Writing assignments: dialogue

The final assignment involved the characters previously created. The task was simple: to write a dialogue between the two.

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Saturdays were slow around midday, and it was usually then that Samuel would stroll into the cafe and order iced tea or hot chocolate, depending on the weather. The garage where he worked wasn’t officially open during the weekend, but he came in to tinker nonetheless. Around noon he liked to take a walk to the cafe where Lance worked. That day he was in an unusually bad mood due to a bar scuffle gone sour the previous night.

Writing assignments: character creation

The one-but-last task I had to complete for the creative writing course last semester involved character creation. Using a provided "character checklist" we were to create two different characters and write a bit of an internal monologue for them, each with an internal conflict. I'm not quite proud of my fulfillment of the last part of the task; there are internal conflicts in these characters if you squint the right way... Well, I tried, didn't I?

Writing assignments: point of view

This task was about describing a single scene from three different perspectives: a detached, omniscient narration with no insight into the characters' thoughts, a third-person narrative and a first-person narrative.


Fly-on-the-wall perspective:
The room was stuffy, but no one dared open a window. The woman tried it once, and she was immediately scolded for that by her husband, so she closed it, apologised in a flat voice, and sat back in her armchair to return to her embroidery. The man was jittery. He’d spent all morning trying to write the next chapter of his novel, but all he did was start typing, pause for a long moment, type some more, then tear out the unfortunate piece of paper and crumple it, murmuring profanities under his breath. He never noticed the looks of disapproval his wife would direct at him with each cycle of this fruitless labour, too absorbed in what he had told her was his “creative process”. After several hours, he asked the woman to silence the children playing outside, because their joyful cries distracted him.

Writing assignments: setting 2 (with The Swimmer by John Cheever)

This task was to match the atmosphere of a setting with a pre-assigned work, which was The Swimmer by John Cheever, which you can read here. We were to pick any moment of the story and invent a new pool that would match the ones before and after it. I added a pool at the very end of the story.
I encourage you to read the original short story first.


(...)
He shouted, pounded on the doors, tried to force it with his shoulder, and then, looking at the windows, saw that the place was empty.
He stood on his driveway for a while that seemed to pass beside him, and he felt detached from it. Looking at the house he’d known for years and seeing it so dilapidated weighed down on his heart and he felt his mind sink with it. He was still standing in his trunks, barefoot on the fine gravel, with wet leaves stuck to his feet and dirt reaching up to his knees. In that moment, he imagined the whole scene: a pitiful, frail man, ridiculously underdressed, stuck on the doorstep of his house that slowly slipped into ruin the same way as him. It was such a far cry from what he’d imagined as he set out on his voyage that it almost pained him physically. A cold gust of wind made him shiver violently.
Not knowing what to do with himself, he went around the house into the garden at the back. He wasn’t surprised to see it overgrown and empty, but the sight was so alien that it startled him anyway. The trees were bare and the grass dark, already withered. It got tangled in his toes as he dragged his feet wearily, tugging painfully and cutting the skin when pulled too hard. He tripped and fell, his head narrowly missing the cracking concrete of the pool’s edge. He looked up and would laugh, if he had the strength - there was water in the pool, murky and covered in dead leaves. He could conclude his expedition and it exhilarated him enough to shake off a bit of the fatigue in his limbs. Not thinking much more about what he was doing, he dragged himself forward and slipped into the frigid water.
When it closed above his head and the sounds of wind and distant traffic disappeared, he felt tranquil. He sluggishly paddled forward, not really hoping to reach the other end. He only wanted the water from his own pool to wash away the dirt that accumulated on his skin throughout his journey, like it would also clear all the bad news about himself that he heard. Maybe, if he got to the far edge, he would emerge and everything would return to normal.

Writing assignments: setting

The task was to create two environments that should be described in a way that presents them as unfamiliar. Out of the options available, I chose a rainforest and a room filled with old furniture.


“This was never supposed to happen,” wailed Thomas quietly. His dream vacation in Indonesia took a sharp turn to the south when the guided field trip was dispersed by a rampant elephant. He panicked and ran and blacked out at some point. Now the sun was setting and he didn’t know where he was, other than in a bloody wild rainforest.

Do I wanna know?

  Arctic Monkeys joined the elite set of artists whose songs I can listen to on loop for weeks and never tire of, putting Do I Wanna Know alongside select tracks of Woodkid and Florence+the Machine. That's a feat, guys, most songs I get sick of within a fortnight. Embedded for your listening pleasure.
  And as most tunes I love, this one carries a story, so my mind put my favourite norse bros in and ran with it. Once, ZenWriter fucked up the saving process and I was certain the 1500+ words I wrote were lost in the land of digital oblivion for ever, but some time later I opened the supposedly empty file again and thanked the forces that rule the universe, for lo and behold, the text was back. I keep adding a paragraph or two when I'm half awake in the evenings every now and then, but the progress is slow and hard to make. Here's an exclusive sneak peek at what I've got so far.

Rating: teen/will go up, word count: ~2k, pairing: Thor/Loki (Marvel Cinematic Universe). No beta, little proofreading, therefore might be rough around the edges and contain typos.

Life is easier where the walls are red

   Something I concocted when half asleep two nights ago, fantasizing about meeting Woodkid, thus the title, from his Brooklyn - listen below. Can be read as rps with Yoann Lemoine as the male or as a standalone piece of complete and utter bullshit fiction.
   I'm actually deeply dissatisfied with this piece, the style and language a far cry from what I'd like it to be, but I don't dislike it enough to trash it and forget I ever offended my hard drive with this document. Here's to hoping that if few years' time I'll be able to get back to it and write it properly, with language actually reflecting the fragile, contemplative atmosphere of the scene I originally imagined. Also, I don't know shit about Brooklyn other than what I gathered from the aforementioned song, Frances Ha and all those hipster!AU fanfics about Marvel's characters. //le shrug
   word count: ~2600

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   Whether it was still night or the wee hours of day already, he was too tired and just tipsy enough not to care; huddled into his expensive wool coat under the huge black umbrella, he walked hastily down the oddly desolate Brooklyn streets, his gaze cast firmly to the sidewalk under his feet and the rim of his hat blocking the view of anything else. Water slowly soaked through his sneakers, cool spots against his toes urging him to walk more quickly to the cool loneliness of his flat several blocks away. He ought to catch some sleep before setting to work; he's been up for longer than he cares to count, running errands in the morning, working through the day on the latest commission and then letting himself be invited to an impromptu party that extended far longer than anyone anticipated; well past the hour the nightlife usually ebbed, last of the clubgoers drunkenly giving up on trying to find company for the night. The weather reflected his mood, the heavy rain beating steady rhythm against the ground for long enough that it became inconsequential white noise, too familiar and indifferently persistent to be inspiring, though he always found rain to be refreshing; his creativity drying up, losing vitality in long stretches of sunny days. Perhaps he was just tired, having been up for twenty hours, but the whole last month felt devoid of inspiration.

Revelation in the Light of Day

Aaand the last of the chapters I have. From now on, this AU is on a kind of hiatus because even though I know where I'm going with it (more or less), I can't seem to get down to writing; not with the six or so things I have started.
Word count: ~2400
previous chapter: [x]
(Yes, title ripped from Florence+the Machine because I love them to bits, especially after the concert they gave last Saturday that I had the gargantuan luck of seeing.♥)

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   Morning comes all too early, sharp rays of sun cutting through the cool air of the flat. Magnus blinks, slowly straightening his aching neck, vertebrae popping into place and stiff muscles stretching painfully. He shivers, feeling cold in his sleepwear – a wife beater and shorts – save for the place where Chris’ head rests in his lap. His hand is still twined in the blonde hair, dirty and tangled around his fingers.

   An annoyed huff makes him snap his head up to Margaret standing there in front of them with arms crossed and an expression of worry mixed with exasperation on her tired face. Magnus’ heart jumps.

Taste of Iron

Continuation of The Coffee was Almond Flavoured. Here comes the dark stuff. And the spn!AU I promised. whoever doesn't like their characters bleeding and in pain every now and then is obvs too good a person to be a writer right? right
word count: ~2,100

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   Over the past few months, Magnus has grown used to Chris’ more-or-less regular disappearances. Although he insists, the blonde refuses to find a proper work, claiming to be content to survive on whatever he gains from the odd jobs he does around the city. It’s not that Magnus can’t afford supporting both of them, but bored Chris grows restless, and restless Chris is quite a bother, moping around and trying to find anything to do until Magnus kicks him out of the apartment to fiddle with his ancient bus (‘Honestly Chris, this thing rides on good will and my prayers, get yourself a proper car.’).

   What these odd jobs involve, no one knows, but sometimes Chris comes back bruised or otherwise injured, with clothes dirty and/or torn, which puts a bit of a weight on the girls’ water bill as they picked up the custom of washing his working clothes immediately after he returns home. His trips usually don’t take more than four days, depending on how far he goes and what he is asked to do. Never, however, has he been gone for nearly two weeks in a row without letting them know what takes him so long, or making no contact at all. In such turn of events, Friday afternoon sees Blair and Margaret setting off to find the wayward oaf. If it weren’t for the urgent investigation Magnus is involved in, he would go with them. In the end, he is left with the keys to their apartment and a promise that they will come back by Sunday evening with either Chris or word of him.

The Coffee was Almond Flavoured

To nie jest żadne sensowne AU, bo wplotłam dwie OC (które są bezwstydnym wklejaniem siebie w akcję, marysuizm poziom 150), postać z serialu i prawdziwą osobę w świat zapożyczony z jeszcze innego serialu. Tak więc mamy Wallanderowego Magnusa Martinssona, Chrisa Hemswortha w (niewyjawionym jeszcze) świecie z Supernatural.
  Napisałam ten tekst jakieś półtora roku temu, bo tak mnie naszło. Mniej więcej w tym samym czasie moja anglistka powiedziała nam o konkursie Day by Day szkoły językowej Glossa, polegającym na napisaniu fragmentu z pamiętnika po angielsku, więc stwierdziłam - nada się; powykrawałam najbardziej slashowe kawałki (głównie dlatego, że organizator narzucił limit długości 9000 znaków, który zdrowo przekroczyłam w oryginalnej wersji - chętnie bym zostawiła większe elementy homoromansu), zmieniłam kilka imion i wysłałam. Konsekwencją była pierwsza nagroda, co tylko dowodzi, że albo w konkursie uczestniczyli sami grafomani, albo jury miało kiepski gust.