It's when you get a D on a paper you've been working on for six months, and it's when you get an A on the paper you wrote the morning before the class.
It's amazing how much praise one can receive for a piece of work that took them all of six minutes. While these things may come off as beautiful, polished pieces of work, in the author's eyes, they live in The Cistern.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
PROMPT ONE: JAIL
Non/Fiction
Write about someone you'd like to see going to jail. This can either be from anybody's point of view, really.
I'll pitch in, too. Be nice, kids, it's been awhile.
Sunday, Bloody Sunday
Lee wanted to be important all his life. Fate killed him.
In the innermost confines of the building, Lee was sitting on a chair. His qualities were entirely plain, though both of the men in blue standing over him could not help but notice the glint of pride in his eyes. Sitting there was a man who had aspired to greatness and had, just the Friday before, achieved it. Lee could not help but bask in the afterglow of his glorious achievement with such exuberance that it radiated with searing intensity from his flesh. Despite this embodiment of joy sitting before the men in blue, their eyes were cast down and dull, their chests leaden. A sadness was upon these men as they prepared to escort Lee, the celebrity, to the car waiting outside – between them throngs of reporters, cameras, onlookers. Sitting in an idling car outside, just several cars down from Lee's destination, was Jack. His face was red, his hands trembling. Jack looked at the reporters, dozens of them, waiting like vultures for their prey. Nervously, he smiled to himself; if he went in there, he'd be on national television. A star! But that didn't matter, he thought. His eyes, bloodshot, sank down to his hands. To what he held. Thoughts of Jackie swam in his head. He ached, his palms sweaty, metal scents filling his nose. Nobody else mattered to Jack. He just wanted was to keep Jackie happy – as happy as she could be. Lee could hear the crowd outside and his ego swelled knowing they were all there just to talk to him. All his life he had been belittled. People told him he wasn't good enough. Wasn't man enough. He knew he had proven all of them wrong, and this was his moment of glory. Generations would talk about what he did, what he was capable of. Children would read about him in textbooks. A far cry from just a poor bastard who could barely support his own wife, the dumbass who shot himself in the marines. Jack imagined it. He would summon his courage and, afterwards, Jackie would thank him personally. On television. America would adore him! From club owner, to national treasure. All he had to do was... to work up the courage. Jack paused. He looked down to his lap again. Who the hell was he kidding? He didn't have the balls to go through with it. With a sigh, he put his car in reverse. Lee stood when prompted. The two men began to bring him out, but he refused with a grin. “Boys, I'm going to be on national television. I've got to look my best.” The men sighed, relenting, allowing Lee a few more minutes to switch shirts into something nicer. A few more minutes was all Jack needed to build his courage up and step out of the car. And into the building. He weaved between reporters. It felt so heavy in his hand. Sweat distorted his vision. Lee walked back to the men in blue with a spring in his step and winked. “All right, fellahs. I'm all ready.” Jack wiped the sweat and saw Lee.
1 comment:
I'll pitch in, too. Be nice, kids, it's been awhile.
Sunday, Bloody Sunday
Lee wanted to be important all his life. Fate killed him.
In the innermost confines of the building, Lee was sitting on a chair. His qualities were entirely plain, though both of the men in blue standing over him could not help but notice the glint of pride in his eyes. Sitting there was a man who had aspired to greatness and had, just the Friday before, achieved it. Lee could not help but bask in the afterglow of his glorious achievement with such exuberance that it radiated with searing intensity from his flesh. Despite this embodiment of joy sitting before the men in blue, their eyes were cast down and dull, their chests leaden. A sadness was upon these men as they prepared to escort Lee, the celebrity, to the car waiting outside – between them throngs of reporters, cameras, onlookers.
Sitting in an idling car outside, just several cars down from Lee's destination, was Jack. His face was red, his hands trembling. Jack looked at the reporters, dozens of them, waiting like vultures for their prey. Nervously, he smiled to himself; if he went in there, he'd be on national television. A star! But that didn't matter, he thought. His eyes, bloodshot, sank down to his hands. To what he held. Thoughts of Jackie swam in his head. He ached, his palms sweaty, metal scents filling his nose. Nobody else mattered to Jack. He just wanted was to keep Jackie happy – as happy as she could be.
Lee could hear the crowd outside and his ego swelled knowing they were all there just to talk to him. All his life he had been belittled. People told him he wasn't good enough. Wasn't man enough. He knew he had proven all of them wrong, and this was his moment of glory. Generations would talk about what he did, what he was capable of. Children would read about him in textbooks. A far cry from just a poor bastard who could barely support his own wife, the dumbass who shot himself in the marines.
Jack imagined it. He would summon his courage and, afterwards, Jackie would thank him personally. On television. America would adore him! From club owner, to national treasure. All he had to do was... to work up the courage. Jack paused. He looked down to his lap again. Who the hell was he kidding? He didn't have the balls to go through with it. With a sigh, he put his car in reverse.
Lee stood when prompted. The two men began to bring him out, but he refused with a grin. “Boys, I'm going to be on national television. I've got to look my best.” The men sighed, relenting, allowing Lee a few more minutes to switch shirts into something nicer.
A few more minutes was all Jack needed to build his courage up and step out of the car. And into the building. He weaved between reporters. It felt so heavy in his hand. Sweat distorted his vision.
Lee walked back to the men in blue with a spring in his step and winked. “All right, fellahs. I'm all ready.”
Jack wiped the sweat and saw Lee.
BANG!
Lee Harvey never made it to jail.
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