llamamushroom
2010-03-21, 03:47 AM
I've got a creative writing exam tomorrow, and I was wondering if the lovely playgrounders would mind critiquing some of my practice responses. This is for year 12 English, with the theme of 'Belonging'. We aren't allowed to ask our teachers to look at any practice things related to this task, hence turning to your collective experience.
The stimulus I was given is the first line.
WARNING: Possibly slightly depressing, but it's surprisingly difficult for me to write a story in which someone belongs without resorting to the saccharine-sweetness that both my teacher and I despise.
Amidst the calm and quiet of a warm October’s day, an old man sits silently on an ancient wicker chair on his front porch. Behind him, the house settles in against the onrushing evening. The odd breeze coaxes a muted melody from the rusty wind-chimes, while battered and abused paint-flakes drop from the sun0bleached walls. On an ancient wicker chair, an old man sits silently.
Behind his eyes, he is screaming.
“Hi, John!” calls a voice from the opposite driveway.
“Afternoon, Andy.”
“What’re you doing, John?”
“Waiting.”
“Who for?”
The old man’s reply is silence, but not a hostile one. Andy knows full well for whom John is waiting, that she would be there soon, and Joh would go inside, just like he always did.
Just like every day, Maud is home a few minutes later than she said she would be.
“How Was Your Day?” she asks, the words so old and worn that their meaning has almost faded away.
“Good.”
“Anything Interesting Happen? Find Yourself A Mistress?”
“Ha Ha. Nothing Like That.”
Then he stands up, the chair protesting loudly enough to cover his grunt of effort, and crosses to her. His hand holds hers, lifts it to his heart, and he says “I Love You.”
Behind his eyes, he is screaming.
They walk together, hand in hand, through the old door.
“You Should Really Paint That, You Know.”
“I’ll Get Around To It, Eventually.”
One of these days he would, just to see if she would notice. Would she remind him, anyway?
Maud puts the old, battered briefcase on the table, and stands aside for John to wrench the clasps open. It had been his, back when he’d been working. Back before his back and legs and joints and eyes had gone. Back before his dream had died.
Today, like every day, the little photo he keeps meaning to take out falls from the lid of the briefcase.
“You Remember When We Took That Photo?”
“I Was Happy As A Clam.”
And he had been. Every time he looks at the photo, he remembers that happiness, and a smile plays across his lips. He glances up at Maud’s eyes, beats her to the cue, and they share a reminiscence that is so different for both of them. In the photo, she is white-faced in terror, he is grinning like a loon. They are in an aeroplane, a “trick flight” the pilot had called it. Maud had always hated heights, but their children knew how much their father had always adored planes. John and his wife smile at each other, lost in their well-rehearsed thoughts.
Behind his eyes, he is screaming.
Together, they cook a meal. She washes, he dries.
“Where Does The Tupperware Go?”
“Behind The Crock Pot, Dear.”
They sit down to the news, but it’s always the same. John loses himself in his daydreams once more, looking back at his life. Wondering where he went wrong. The problem is he doesn’t think he did.
Every decision he’d made had been right. Correct. Justifiable. The years spent in a job he hated, every day wondering if this was the one he’d quit, had raised a family of six in the manner to which they were accustomed. The money saved for piloting lessons was spent to give their children all the best opportunities, give them a chance to be happy.
Then his eyes had gone. Too late for that dream. The only dream he’d ever had. Now all he has is his wife, his children, his house, his ancient wicker chair on his front porch.
Behind his eyes, he is screaming.
The news flashes by one more time to its closing fanfare, and Maud heads up to bed. Its been a long time since they needed to speak at this point. They very carefully get changed in their separate worlds on either side of the bed, kiss one another goodnight.
“I Love You.”
“I Love You, Too.”
At three in the morning, a sound wakes John up. He rolls over, trying not to hear Maud’s sobs, jealous that she can even do that. She lets herself feel it, even if it is only in the dead of the night. John closes his eyes, readying himself for sleep again.
Behind his eyes, he is screaming.
Behind his eyes, he is alive.
The stimulus I was given is the first line.
WARNING: Possibly slightly depressing, but it's surprisingly difficult for me to write a story in which someone belongs without resorting to the saccharine-sweetness that both my teacher and I despise.
Amidst the calm and quiet of a warm October’s day, an old man sits silently on an ancient wicker chair on his front porch. Behind him, the house settles in against the onrushing evening. The odd breeze coaxes a muted melody from the rusty wind-chimes, while battered and abused paint-flakes drop from the sun0bleached walls. On an ancient wicker chair, an old man sits silently.
Behind his eyes, he is screaming.
“Hi, John!” calls a voice from the opposite driveway.
“Afternoon, Andy.”
“What’re you doing, John?”
“Waiting.”
“Who for?”
The old man’s reply is silence, but not a hostile one. Andy knows full well for whom John is waiting, that she would be there soon, and Joh would go inside, just like he always did.
Just like every day, Maud is home a few minutes later than she said she would be.
“How Was Your Day?” she asks, the words so old and worn that their meaning has almost faded away.
“Good.”
“Anything Interesting Happen? Find Yourself A Mistress?”
“Ha Ha. Nothing Like That.”
Then he stands up, the chair protesting loudly enough to cover his grunt of effort, and crosses to her. His hand holds hers, lifts it to his heart, and he says “I Love You.”
Behind his eyes, he is screaming.
They walk together, hand in hand, through the old door.
“You Should Really Paint That, You Know.”
“I’ll Get Around To It, Eventually.”
One of these days he would, just to see if she would notice. Would she remind him, anyway?
Maud puts the old, battered briefcase on the table, and stands aside for John to wrench the clasps open. It had been his, back when he’d been working. Back before his back and legs and joints and eyes had gone. Back before his dream had died.
Today, like every day, the little photo he keeps meaning to take out falls from the lid of the briefcase.
“You Remember When We Took That Photo?”
“I Was Happy As A Clam.”
And he had been. Every time he looks at the photo, he remembers that happiness, and a smile plays across his lips. He glances up at Maud’s eyes, beats her to the cue, and they share a reminiscence that is so different for both of them. In the photo, she is white-faced in terror, he is grinning like a loon. They are in an aeroplane, a “trick flight” the pilot had called it. Maud had always hated heights, but their children knew how much their father had always adored planes. John and his wife smile at each other, lost in their well-rehearsed thoughts.
Behind his eyes, he is screaming.
Together, they cook a meal. She washes, he dries.
“Where Does The Tupperware Go?”
“Behind The Crock Pot, Dear.”
They sit down to the news, but it’s always the same. John loses himself in his daydreams once more, looking back at his life. Wondering where he went wrong. The problem is he doesn’t think he did.
Every decision he’d made had been right. Correct. Justifiable. The years spent in a job he hated, every day wondering if this was the one he’d quit, had raised a family of six in the manner to which they were accustomed. The money saved for piloting lessons was spent to give their children all the best opportunities, give them a chance to be happy.
Then his eyes had gone. Too late for that dream. The only dream he’d ever had. Now all he has is his wife, his children, his house, his ancient wicker chair on his front porch.
Behind his eyes, he is screaming.
The news flashes by one more time to its closing fanfare, and Maud heads up to bed. Its been a long time since they needed to speak at this point. They very carefully get changed in their separate worlds on either side of the bed, kiss one another goodnight.
“I Love You.”
“I Love You, Too.”
At three in the morning, a sound wakes John up. He rolls over, trying not to hear Maud’s sobs, jealous that she can even do that. She lets herself feel it, even if it is only in the dead of the night. John closes his eyes, readying himself for sleep again.
Behind his eyes, he is screaming.
Behind his eyes, he is alive.