Finish reading chapter 10 of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Tuesday, November 19th.
You can listen to it at
http://ia700204.us.archive.org/16/items/jekyll_and_hyde_librivox/jekyllandhyde_10_stevenson.mp3
Tomorrow the potion!
Monday, November 18, 2013
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
ME 10 - Short Story - First Draft - Due November 21
ME 10 - Short Story - First Draft - Due Thursday, November 21
Write a 1000 word story using the Short Story Mastery Description handed out during class.
Especially remember to use concrete details, strong verbs, similes, metaphors, and personification.
The closer you get to following all of the guidelines, the fewer revisions you will have to do.
Here are a few examples and below are some links to give you ideas about how to do this.
I settle Dad into one of the few chairs with armrests and ask if he’d like me to fetch him a magazine. He shakes his head almost before I’ve finished speaking. It’s his standard response these days: if in doubt, say no.
The street door opens and a couple come in with a little girl. They’ve not yet sat down when the buzzer goes and the screen flashes above the reception desk: Mrs Tracey Palmer to Dr Aziz Room 5. The woman hitches her bag up her shoulder and sidles out. The little girl scurries across to the huddle of toys in the corner and the man flops onto a seat nearby.
He’s wearing a red football top with a name on the back and the figure 8. I could pretend I think he’s the real Steven Gerrard and ask him for his autograph, but all I’ve got to write on is Dad’s repeat prescription form. I could ask Dad about Liverpool’s prospects this season, but he’s turned off his hearing aid against the jangling Muzak, and me.
The little girl shuffles pans on the hob of a red plastic cooker. She has a shock of curly hair that’s almost too big for her, like Crystal Tipps from long-ago children’s TV. She turns to her dad, a wide grin revealing the gap in her front teeth. “What do you want?”
Beside me, my dad’s breath rattles in his chest. Steven Gerrard says nothing.
“Do you want tea?”
“No.”
“Coffee?”
“No.”
“Pancakes?”
“No.”
No warmth, no manners, but no anger or irritation either. His gaze fixed on an empty space midway between the reception and his daughter, so secure in his refusal he needn’t even feign absorption in his phone or the small ads in the local rag.
“What do you want, then?”
What, indeed? I steal a glance at Dad. I’m relieved, in a way, that his eyes are closed. It would be embarrassing to witness this together, take me back to being a teenager squirming between her parents at a [bad] scene on TV.
“Peace and quiet,” says Steven Gerrard.
In one smooth movement, Crystal Tipps returns to her pots and pans. Her smile doesn’t waver, like a prima ballerina programmed not to notice the pain in her toes.
She stirs the air in a yellow frying pan with a wooden spoon. I could tell her I’d love a pancake, and tea, and coffee too, but it’s her dad she wants to feed, not me. He sits, immobile, betraying no interest in his child. His mind, perhaps, on bigger problems: his wife’s diagnosis; the bills that can’t be paid. Concerns we couldn’t dream of, his little girl and me.
Dad makes a noise that’s half cough and half burp. His wrists are stick thin in his frayed shirt cuffs and there’s a cluster of bristles under his chin where his razor didn’t reach. People will judge me for it, but I can’t help him if he won’t let me.
Crystal Tipps holds out a blue plastic plate towards her dad. My stomach clenches.
“What’s this?”
“Peace-and-quiet pancake.”
Who could resist such ingenuity? Who could resist that smile?
Staring into space, Steven Gerrard keeps his hands by his side, as if his daughter doesn’t register at all. Whatever his worries, surely he could find room for an imaginary pancake. Surely yes would be less trouble than no.
Crystal Tipps returns the plastic plate to the toy-box. She packs away the wooden spoon and the pans. Spirits away her feelings with the toys.
How many real pancakes will she have to rustle up before she makes sense of this moment? How many squirts of lemon juice, how many spoons of sprinkled sugar before she’s assured it’s not her fault? It could take until she’s middle-aged and watching another little girl fail to charm her father, for her to truly understand.
By then, it will be too late to make him eat her peace-and-quiet pancake. Too late to tower over him, forcing him to swallow every chill rubbery bite. Her father will be too old and fragile, his hands too unsteady to hold the plate, his gums too delicate to chew.
Dad’s head jerks forward as the buzzer summons him from his doze. The screen reads: Mr Herbert Grayson to Dr O’Callaghan Room 4.
“Mustn’t keep the doctor waiting,” says Dad.
Fixing my smile, I rise from my seat. I offer Dad my arm, but he shakes his head, pushes against the armrests and, little by little, shuffles to his feet.
-----
The Tempest by Cliodhna
As momentum built, the water began to whirl and froth, some of it rising in huge waves to crash over the edge. There was no escape. No way to stop the waves other than wait for granny to stop stirring.
"And that," she said, "taking a dishcloth in her hand, is what we call a storm in a teacup."
-----
Forever Friends by Cliodhna
Sean fell off the bar stool. He'd been drinking for three days straight.
"Han'me down my pint. I'll just drink it here."
Charlie, publican and Sean's sometime drinking buddy thought not. Hoisting Sean to his feet, he said,
"Think you've had enough, mate. Maybe you should head home - get a bite to eat and a few hours kip."
"I'mawright," Sean slurred, elbowing Charlie so hard he went sprawling into a table of drinks. From there it descended into a wrestling match. First onto the floor and finally out the door. As a parting shot, Sean clamped down on Charlie's thumb – Charlie screamed like a banshee.
A few hours later, Charlie of the bandaged thumb sees Sean wander back in looking none the worse for wear.
Leaning against the bar, he nods for a pint and asks – with genuine concern – "what happened your thumb?"
-----
Ticket by Clare
He's as creased as a used bus ticket. The librarian waits patiently until he produces an old-fashioned library card.
"It's out of date," she says. "The system's changed."
He looks around, blinking: "I used it this morning. I've been... lost in a book."
"This book?" She asks, opening the first page.
It begins: "There's a dusty road just outside Albertsville that doesn't go anywhere..."
The man at the counter says: "No, don't..."
But it's too late. His voice floats away on the breeze. She turns her face against it and sets off down that dusty road...
-----
Being prepared by Clare
I made her test the GPS in the park before she went. I walked with her, counting the degrees, checking the GPS direction against the compass. I found the weather forecast, printed out maps. I charged her phone for her – arranged a system of communicating, grilled her about risk assessments. I made her promise not to go too deep into the hills if it was foggy... or rainy... or icy.
"Be careful," I said. And: "Take care of yourself." Worrying.
Who would have thought that after all it would be me that was in danger? A week-old ham waiting to finish me off. Me writhing on the floor, poisoned, with no system of communicating, no phone, no map.
From: The Guardian at http://www.theguardian.com/childrens-books-site/2012/may/16/your-flash-fiction
---------
And this one is a bit vague, but I still love it:
The man was so beautiful. He appeared to be stepping out of the ad on the side of the bus, his hair illuminated in sun. Amelia saw the little slip of paper burst from his pocket when he pulled out his keys. It flipped in the air once, twice before it caught against the cement stairs right in front of her. She quickly shut her mailbox with the very tiny key that made her feel oversized and fumbling.
Carefully, so as not to rustle it, she pushed open the heavy metal door of the apartment complex and snatched up the piece of paper between two pale fingers. She looked down the street in the direction that he had gone, but the faces, the heads, the clothing — it was already all wrong.
The paper read:
Milk
Bread
Pomelo
"This is what he needs," she said to herself, softly. She ran her thumb over the last word, smudging the pencil a little.
Pomelo? She lifted her head and said the word slowly, her mouth moving as a fish blowing bubbles, "Pomelo? Pomelo?"
She hurriedly walked three, four blocks and entered the grocery store with its frozen, scent-less air.
She stood in the entryway, the automatic doors saying whoosh, whoosh as people funneled in around her.
"Can I help you?" asked someone in an apron. She could not tell if it was a man or a woman.
"Pomelo?" she said, but it came deflated and not how she practiced.
"Pomelos. Over there," the person said, and pointed at a bin of luminous green fruit, so large and round. A bin of discarded planets, lost without their moons. Amelia needed both hands to pick one up and this made her smile. She placed it back on the pile very gently. Then she turned around and left.
In later years, during the moments of greatest darkness, she would clutch the battered list to her chest and whisper soothing words to herself, "Pomelos are real. I am real. Pomelos are real. I am real."
From NPR's Three Minute Fiction Contest
Write a 1000 word story using the Short Story Mastery Description handed out during class.
Especially remember to use concrete details, strong verbs, similes, metaphors, and personification.
The closer you get to following all of the guidelines, the fewer revisions you will have to do.
Here are a few examples and below are some links to give you ideas about how to do this.
Peace-and-quiet Pancake
I settle Dad into one of the few chairs with armrests and ask if he’d like me to fetch him a magazine. He shakes his head almost before I’ve finished speaking. It’s his standard response these days: if in doubt, say no.
The street door opens and a couple come in with a little girl. They’ve not yet sat down when the buzzer goes and the screen flashes above the reception desk: Mrs Tracey Palmer to Dr Aziz Room 5. The woman hitches her bag up her shoulder and sidles out. The little girl scurries across to the huddle of toys in the corner and the man flops onto a seat nearby.
He’s wearing a red football top with a name on the back and the figure 8. I could pretend I think he’s the real Steven Gerrard and ask him for his autograph, but all I’ve got to write on is Dad’s repeat prescription form. I could ask Dad about Liverpool’s prospects this season, but he’s turned off his hearing aid against the jangling Muzak, and me.
The little girl shuffles pans on the hob of a red plastic cooker. She has a shock of curly hair that’s almost too big for her, like Crystal Tipps from long-ago children’s TV. She turns to her dad, a wide grin revealing the gap in her front teeth. “What do you want?”
Beside me, my dad’s breath rattles in his chest. Steven Gerrard says nothing.
“Do you want tea?”
“No.”
“Coffee?”
“No.”
“Pancakes?”
“No.”
No warmth, no manners, but no anger or irritation either. His gaze fixed on an empty space midway between the reception and his daughter, so secure in his refusal he needn’t even feign absorption in his phone or the small ads in the local rag.
“What do you want, then?”
What, indeed? I steal a glance at Dad. I’m relieved, in a way, that his eyes are closed. It would be embarrassing to witness this together, take me back to being a teenager squirming between her parents at a [bad] scene on TV.
“Peace and quiet,” says Steven Gerrard.
In one smooth movement, Crystal Tipps returns to her pots and pans. Her smile doesn’t waver, like a prima ballerina programmed not to notice the pain in her toes.
She stirs the air in a yellow frying pan with a wooden spoon. I could tell her I’d love a pancake, and tea, and coffee too, but it’s her dad she wants to feed, not me. He sits, immobile, betraying no interest in his child. His mind, perhaps, on bigger problems: his wife’s diagnosis; the bills that can’t be paid. Concerns we couldn’t dream of, his little girl and me.
Dad makes a noise that’s half cough and half burp. His wrists are stick thin in his frayed shirt cuffs and there’s a cluster of bristles under his chin where his razor didn’t reach. People will judge me for it, but I can’t help him if he won’t let me.
Crystal Tipps holds out a blue plastic plate towards her dad. My stomach clenches.
“What’s this?”
“Peace-and-quiet pancake.”
Who could resist such ingenuity? Who could resist that smile?
Staring into space, Steven Gerrard keeps his hands by his side, as if his daughter doesn’t register at all. Whatever his worries, surely he could find room for an imaginary pancake. Surely yes would be less trouble than no.
Crystal Tipps returns the plastic plate to the toy-box. She packs away the wooden spoon and the pans. Spirits away her feelings with the toys.
How many real pancakes will she have to rustle up before she makes sense of this moment? How many squirts of lemon juice, how many spoons of sprinkled sugar before she’s assured it’s not her fault? It could take until she’s middle-aged and watching another little girl fail to charm her father, for her to truly understand.
By then, it will be too late to make him eat her peace-and-quiet pancake. Too late to tower over him, forcing him to swallow every chill rubbery bite. Her father will be too old and fragile, his hands too unsteady to hold the plate, his gums too delicate to chew.
Dad’s head jerks forward as the buzzer summons him from his doze. The screen reads: Mr Herbert Grayson to Dr O’Callaghan Room 4.
“Mustn’t keep the doctor waiting,” says Dad.
Fixing my smile, I rise from my seat. I offer Dad my arm, but he shakes his head, pushes against the armrests and, little by little, shuffles to his feet.
From Flash Fiction Online at http://flashfictiononline.com/main/article/peace-and-quiet-pancake/
-----
The Tempest by Cliodhna
As momentum built, the water began to whirl and froth, some of it rising in huge waves to crash over the edge. There was no escape. No way to stop the waves other than wait for granny to stop stirring.
"And that," she said, "taking a dishcloth in her hand, is what we call a storm in a teacup."
-----
Forever Friends by Cliodhna
Sean fell off the bar stool. He'd been drinking for three days straight.
"Han'me down my pint. I'll just drink it here."
Charlie, publican and Sean's sometime drinking buddy thought not. Hoisting Sean to his feet, he said,
"Think you've had enough, mate. Maybe you should head home - get a bite to eat and a few hours kip."
"I'mawright," Sean slurred, elbowing Charlie so hard he went sprawling into a table of drinks. From there it descended into a wrestling match. First onto the floor and finally out the door. As a parting shot, Sean clamped down on Charlie's thumb – Charlie screamed like a banshee.
A few hours later, Charlie of the bandaged thumb sees Sean wander back in looking none the worse for wear.
Leaning against the bar, he nods for a pint and asks – with genuine concern – "what happened your thumb?"
-----
Ticket by Clare
He's as creased as a used bus ticket. The librarian waits patiently until he produces an old-fashioned library card.
"It's out of date," she says. "The system's changed."
He looks around, blinking: "I used it this morning. I've been... lost in a book."
"This book?" She asks, opening the first page.
It begins: "There's a dusty road just outside Albertsville that doesn't go anywhere..."
The man at the counter says: "No, don't..."
But it's too late. His voice floats away on the breeze. She turns her face against it and sets off down that dusty road...
-----
Being prepared by Clare
I made her test the GPS in the park before she went. I walked with her, counting the degrees, checking the GPS direction against the compass. I found the weather forecast, printed out maps. I charged her phone for her – arranged a system of communicating, grilled her about risk assessments. I made her promise not to go too deep into the hills if it was foggy... or rainy... or icy.
"Be careful," I said. And: "Take care of yourself." Worrying.
Who would have thought that after all it would be me that was in danger? A week-old ham waiting to finish me off. Me writhing on the floor, poisoned, with no system of communicating, no phone, no map.
From: The Guardian at http://www.theguardian.com/childrens-books-site/2012/may/16/your-flash-fiction
---------
And this one is a bit vague, but I still love it:
The Pomelo
The man was so beautiful. He appeared to be stepping out of the ad on the side of the bus, his hair illuminated in sun. Amelia saw the little slip of paper burst from his pocket when he pulled out his keys. It flipped in the air once, twice before it caught against the cement stairs right in front of her. She quickly shut her mailbox with the very tiny key that made her feel oversized and fumbling.
Carefully, so as not to rustle it, she pushed open the heavy metal door of the apartment complex and snatched up the piece of paper between two pale fingers. She looked down the street in the direction that he had gone, but the faces, the heads, the clothing — it was already all wrong.
The paper read:
Milk
Bread
Pomelo
"This is what he needs," she said to herself, softly. She ran her thumb over the last word, smudging the pencil a little.
Pomelo? She lifted her head and said the word slowly, her mouth moving as a fish blowing bubbles, "Pomelo? Pomelo?"
She hurriedly walked three, four blocks and entered the grocery store with its frozen, scent-less air.
She stood in the entryway, the automatic doors saying whoosh, whoosh as people funneled in around her.
"Can I help you?" asked someone in an apron. She could not tell if it was a man or a woman.
"Pomelo?" she said, but it came deflated and not how she practiced.
"Pomelos. Over there," the person said, and pointed at a bin of luminous green fruit, so large and round. A bin of discarded planets, lost without their moons. Amelia needed both hands to pick one up and this made her smile. She placed it back on the pile very gently. Then she turned around and left.
In later years, during the moments of greatest darkness, she would clutch the battered list to her chest and whisper soothing words to herself, "Pomelos are real. I am real. Pomelos are real. I am real."
From NPR's Three Minute Fiction Contest
Monday, November 11, 2013
Narrative/Short Story Mastery Description
Name:_____________________________ Period:___________ Score:____________
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Self-scored
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Organization
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Teacher-scored
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Narrative/Story
Writing Mastery Description
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Ideas
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Organization
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Voice
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Word
Choice
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Sentence
Fluency
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Conventions
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