her cream night-dress. About twenty, with long flowing hair she combed while she sang along to the radio, he’d enjoyed the look on her face when he confronted her, not to mention the struggle when she realised his intent. It made it all the more exciting. When he’d pinned her to the ground her deep brown eyes were awash with tears, and she’d promised him anything if he didn’t hurt her. She’d screamed like a good ‘un though, much more than the old whore the previous month. Age didn’t matter to him, it was the fear in their eyes and the flail of their limbs that heightened his sexual frenzy. The slut must have switched on a panic alarm when he’d left. That was it, he thought; he could remember his heat beating like mad when he ran through the copse to the wall. He knew now though it had been the sound of the horse’s hoofs behind him. And the sting of the riding crop against his cheek when he’d tumbled down amongst the sodden leaves. Now he was here. A door opened and all his muscles tensed. With no way of seeing who had entered he felt his heart begin to race. The doctor, nurse, whoever, stayed out of his vision, behind the white tent over his body. The music dimmed and he heard the sound of metal against metal, as if they were organising instruments on a medical trolley. "Where the fuck am I?" He felt his whole body go cold. That wasn’t his voice. He’d said it, but it definitely wasn’t his voice. It was much higher and softer than his normal lower timbre. In an act of desperation he rattled his restraints. "Who’s there?" Again the soft, lilting voice. He tried to swallow, but his throat hurt from his exertion. Taking a deep breath he shouted for all he was worth. "Will someone release me!" The wrenching of his vocal cords hurt like mad, and sent him into a gut wrenching coughing spasm. A kidney dish, placed beside him, allowed him to cough up the phlegm and spit it out. He looked up at a tall blonde woman dressed in a white doctor’s coat. "You’re that bitch on the horse!" "And you’re, Sammy," said the tall blonde woman. "Drink this, it’ll help your throat." He now had a faint recollection of someone calling him by that name, like a thin thread of memory disappearing into the depths of his mind. He’d read somewhere about selective amnesia, and how it could return with the smallest of prompts. At least he had something to hold on to. He now had a name. "How long have I been here? What happened to me?" The woman’s laugh frightened him, for some reason. It was as though she thought his questions so immaterial, they didn’t require an answer, but she replied anyway. "Three years. And as for the other question, all in good time" she whispered into his ear. Sammy tried to get up, but beneath his tent a strange heaviness hung about his chest — as if a small dog or cat was lying there. "What’s on my chest?" he asked quietly. "We’ve discussed so many things over your stay here… Like how you detest rats." Sammy squealed and cried like his victims. All he could do was stare at the tent and imagine the horrible creatures asleep. Had they been there for three years? His only companions? Or more to the point, were they to be his constant companions, to feel them scurry across his chest while he lay there restrained and unable to shake them free? Again he screamed and shook his naked body, but whatever it was on his chest stayed there and wobbled around. "I’ve got to see." He wailed in his high pitched voice. The woman reached across for a hand mirror and then held it to him. Sammy had to blink to remove the tears from his face. The face that greeted him was not his own. It didn’t even resemble his rugged looks; smooth skin and a dainty nose, with lush lips and a shock of black hair. He looked like a woman. "And now the best bit," the blonde squealed in delight, and whisked away the white sheet and frame. His whole body shook with fear. On his chest lay two breasts, with large chocolate-coloured aureole. His nipples were pierced with gold small gold rings and a chain which traversed down his body to another ring in his navel, and from there to a mass of black pubic hair between his thighs. What frightened him the most was that his manhood had gone. "I’ve kept it for you," chuckled the woman, and Sammy watched her walk over to a metal trolley to bring back a large glass container. Inside his manhood floated in some sort of fluid. Sammy sobbed for all he was worth. "Don’t cry, she teased. "I won’t throw it away." She placed it on his bedside table. "You can look at it as much as you want. Oh, dear," she said with mock disgust. "You’ve wet the bed." Sammy raised his head and looked down. "Sweet, Jesus! I’ve got—" "And it works. Quite a work of art if I say so myself." His body, once thin and wiry, now had the look of a voluptuous woman, with skin the colour of honey gold, with not a blemish in sight. "How?" he managed to say in the same high pitched voice. "This is what happens when you rape the daughter of a plastic surgeon," she informed him, her tone of voice harsh and cutting. "As for your voice. That proved a little more difficult. Eventually I decided to shave your vocal cords, hence the three years. I got great reviews on the paper I published about it." Through sobbing eyes he watched her attach a leash to the ring in his navel, and only then did she release his restraints. "Up you come, Samantha. Time to meet your audience. Everyone is dying to see my creation." The pain nearly made his eyes pop out when she jerked his chain. He followed her across the room to a door covered in green leather, with gold metal studs to hold it in place. His breasts, held out by their nipples felt firm and full, and his thighs glided across each other like satin. When she opened the door and introduced him to all present he tried to back away. "Oh, no you don’t." His squeal of pain from between his thighs when the leash tugged on what he knew to be a clitoris, brought forth a round of applause from within the room. "I guess you know just about everyone," said the blonde. "They are so eager to see you get your just desserts." In the room the sixteen women he’d raped sat around a revolving stage at tables enjoying a meal and a glass of wine. But it wasn’t that which frightened Sammy. On the stage two naked men admired him, with a look in their eyes he knew all too well. Copyright by Chris Curtis 1999. All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced without the express written permission from the author.
Exercise Assignment May 18, 1999 Exercise #19: Fear: Your assignment this week is to write about fear. Every person, therefore every character (even the hero) you create is afraid of something--of loss, of growing old, of some secret being revealed, of rejection, of failure, of success, of being like their parent, of loneliness, of death, of commitment, of poverty, etc. (This list could go on forever.) The methods your characters use to deal with the fear adds drama to your stories. Do they face them head on or pretend they do not exist? Do they use drugs, alcohol, or sex to forget or hide their fears? Do they 'unintentionally' create chaos in their life to avoid confronting the fear? Write a short story, or use a scene from some larger work in progress, in which the fears and needs of one character is in direct conflict with those of another (or others). It could be fear of commitment vs. fear of abandonment; or fear of being conned vs. fear of being misunderstood; or, fear of failure vs. fear of success; etc. Place your characters in a scene (your choice), in some activity where you can show the clash without relying on obvious dialogue to reveal their fears to the reader.
TO CONQUER FEAR By Julie G. DeGroat I’m not afraid of much. Oh, I don’t care for dogs, and snakes aren’t my favorite either, but I don’t shake and break out in a sweat, or become paralyzed at the sight of a St. Bernard or a garter snake. I have no fear of spiders at all, and can pick them up by one leg and drop them out the door. As for mice, well, as long as they don’t touch me in any way, I’m fine with them. Cramped spaces? No problem. Heights? Not a concern. No, there’s only one thing that strikes terror into my heart. One thing that sets my fingers trembling, dries my mouth, and makes my heart jump like a beached fish. One thing that is so terribly frightening, I will only do it under extreme duress. No, I’m not talking about surgery with no anesthetics; I’m talking about entering...my son’s bedroom. With four children you get used to mess. There’s always four coats and four backpacks and four pairs of boots in the hallway. The detritus of four after school snacks litter the counter in a welter of peanut buttery knives and empty gallons of milk. Confusion is a way of life, and just the thought of attempting to keep any sort of order is laughable. Not that I don’t attempt to police the downstairs several times a day, I do. But the tide of stuff gets overwhelming; especially in the older kids’ bedrooms, where I seldom go. Just how bad can a kid’s room get? Bad. Really, really bad. We’re talking, when I run out of glasses, I send my son up to do a forage and recover mission. This boy recently got a futon, and the frame sits two inches off the floor-yet he still manages to cram stuff under the bed. When I need to do his laundry, I refuse to collect it. I don’t have the time to separate the clean from the dirty. If there’s something of his downstairs, and I carry it up, I just open the door a crack and heave it in; no sense trying to put it in its proper place. There is no proper place. Not that he hasn’t been provided with proper places to put things. I’ve spent hundreds of dollars on shelving and dressers and cabinets and plastic boxes. They are all crammed to the top with school papers, old homework, candy wrappers, wheels, wires, tools, models, dirty dishes, socks, broken CD’s, CD cases, the ribbon from old cassettes, bolts, nails—oh, the list could go on forever. So, where does the fear come in? Am I afraid of mess? Does the disorder bother me? Am I one of those neat freaks? No, I’m most afraid that once I enter that room, I will become disoriented and never find my way out again. I know this is not a rational fear. In a twelve by twelve foot room it is impossible to get lost. Or is it? What if I get in there and can’t find my way back to the door? What if the mountains of dirty socks and the piles of shriveled pizza crusts overwhelm me? What if no one hears my whimpering, and I have to spend hours-days-trapped in that miasma? I have always thought of myself as an action person. When something happens, I find the way to conquer it. And, so, I have decided to conquer my fear of my son’s room. This morning I will go in, head up, shoulders back, and marching bravely. I will attempt to put some sort of superficial order into that room in the mere six hours before my son gets home from school. I will feel no fear. I will feel no fear because I will be wearing a fifteen-foot rope attached at one end to my waist, and at the other end to a sturdy eye bolt in the hall. The plan is, I get lost in there, I hand-over-hand it to safety. Hey, I may be brave, but I’m not stupid! © 1999 Julie G. DeGroat
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