An Execution

Gather together three or four ordinary people. Let them meet in a businesslike environment-- a conference room, a grade school class room after school hours, a hotel room. These three or four people are going to decide to put someone to death. They are not government officials, rogue CIA agents, Mafia lieutenants-- they're just plain folks. And the person they choose to executes is also a run-of-the-mill person just like them, except he is slated for death. Stay is this room. Don't follow through on the death sentence. Simply watch this group decide who needs to die and why. Choosing the victim is going to be hard. Keeping the group from simply going after someone who has angered them or cut them off in line or slept with a spouse - that is your problem. This group of executioners should know one another but not too terribly well. Don't tell us why or how they've been chosen to do this; just accept the situation and try to let them accept it too. POV - the executioners' , as well as the intended victim's in a sense - will matter a great deal. One POV will predominate. You probably want to tell us this scene from a dramatic perspective, allowing only spoken ideas to come out (don't show us the executioners' thoughts) 

700 WORDS

This exercise is based on the Donald Barthelme STORY "Some of Us Had Been Threatening our Friend Colby." The second sentence of the story is, "And now he'd gone too far, so we decided to hang him." The Barthelme story is not about murder but the moral (though comic) consequences of murder as relatively reasonable and sane people might see them in advance. Don't make this exercise about murder or a mob execution either. Treat the possibility that a few ordinary people could decide one day to kill one of their acquaintances honestly and plainly. Remove one layer of societal prohibition from the mix, but don't remove all prohibitions. This execution should still trouble these people.

The Ironist, "Smoke"

I suppose you want the whole story, right? A clean-cut beginning, middle, and end? A story, where the bad guys are bad and the good guys are good? A story where truthfulness and compassion win out over avarice and hatred? Do not expect much of that here. Evil owns all. Chaos reigns. End of story, goodnight.

It's true that without evil there can be no good. But what they don't tell you is that you don't need any good for evil to exist. Evil is fundamental in the core of man. Men are brought into this world kicking and screaming and that's the same way they go out. 

The best place to begin this story, aside from "In the beginning", would be on a Saturday, in a regular city, a little past lunchtime.

A loud explosion could be heard echoing down the streets and alleyways. For a time everyone sat in silence not sure why the ground shook, or why all the pigeons, rats, and any other city dwelling animals began to frantically fly, scurry, slither, or crawl out of their homes and into the streets. For a time all was silent. Then the screaming began. From the 'Cafe Diem' on Main Street, a quaint little coffee shop with the best croissants around, patrons could witness a flood of people surging down the street. Some missing limbs, some blinded from debris or blood in their eyes, one lady still clutching the severed arm of her child as she sprinted for safety, all screaming not one daring to look back.

Behind them a huge plume of white smoke and ash barreled down upon them, like a fat kid at a buffet, gobbling them all up. The slow were the first to go. Inside the cloud was total confusion. The cacophony of horror echoed off of the surrounding buildings and bounced back creating a terrible soundscape of suffering. A heroic few tried to help out amidst the clouds of confusion, to possibly help out some of the people lost in the dense haze of death. You know how they say not to swim towards a drowning person? Those gallant few who plunged into the maw to aid the injured got it the worst. The victims inside had become feral amongst the suffering. When given aid they lashed at their would be saviors and set upon them like rabid dogs hungry for a meal. Not one of the brave souls who set out to help was ever seen again... Unless you count the parts they didn't like.

Onlookers began to be puzzled by the smoke. It remained thick in the air advancing slower and slower but never stopping or dissipating. The screams of the fallen still issued out from the fog but were less frequent as the numbers of the suffering converted into the numbers of the dead. Still the cloud advanced through the city. Then a melody began to play from deep within. It was long and purposeful, remorseful and filled with the fondest memories that you have long since forgotten. As the tune grew in intensity the screams fell completely silent, as did the rest of the city. Everyone seemed to freeze to the spot as the tune brought about the most bittersweet memories in an instant. Slowly, the city began to lean into the song; Slowly, the first footsteps fell; Slowly the population began to advance into the smoke.  

The Ironist

Create an observer of events outside his or her direct experiences, someone who knows more than they let on, who jokes with us (the readers) but who also indirectly reveals a complex reading of the events they are describing. M.H. Abrams, in A Glossary of Literary Terms says "... in Greek comedy the character called the Eiron was a dissembler, who characteristically spoke in understatement and deliberately pretended to be less intelligent than he was." This will be a little like unreliable narrator, but there is a crucial difference that the unreliable narrator does not know he's unreliable. The dissembler or ironist or trickster is a wiseass, a clown perhaps, a teller of tall tales.

500 Words.

Feel free to be this trickster yourself, as the author. What's wrong with a writer interfering with his own fiction, playing around with details, offering suggestions for different endings, beginnings, or life changing moments? You may find this tactic useful, usually in rough drafts, to speak directly to the reader. The pleasure of these interruptions often masks the seriousness of their suggestions for you -- and you can say things to yourself that you may not initially notice about what you're writing. But don't feel hamstrung by the last bit of advice -- create any kind of ironist you want. They can be thrillingly unusual types to introduce to your fiction.

The Royal We, "Nagging Bitches"

           Saeta laughed. We were lost and hopelessly so. Nyckolai scowled as the reigns tightened causing the carriage to jerk to a halt. His eyes full of blame as he stared into the emptiness of the four walls. We were lost and to make matters worse, we were lost together.

           “I should have never listened to you, I knew you would find some way to ruin my day… you always do”, Nyckolai spat as he yelled from inside the carriage, placing the silk ribbon delicately inside his book and snapping it shut as he reached for the door. Saeta smirked as she heard him fidgeting with the door. He didn’t know that she had purposely blocked it and the idea of his growing frustration, tickled her gingerly.

           “Perhaps then you should have “driven”,” Saeta mocked, as she wiggled in her seat, hearing Nyckolai begin to bang on the door. Saeta’s snake like eyes glinting for the moment as she slid from the seat, hitting the ground with a squish, scowling as she ran her nails along the door. “Now now, such profanity, is that any way to talk..to your..dear..friend?” her tone was hard as she unlocked the latch watching him spill into the bog.

            “You’re a right dizzy cunt,” Nyckolai said, stating the more than obvious. “Why did we stop? Are we lost now …” he paused looking down at his pants and shoes now covered with mud, moss and visceral looking roots. “Great and we’re covered in forest.”  Nyckolai looked around, trying hard to figure out where we were. Through the trees he could make out nothing more than shadows and trees, abandoned and broken wavering in the wind.

            “Well what shall we do then?,” Saeta smirked as she walked around front, running her fingers along the slick leathery skin of the creature that was pulling them. Her eyes flashing in the moonlight, slitting as Nyckolai clicked a small light in his hand.

          “I guess we need to turn around, find an alternate route, or call it a day.” He snorted as he lifted himself up on the step of the carriage, kicking mud and muck everywhere as he tried to clear his shoes off, wiping at his pant leg with his kerchief.

            “We can’t head back now.” She hissed as she grabbed hold of the reigns, hopping back up into the seat. “We have come too far and are too close to call this quits. Beside, this is the party of the year and I demand on crashing it. Why else would we be in this predicament?” she scowled as she surveyed from uptop, clicking the reigns hard pushing the creature harder with each movement trying to get the carriage unstuck and around the deep sinkhole.

              “This isn’t the first we have missed and this is sure not to be the last, Saeta," Nyckolai said as the carriage broke free from its sticky disposition a small popping sound as the wheels peeled themselves from the mud. “Besides, we have better things we can be doing back home.”

            “Well at least Nyckolai does” she thought as she grumbled through gritted teeth, taking them off the path and slowly making their way backwards.

            Nyckolai didn’t respond to the loud ruckus Saeta was causing in her seat as they returned. He knew how badly she wished to have caused a scene at the party. But there will always be another grander party, we will look back on that night and realize that when we got home he was forced to regret every nagging decision he made that night from now till eternity.

Word Count: 600

The Royal We

So, I apologize to everyone who may care for the lack of updates but I had lost my book that I pull these exercises from. Buuut it does not look like anyone really missed it anyway. However, I have torn my room apart and emerged victorious. So I am picking up where we left off. Welcome back.

Write a first-person-plural narration of an event from the POV of a very close-knit couple. This means the narrative should sound something like this: We found the body in the outhouse, and Jenny got the can of gasoline from the garage while Benjamin removed all the toilet paper rolls stacked up on the door shelves (No sense wasting them). Jenny and Benjamin are the we at the beginning of this narrative. The reader should be unable to discern which of the two is telling the story. Do not use the first-person pronoun I in this exercise. 600 words.

If you accept the challenge you may learn what it's like to have two minds in the narration - an uncommon experience. I've known couples who write letters this way, no first person pronouns, just this wonderfully eerie we and the names of the individual units of the couple - the two will trade off writing one section or another and sometimes edit or add material to the other spouse's section. Science fiction plays with this all the time by means of telepathy or actual joining of telepathy or actual joining of consciousnesses. I contend that this is difficult to imagine but useful to do anyway. Narration tempered by two ways of seeing the world - a schizophrenic worldview - every rule of narration we know instinctively. A lot of our everyday language is a blend of many different voices and languages - we echo acquaintances , newspaper or television news fragments of thought, advertising, film, fiction, and poetry without knowing it - often all in one paragraph of speech.

Journalism, Confessions of a Procrastinator

Mon, Jan 17th

2:30 pm
I feel like death shat me out today. I felt mostly fine yesterday but as I was working yesterday I began to develop a cough that persisted til I left. On a lark I ran by the grocery store yesterday to grab some ginger ale and cough syrup. I got a good deal on the ginger ale, four for five dollars! For the win. So I went to bed marginally early and took some of that delicious NyQuil and passed right out. I woke up this morning with a horrible head cold and a bloody nose. So I had to call out of work and miss going to the movies tonight. I would work on this damn assignment but my head hurts too much to focus on a screen of any type.

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6:30 pm
I can't even play video games. I sat and stared at the ceiling for the last three hours. Kill me. I am going to take some more the 'Quil and pass back out.

Tues, Jan 18th

11:15 am
So my cough has gotten a little better today. But not by much. I feel completely worn out. I woke up about seven times last night because my nose wouldn't stop bleeding. It got so bad that I just shoved tissue up my nose and went to sleep. I probably got close to swallowing that pint of blood that they talk about.

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1:09 pm
Just threw up blood. Hit my pint mark. Woot.

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3:00 pm
Feeling better. This humidifier is doing the trick.

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6:00 pm
After a few more hours of sleep I feel like a million bucks. My cough is still here but it is not nearly as bad. I might even be able to go to work tomorrow.
Wed, Jan 19th

8:45 pm
I could have used another day of rest but I went to work anyway today because I could definitely use the scratch. Work went by quick enough atleast so I can't complain about that. I am pretty wiped out though. I am gonna go to bed early tonight even though I should start that writing assignment. Meh, It's ok, I still have the rest of the week to finish it.

Thurs, Jan 20th

9:30 pm
Work drug on so long today. I can not say how nuch it sucked. even though I got off relatively early I feel like it is midnight. AND I have to get up at 4:30 am tomorrow to get to work by 5 am. I hate morning shifts soo hard. I wont be able to get to that project tonight either. Oh well.

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12:30 am
It is midnight and I still have not gone to sleep. Fuck me.


Fri, Jan 21st

2:20 pm
I could not get to sleep last night. That sucked soo bad. now I am almost falling over in my chair. I gotta take a nap so I  can be fresh to go to the club tonight. It is rave night in Baltimore! Should be fun, a good number of people said they were going to meet me up there so everything is looking up. And my cough has almost disappeared so that is awesome too.

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3:30 am

Had an awesome time at the club, time to watch anime, eat chicken nuggets and chillax.
Sat, Jan 22nd
5:15 pm

I cannot think of anything to write. I have sat with writer's block for the last five hours gazing at all the internet has to offer and yet I can not think of anything to write.

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7:45 pm

Lol, I just saw a cat get kicked at a TV while some guys was playing video games! Still no progress on the writing. I think that sickness has stolen my creative powers. DAMN YOU RHINOVIRUS! I do not even have any inspiration for drawing.

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10:47 pm

I was in the kitchen looking for some chips or something and I saw a picture my little cousin had sent us. It was a basic drawing of her and her family but it touched me. I remembered drawing people little pictures for thank you cards. They all sucked but I was proud of them at the time and I thought it was a great exchange. I do not know if they kept any of them or anything but the thought was there. So now I am going to draw a picture for her I think that she will like it. I never had an adult give me a drawing in return for a drawing as a kid so I don't know how she will take it.

Sun, Jan 23rd

12:20 pm

Fuck, I didn't write anything all week. I better do something. maybe I can just B.S. this thing and do journal entries like I have been keeping a journal all week.

Journalism

Write a part of a story in the form of journal entries. Everything that happens in the story will most likely happen between the entries. Make sure your readers can see the events off stage, but also present your journalist’s blind spots – She will not present the whole story, just parts of it. Your journal writer may not even understand the significance of the events until a few entries later – if ever. Keep all entries close together in time (within a week or two). This exercise will challenge those who think there is no limit to realism: Make sure that the journal writer is telling a story – showing as often as telling, revealing things about herself. In other words, you have to work just as hard in this exercise to choose the words of this narrator. Writers will tend to think that this journalist can say anything and not look outside of herself Avoid completely self-absorbed narrators here – and everywhere. 700 words.

Mark Mirsky chastised the occasional writer in his workshops for indulging in journalism as opposed to fiction. (By this he meant writing found in journalism writing found in journalism or diaries – although he also intended us to hear the overlapping meaning of newspaper-written reality). Journalism accepts the world at face value. Fiction delves below the surface of reality, spending most of its time proving that there are many levels below the accepted surface.

Another (hidden) point of this exercise is to convince you to keep journals. Writers learn how to write by writing miles and miles of pages. Get some blank books and become a regular and tough-minded observer of the world around you. How else do you get practice writing fiction than by paying close attentions to what’s nearest at hand?