Discussions

They were fighting again, what a surprise. The low hissing and agitated tones were what woke me. I looked over at my clock; 1:30 a.m. I rose up out of bed, straining my ears; muffled insults and emphasized swear words were all I could make out. I walked over to my door and hunkered down to the floor, putting my ear to the gap between the door and the carpet to get a better listen. Suddenly my Dad’s voice rang out.

“I’m done!” Then came a big boom; probably a chair, or an object equal in size being thrown into a wall. Curiosity crept over me, I had to explore the issue further. I knew from practice how to escape my room without making a sound. I would start with the door first, turning the knob in thirty degree increments, and quickly jerking the door open so the hinges wouldn’t screech. From there I had to step strategically, avoiding the spots in the floor that creaked. Finally, when I arrived at our staircase, I knew to count all the way down to the fifth to last step, where I would sit to listen. I was perfectly concealed by the corner if you were looking from the foyer, which was where they went to have “discussions.” Now that I was there, I could hear everything, but still nothing made sense. How could anyone call this a discussion? Mama and I had discussions, but those were usually when I had a question about something that made her nervous, or if I was getting too excited in the grocery store, and those discussions never sounded anything like this. There was so much anger in the air; I could feel the disdain they felt for each other, and I couldn’t even see them. They weren’t even yelling about anything that mattered, it was just name-calling now. Though I hated listening to it, I knew I had to be there to listen, to make sure that both of them would still be there in the morning.  There were too many occasions of mom telling me to go get my poo-bear backpack and pack up my favorite toys because we were taking another trip to Grandma’s house which was never any fun. It always smelled like coffee and old carpet, and they didn’t allow me to watch any of the cartoons I liked. I just didn’t understand, I wanted to, but when Mom would try to explain it to me, it just never made sense.

“Mom’s and Dad’s fight sweetie, it's perfectly normal,” she would always say. That was what confused me the most.  You weren't supposed to name-call or yell in school, and that was a rule made for strangers, so why was it okay to do to someone you loved? 

As I sat there on the step hidden by the wall and the shadows, I mulled all this over. I thought seriously about coming out from my hiding spot, and sharing my newly found six-year old wisdom, but knew it was no use. Hours of more controlled yelling passed, and my eyes grew heavier, I fought to keep them open, to stay awake and listen. Even though neither of them knew I was there, I figured if I gave up and left, they would too...so I stayed. Eventually the sound of their voices started to fade, and the lighting grew dimmer until I was completely immersed in black silence. 

Bright light seemed to try to invade the tiny space between my eyelids; I slowly opened them to find myself tucked into bed and the morning sun shining through my curtains. I jumped up and instantly ran to my window; both cars were still in the drive. A slight smile crept over my face with the satisfying knowledge that I had kept them home, at least for one more night. 

Narrative

There are several components in developing a well-written narrative, a couple of which are: Convincing dialogue, in depth descriptions of people and places, characterization and focusing specifically on the event at hand.
 Convincing dialogue: When writing a narrative the interactions with anyone that is in your story are very crucial in telling the reader about you and the other character. Dialogue should never be too formal, (unless that's how the person you that is talking in your story really talks like that) it should have slang and accent's that portray the makings of how a person really talks.
 Descriptions: Descriptions should never be too generic. When telling a story it's important to describe how you perceive the world around you and to let your reader into that world by giving them details. Never just say something outright, but never be too convoluted, it's important to keep balance.
Characterization: Characters are a very essential part to a story, it is important give each character their own quirks that make them come to life. Things like mannerisms, speech slurs, slang, accents, funny walks; any human-like qualities that make your characters seem unique to themselves.
Focus on Event: Focusing on the event at hand is always important to keep in mind, switching between other memories whilst being in one can greatly confuse a reader, and not make chronological sense.

 List of my Endeavors:

• Moving
• Injuries
• Gymnastics
• grandparents house
• Traveling
• Adventures with Cousins

Polished Piece #2

“What’s wrong with you?!” Anna shouted. “You’ve been acting like a maniac this past week, and don’t deny it! You’re never home anymore and when you are, you’re either locked up in that dungeon you call a bedroom, or you’re passed out. And I haven’t actually seen you eat anything in weeks!”

Olivia just stared at her feet; she was trying her hardest to look as though she was ashamed or sad, or didn’t want to talk about it, maybe then her sister would dismiss this pointless and dramatic lecture.

“Answer me!” Anna screamed, now inches away from Olivia’s face.

Anna began shaking Olivia violently as if to wake her up from whatever spell she was under. Finally when Anna stopped, Olivia looked up at her sister:

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m just tired lately. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have homework to attend to.” She then walked away as if nothing had happened. Anna hated that about her sister; she was so disconnected, she could care less about any situation. You could be holding her by her hair over a cliff and she wouldn’t show the faintest sign of emotion. Anytime Anna ever wanted any sort of explanation from her sister, she practically had to fish around in Olivia’s head and yank it out herself.

Anna had been studying Olivia’s behavior for weeks now. She would constantly offer to make dinner and Olivia would politely decline and explain she had already eaten. Anna also bought loads of groceries, even sweets, anything to lure in Olivia’s attention to the kitchen, but every time she would go to check, nothing had been touched, with the exception of what Anna had eaten herself.

Anna watched day by day as her sister began to sink into herself more and more; her hair growing thinner, her cheekbones bulging out of her small-framed face and sunken in eyes. The worst was her spine, it looked as though some sort of monster had settled under her skin and was trying it’s hardest to break out. Eventually, Anna thought Olivia was going to disappear.

            Though Olivia had insisted she was fine, Anna knew better, something had to have been going on. Anna followed after her sister:

 “Olivia, please just let me know if you’re okay, or if you’re in any trouble? You don’t have to say what, just…do you need help?”

“Help?” Olivia spat the word back to her sister as if it had been an insult. “I don’t need anyone’s help, what makes you think I need help? I’m perfect! Look at me!” Olivia threw her arms into Anna’s face, as if to display how slender she had become.

“Exactly! Look at yourself; you’ve lost so much weight! You’re spine practically wears you! You think that’s perfection?”

            Olivia began turning red, the rise and fall of her sunken in chest began to speed up, her hands were shaking and tears began to well up in the corners of her eyes: “I’m beautiful now,” she whispered. “And I’ll do whatever it takes to stay this way.”

           

Round 7 Review

Ocean Child:  http://www.npr.org/2011/10/23/141622174/ocean-child

In the story "Ocean Child," the author jumps right into the action of the story. The short story is about a young mother with a child that has down syndrome and is stuck with a family that doesn't support her trying to help the baby as much as she can. They believe that since the little girl has down syndrome, she is essentially worthless. The mother then takes her baby to the beach in attempt to follow the directions of the baby books she read; which tell her to treat the child normally and to do things with her that will stimulate her brain. The mother figures that no place could be more stimulating than the beach. The author is very effective in getting across that the family doesn't support the baby, and you almost get the feel that they would rather her not have had it at all. I liked the ending especially, when she finally takes her baby to the beach. The ending line was the one that caught my attention most, it was creative, abstract and described in a way that I could picture what was going on perfectly: "The horizon stretched out like a new beginning exchanged for an ending I never asked for. I whispered in Dooriya's ear, Ocean child, and with tourists lining up below, offered her up to the air she came from." Though this was a short story, it was one that communicated a very powerful message and grabbed the reader's attention from the get-go.

Polished Piece.

Every morning just before the sun lit up the sky, the old man would come out of his apartment building, make his way over to the little diner across the street, grab the mornings paper and sit on the bench on the corner to watch the sun come up. He never had someone with him, but enjoyed talking to any stranger that passed, offering the time, or directions, or simply good conversation. He never talked about himself, though you could tell he had quite a story behind his faded blue eyes and deep laugh lines. His hands were scarred and rough, he favored his left leg when he walked and his back was sort of hunched; which suggested a life full of hard labor. He was sweet, and appreciated every day to it’s fullest, though his body seemed to have been failing him; nothing ever broke his bright smile.  He was always interested in what others had to say, and would sit and listen to anyone that had a tale to tell. Though many talked to him, no one knew his name and the very few that paid enough attention to recognize him, referred to him as “the old man on the bench,” which hardly seemed to do such a humble man justice.

Show don't tell.

Shorty, ankle-biter, gnome, midget, hobbit, any short joke you can conjure up I assure you I've heard already. However, no other name-caller sticks out like my second-grade nemesis; Trent. 

     One time in particular that will be burned in my brain forever is when my adversary decided to chase me all over the playground saying he was going to squash me! Before I knew it I had been shoved in front of a kid on a swing with no time to react and sure enough the kid kicked me over onto the ground and I could barely breathe. I looked up and saw Trent laughing his head off at the incident. I wanted to scream at him as loud as I could, but I was too busy wheezing and trying to regain the ability to stand. By the time I could get up Trent was gone, and I was left with a giant bruise.

Ahoy there.

Welcome to my brain.
Feel free to read the inner-workings of my head.
Later.