Read the entry in the back of the course reader on point of view. Write a 1 paragraph scene describing a character from the 3rd-person limited point of view. Post on the blog by 5 p.m. Friday.
Then, choose your partner's scene and rewrite it in 1st person. Keep in mind that the location shouldn’t change with the different points of view, but the description of the scene will.
NOTE: Post this as a comment on your partner’s post by class time on Monday.
The opening of the room looked more like an entrance to a mouse hole than an actual door. Since the room was only five feet tall and ten feet wide, she had to bend down on her knees to enter the room. As a young woman with incredibly straight posture, she enjoyed walking with her head held up high. She could not remember the last time she had crawled, and she felt a trickle of shame, glad that no one could witness her subservient position. She sat in the corner of the room and pulled in her legs, hugging her knees. She gasped in realization that all six faces were painted entirely black. She began to tap her feet nervously, waiting for him to enter the room as the man in the letter had instructed. Who was he, and why had he asked her to meet him here? She tried to focus on her folded hands, avoiding the darkness that had begun to consume her. She glanced desperately around the room, looking for just a spot of white to cling onto. The attempt seemed futile until she noticed a white circle with a radius of one inch at the center of the ceiling. She stared at the circle, marveling at how the pure white seemed to shine down at her. As the intensity of the white burned her eyes, she took solace in the infinitesimally circle and did not notice the door close gently.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
DeleteI almost turned back when I saw the door. If you could call it that – it was literally just a hole at the base of the wall, barely tall enough to hit my bellybutton. I can’t remember the last time I had to crawl to talk to an employer. Ok, actually I can, but I don’t like to. But anyway, I did crawl, and I didn’t turn back, and so now I’m here.
DeleteWherever the hell “here” is anyway. I still can’t stand, but I’m sitting in the most dignified criss-cross-applesauce I can manage. It’s so dark.
Like really really dark. I’d kill for a flashlight right now. Why did the letter insist I not bring my phone? Black walls, black floor, black ceiling. I glance down at my folded hands and laugh. My olive skin has always been considered “dark” by my colleagues, but now? I twiddle my fingers a bit. They’re the lightest things in the room. My stomach contracts at the realization and I think I might be sick. I scan the perimeter of the room once again. Whoa – didn’t see that before. There’s a tiny pure white circle up in the middle of the ceiling.
Ha! Just kidding about that “lightest” thing – just like normal, my boss seems to have installed a white figurehead above me. Except literally this time. Ha! I try and laugh but the walls are too black and the dot is too white.
I stare at it some more.
It burns my eyes.
I hate letters. I hate men. I am never trusting another one of those filthy pigs again.
That’s it. I know what door reminded me of now – why it made me want to turn back. It looked like a mouse hole. Whoever wrote that letter thinks I’m some sort of rat.
Which means I just followed the bait right into the trap.
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ReplyDeleteLondon, 1814
ReplyDeleteA ball in honor Lady Jersey
Another ball. How droll, thought Jillian. Eight seasons of this, yet everything was still the same. Debutantes ringed the dance floor, giggling with their shrill, squeaky voices that never ceased to get on her nerves. The wallflowers sat near the octogenarians near the terrace doors, open to relieve the melting heat of the ballroom. And just like every other ball, her spot next to Miss Olivia Parker sat vacant greeting her as none of the gentlemen in the room were brave enough to do. Jillian looked around, hoping for just the slightest hint of scandal. Anything to keep her entertained for the next few hours. She saw Lady Sefton trying to put distance between her youngest daughter and the Duke of Newbury, this season’s most licentious rake. Laughing at the futility of her efforts, Jillian walked toward Miss Parker smiling in greeting and sighing when she noticed the terror of the ton, Lady Whistledown standing guard not 10 feet away.
“There you are, my dear. I hope you don’t think you can run away without granting me a dance.”
At the sound of his voice she froze. Her heart stopped and then began to race, bringing color to her cheeks. The memories rushed to the forefront of her mind. His smile. His laugh. The feeling of his arms holding her close.
Slowly she turned to face him, taking in his expensive evening attire and debonair aura. “But you’re supposed to be dead!”
Because eight seasons was simply not enough. I could not bear the thought of having to attend yet another uneventful debutante ball. I cringe at the sound of debutantes giggling with their shrill, squeaky voices on the dance floor. I recognize the same shy souls leaning up against the wall, hidden in the back corner of the ballroom. There was Jillian Parker too, across the room with not a single boy to dance with her. I was always on the lookout for some, any, turn of events to keep me entertained for the countless hours I had spend in the ballroom. I loved to watch Lady Sefton trying to put distance between her youngest daughter and her newest crush, the Duke of Newbury. When I realized how pathetic I was to even enjoy such a scene, I decided walk over to Miss Parker and try to at least make something of the night. Just as I was walking over, I had heard it. I had heard a voice that I had not heard in a while.
Delete"There you are, my dear. I hope you don't think you can run away without granting me a dance."
My heart had nearly stopped. I could feel my cheeks turning rosy red. The memories were all replaying in my mind. As his arms wrapped around mine, I slowly began to ease up to him. Still frozen from shock, I admired how dashing he looked. I was in a total daze and then I remembered.
"But you're supposed to be dead!"
By noon the fair was in full swing. The air that had smelled of fresh grass earlier that morning now reeked of hot dogs and burnt rubber, plastic and wood, oil and fried things. Teenagers wandered in groups of two or four or six—never in odd numbers, lest someone be left out—sharing bags of kettle corn and cotton candy. Children darted in and out between their legs, freed from the jurisdiction of harried-looking parents who stood under the canvases, squinting out at the afternoon sun from behind tilted visors.
ReplyDeleteAt the face painting booth Chia carefully dipped her brush into a palette of pinks and blues. A slim young thing, dark and only a few heads taller than the beaming six year old she was working on, she painted unsmilingly, in smooth and graceful strokes. Beneath her the grass was splattered in paint—the result of children running too close—so that she cast a shadow of colors. Visitors eating lunch or halting their activities on account of the day’s heat stopped by to watch her, drawn by both the shade under the stall and the appearance of unusual focus and talent ascribed to young artists. When Chia was done the mother standing on the side led her daughter away, nodding and making various affirmative noises at the onslaught of enthusiastic chatter, thinking, “What an unpleasant girl.”
By noon the fair was in full swing. The smell of fresh grass that wafted through my nostrils earlier that morning now reeked of hot dogs and burnt rubber, plastic and wood, oil and fried things. I watched teenagers wander past my booth in groups of two or four or six - never in odd numbers, lest someone be left out - sharing bags of kettle corn and cotton candy. Childredn darted in and out between their legs, freed from the jurisdiction of harried-looing parents who stood under the canvases, squinting out at the afternoon sun from behind titlted visors.
DeleteI carefully dipped my brush into a palette of pinks and blues at the face painting booth. Unsmilingly, I painted the face of the child in front of me with smooth and graceful strokes. Even at six years old, she was just a few heads shorter than me. Beneath her the grass was splattered in paint - the result of uncouth children running too close to my stand. Visitors eating lunch or halting their activities on account of the day's heat would stand behind me to watch me paint. Whether it was to seek shelter from the noon day sun or admire my artistry I do not know. I found such behavior bothersome, yet I never let it detract from my focus and work. When I was done, the girl's mother led her daughter away, nodding and making various affirmative noises amidst the onslaught of enthusiastic chatter. I was sure she was judging me, thinking to herself: "What an unpleasant girl."
She pushed her way through the crowd, keeping her head down and guarding her bundle with a particular urgency. The marketplace was unusually busy at this hour, which presented a slight, yet manageable complication.
ReplyDelete“Any trinkets for you, lady?” A merchant stepped in front of her, holding forth a selection of bright baubles.
“Ladies do not wear false stones,” she scanned the shiny jewelry. She was about to step away when a tussle to her right caused her to bump into the merchant, spilling his wares all over the market floor.
“Thief, boy!” a nearby fruit vendor screamed at a dark-haired lad sprinting away from the scene. His cries were immediately joined by those of the jewelry merchant, furious at his misfortune and scrambling to gather his goods.
Seizing the distraction, she ducked under a nearby stall to escape. That merchant will have fewer chances to deceive customers, she thought, glancing back at the quick hands that snatched at scattered stones.
She felt a slight remorse, but it was easy to ignore. After all, her task was much greater than lost trinkets and a few pieces of stolen fruit. She reached for the bundle at her waist – but it was gone.
I shoved my way through the busy crowd in the marketplace, trying to get through quickly but without jostling the bundle at my waist. It’s a popular market, which means that people from every walk of life are wandering through during the day, from rich merchant ladies to penniless street boys looking to cut your purse. A jewelry merchant blocked my way, holding a tray of clearly fake, shiny jewelry. I looked at it for a second to see if anything valuable had miraculously made it onto the tray when a push from behind knocked me into the tray. Some fight had broken out behind me between a fruit vender and an alleged thief. I saw the merchant distracted by the fight, and I took my chance to escape under a nearby stall. I was just catching my breath when I realized that the belt around my waist was quite a bit lighter -- my bundle was gone.
DeleteIt just so happened to be that every teenage girl in Judy Miller's small town had the same exact hair color and style. While Judy had never liked her long, wavy locks, she was forced into having them anyway. She knew that her best friends could not stand their hair either, but if anyone in their town admitted to this, they would immediately be hated and shunned. It all changed one morning as Judy was doing her daily routine of looking at herself in the mirror and pulling her hair back as a way to imagine that she had cut it all off. This was her favorite part of her day. She loved how she looked without her uniform hair and always wished that one day she would no longer have it. That morning something inside of her had sparked her to do just that. She had had enough. Judy went to her top dresser door, grabbed her styling scissors, and immediately, without thinking twice, began to snip all of her hair off. She snipped and chopped for minutes until finally, she had cut her hair so short that it could no longer be wavy. Judy could not wait to get to school that morning and show her town that she could do what she wanted, when she wanted, and how she wanted.
ReplyDeleteJudy Miler had started a movement. Her school reacted fairly well and before she knew it, everyone around her now had short, sleek hair.
Looking in the mirror, I couldn’t help but resent what I saw. I was just like everyone else. We all had the same color. The same curl. Ugh! Why? None of us could stand it anyway! Why do we do this to ourselves!? Just like every morning, I pushed and pulled my hair this way and that. In these moments I had a pixie cut, an A-line, or a flirtatious crop. But today was special. Today I tried the bob. In that moment all my frustration, resentment and self-disgust burst forth from my emotional volcano that had long laid dormant. These powerful emotions grabbed my art scissors and began to hack away at my prison. With each inch I lost I felt free, as if stepping out into a world of wonder for the first time. I was different! I could be me!
DeleteThis elation fed my confidence for days until I began to look around. My world was reverting back to what it was. Julianne, Maria, my mother, even the librarian now sported my haircut. Mine! My freedom was being revoked more day after day until the bars closed once more and everyone had short, sleek hair.
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ReplyDeleteAfter the accident, Stephen hated Friday nights. The other kids reveled in their temporary weekend freedom, cruising around town, music blasting, heading to the movies or searching for house parties. Stephen, tall and athletic and jock-like, could have, should have been there with the rest of them, playing Call of Duty until 2 in the morning or drinking cheap beer at Gordon’s house, whose parents were always away “skiing” for the weekend. But ever since that February night, he didn’t belong. For the first week, the sight of his classmates cavorting around had filled him with a churning, nauseating rage that clenched his fists and rose to his head and made his ears hot with fury. The unexplainable anger that frightened him, and he had deleted his Facebook to spare himself from it. After that, there was nothing to do but think. Alone, his mind turned to dark thoughts.
ReplyDeleteWhen I'm alone things go dark.
DeleteI don't mean them to, but that's the thing about being alone--most of what happens there is an accident, partly because most of what got you there in the first place was an accident, too.
Like the accident, for instance. The accident is the reason I hate Friday nights now. It shifted me somehow, as though before the accident I was standing on one street corner and now after the accident I'm on the other side of the street, but looking out a window one floor up. Removed.
Things seem noisier up here because they don't belong up here. Music and parties and drinking don't entice, they infuriate. They enrage. They enrage me. I hate them from up here. And I don't understand why.
I deleted my Facebook a few days ago. It was getting noisy, too. And now I just sit up here alone on the wrong corner on the wrong floor feeling wrong, and it's getting darker.
Shelby glanced over at Anna sitting across the room from her as she released a breath of air that held every bit of annoyance she had towards Anna. Shelby watched as Anna strategically placed her pencils on one side of the desk and her pens on the other with her robotic-like movements. As if an explosion would occur the moment the eraser touched the pen. Anna had on a freshly pressed collard white shirt, with her glasses on her right pocket. If she really needed the glasses why wasn’t it on her face? It was probably added decoration to complete her prissy look. Anna wrote the date on the upper right hand corner, and every perfect stroke of the pen made Shelby cringe. Of course, Ben Raiger sat right next to Anna and they exchanged a shy smile towards one another. Shelby wanted to look away, everything in her mind said to look away, but her damn muscles wouldn’t listen. She saw Anna glimpse over and caught Shelby in her dazed out stare towards her, so naturally Shelby quickly looked away. As if the quick glance away tactic ever solves anything; it was now pretty clear to Shelby that Anna probably thought she was a creepy staring weirdo. Shelby forcibly made herself avert her eyes from the left area of the room, and focused on the front of the classroom for the remainder of the hour.
ReplyDeleteI hate taking standardized tests. Who even standardized intelligence in the first place? I mean, does being good at math make you good with people? Does knowing a bunch of words mean you know when to keep your mouth shut? The thing I hate the most about standardized tests, though, is taking them with people who have the kind of intelligence they’re looking for. Who they are, I don’t know. But I think they should also test for arrogance, because everyone knows arrogance detracts from a person’s positive qualities. Take Anna for instance. That girl is smart. She’s always answering the question before the teacher even finishes asking. But nobody cares how smart she is, not even Mrs. Hanson, because the girl wears it around like a queen wearing her crown at the Salvation Army. I mean, look at her collared shirt with the glasses hanging off the pocket. These days, people that wear glasses do so only to give the appearance of being smart. And she’s not even technically wearing them! That makes her hypocritical and arrogant. Irritated enough by Anna, I look to me left and find that Ben has taken the seat just next to me. I wish he hadn’t caught me staring, but I’m also kind of glad he did. Ben is smart, but Ben isn’t arrogant. I wonder what Ben thinks about other kinds of smart? Does he look at me and see dumb or would he be able to see that when it comes to knowing people—that’s a test I could ace.
DeleteRobert Gooday often found himself in the position of being unintentionally polite. When he walked into buildings, he would more often than not end up holding the door open for an exiting mob. When he had conversations on his bluetooth while walking through crowded streets, more than one stranger would smile at him when he said "Hello."
ReplyDeleteThen there was the issue of his name. Making business calls was particularly troublesome. In one particular instance, he introduced himself with the sentence, "Hello, Mr. Gooday here," but the voice on the other line cut him off a word short, saying, "I'm actually a Mrs., but good day to you too!"
However, the pinnacle of his unintentional good will occurred when, while walking down 5th Avenue, an infant literally fell into his arms.
"My God!" the infant's mother called from the open window above him, "Sir, you are a hero - a saint!" Mr. Gooday's eyes flickered quickly from the baby in his arms to the sidewalk, as if calculating how much damage could possible occur from a mere 3 foot drop.
I shook my head as I wondered how I, Robert Gooday, was often considered polite without intending to be so. When I walk into buildings, I hold the door open for the swarm of people. When I talk on my Bluetooth while walking through crowded streets, strangers, more likely than not, smile at me when I say “Hello.”
DeleteAnd of course my name was problematic, especially when I was making business calls. One time, I introduced myself with the sentence, “Hello, Mr. Gooday here,” but the voice on the other line cut him off a word short, saying, “I’m actually a Mrs., but good day to you too!”
The pinnacle of my unintentional good occurred when I was walking down 5th Avenue and an infant literally fell into his arms. “My God!" the infant's mother called from the open window above him, "Sir, you are a hero - a saint!" My eyes flickered quickly from the baby in my arms to the sidewalk, internally groaning as I calculated how much damage could possible occur from a mere 3 foot drop.
She hasn’t moved from her chair since lunch. She sits at the chair, her back hunched and covered in a baggy sweater that droops down over the edges of the seat, as she methodically stuffs envelopes. She assembles each envelope in the exact same order. First, she picks up three sheets of paper: donor letter, program flyer, and giving pitch. Then she lines them up and folds them all into careful thirds by pressing down the creases with clean, if unpolished, nails. She places a small envelope on top and tucks all four items into the larger envelope. She licks the envelope, often leaving traces of lipstick on the flap, before sealing it shut. She’s fallen into a rhythm, every minute movement having been repeated dozens of times since lunch. Pieces of dirty-blonde hair have fallen out of her ponytail and into her face, but she makes no move to adjust them. Nothing breaks her rhythm; she just keeps on stuffing.
ReplyDeleteI haven’t moved since lunch. The rigid chair I’m sitting on is giving me an ache; my back is stiff, and my neck is sore. But my responsibility lies before me: an endless stack of letters and envelopes to pack within the hour.
DeleteAfter three robotic days of the same task, my method has become instinct. I first pick up three sheets of paper, in the following order: the donor letter, the program flyer, and the giving pitch. Expertly lining them up, I fold them into careful thirds, pressing down the creases with a practiced gesture. I then add a small envelope to the flyers, and place everything into a larger envelope.
My tongue is nearly dry from sealing countless envelopes, but I methodically lick the flap and seal it shut. I notice a smudge of pink grazing the envelope’s edges. I contemplate, for a moment, resealing with a new envelope after my efforts to wipe away the lipstick are fruitless, but those thoughts vanish with a glance at the heap of flyers before me.
When he saw the thin envelope on the ground by the letter slot, his first impulse was to squirrel it away in his mother's bulging file cabinets and pretend as though it had never come. He almost didn't see it, tucked underneath a book of coupons so that the return address was barely visible. Maybe his parents hadn't realized it was here. Or maybe they were waiting for him to set the tone of the conversation, once he'd opened it.
ReplyDeleteHe didn't want to open it. He knew what it said. It said, "Thank you for your interest." He could practically smell the cloying rejection.
Bending down, he shook aside the coupon book and picked up the thin envelope. It was unbearable, feeling how flimsy it was, how tearing it would change nothing. He ripped open the envelope so they'd have to read it, and then he tossed it back on the mail pile.
Let them set the tone.
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Delete
DeleteEveryone knows the feeling you get right before the first hill of a rollercoaster. That terrifying sense of apprehension, made worse by the slow, rickety climb, that precedes the sickening lurch in your stomach as you drop, spiraling helplessly. I’d been feeling that all week, waiting for that inevitable moment when I would tear open the thin envelope and read “Thank you for your interest” and my world would spin out of control like the rollercoaster, only it wouldn’t be fun and I couldn’t just get off at the end of it.
The postman dropped it through the slot on Thursday. At first I wanted to throw it away, or rip it down the middle, as if either could get rid of the problem. Though I couldn’t read it through the crisp, off-white paper, I knew with certainty that it was a rejection. But strangely my panic had subsided, leaving me with nothing but a dull, throbbing headache. I tore open the top of the envelope and placed it back on the pile. Mom and Dad would see it when they got home and read it themselves—after all, it was really their dream that was about to be destroyed, not mine.
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ReplyDelete3rd Person Limited:
ReplyDeleteBlood dripped from the side of his swollen mouth as Lt. Red staggered to his feet, head drooped, knees bent and quaking. He had kept mentally reiterating to stand himself up. He became elated conquering gravity, though this would prove a fleeting emotion. Just as he was starting to lift his head, the fist came soaring downward where it connected with his brow and the bridge of his nose with a fleshy popping sound. In an instant, Lt. Red lay face down as his adversary stood over his now limp body laying on the sidewalk. Blood from the lieutenant's fatal wound dripped from between the adversary's fingers where it pooled in between cracks and slowly siphoned onto the asphalt. Their shadow cast a melancholic darkness on the lieutenant and the gray, crimsoned pavement.
1st person:
...This son of a bitch!... (My mind kept going in and out of temporary unconsciousness) They're annoying, right, Dad?... (I could not find my balance and they were preparing for another strike.) Goddammit, get up, get up, get up! GET UP! (A sudden sense of urgency rushed to the forefront of my mind as I remembered they put a minimal amount of effort into their previous punch and had left me nearly unconscious. I realized they may actually kill me with enough force behind the strike, and they were fast approaching.) I CAN DO IT! JESUS, JUST LET ME STAND! YES! YE-
Justin slammed the door of his antiquated 1982 Toyota Camry. She better be home this time he thought. Stomping loudly as he walked up his grandmother's drive, he cursed under his breath. He insisted to his mother that it was not fair that he was the grandson called on, at least thirty six times a day for no matter at all. Ever since grandpapa moved out and into an old person's home, Justin's grandmother was insensible, hysterical and pathetic. Sometimes he was to help her turn on hot water in the shower. At othertimes it was to mow her lawn only to find out upon arrival she did not want you there because she was napping. How Justin loathed the horn ringtone that he had customized to his grandmother's phone number. It was meant to warn him that it was her again.
ReplyDeleteI slammed the door of my Camry, heat rising in the back of my neck. "She better be fucking home this time," I muttered as I walked up the drive. My jaw hurt from grinding my teeth so hard. Why was I always the one Grandmama wanted for every fucking thing, forty fucking times a day? Why was I the fucking errand boy? She'd been miserable since Grandpapa moved out, but this was fucking ridiculous. Everyone in my family looked at me like "oh, that sucks" whenever my phone rang with that horrible horn ringtone, which pissed me off even more--they were the ones pushing this onto me in the first place.
DeleteIf she actually needed me everytime she called that would be one thing, but sometimes I'd run over as fast as I could from the other side of town and she'd be napping, completely forgetting that she called me in the first place. It was driving me crazy. I just knew I was going to snap any second now.
The sun is still rising, drawing back the blanket of dew in a hazy shimmer. He breathes deeply: rubber, grass, dirt, the smells created by starts and finishes. One year ago, his name flashed in red on a screen. Next to his name read the fastest time a man has traveled. His family listened to his triumph on the radio, unable to see his smile. But he was smiling for them. Upon his return home, an entire country celebrated with him. The hairs on his arms rise as he recalls that night. Small beads of sweat begin to form at the top of his brow. He reminds himself to breathe. Slowly, he moves across the track, rolling towards the finish where he stops. Gripping the metal wheels that now confine him, he begins to cry. For the first time since the accident, he weeps for what has finished.
ReplyDeleteI honestly don't know what possessed me to race again. Was it the thrill, the praise, or something I am trying to prove to myself? A year ago, I was a cocky young man who prided himself on the record-breaking times that that would appear on the screen. Today, I am a man who is scared and is a rookie in the very game people claimed I "revolutionized." The only thing that anchored me down, and I knew hadn't changed was the fact that I was trying to make my family proud. I did that then, and I am determined to do this now, because nothing is as fulfilling as seeing the smiles on their faces. I continued along the track, strategically pacing myself, and preparing myself for the final laps. I took a giant breath, as if the very act of exhaling would release all of the negative thoughts and energy. It only took a few seconds, and just like that I was done. I saw the crowd in an uproar, but in my mind everything was slow and silent. It finally hit me that I was no longer "sick" because I overcame the accident that people thought would be the end of my career. I felt the tears roll down my cheeks and I smiled as I looked over at my wife and kids who were also wearing large smiles, for they had faith in me all along.
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