Name five places your character loves; name five places your character hates. Feel free to choose another student's character or work on your own.
Choose one of the places and have your character interact with that place. Remember that setting includes the social world (the manners and customs of people). For example, a strictly moral or religious person might find the manners of people in a bar unattractive.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
5 comments:
Ziggurat pararaph:
1)simple,discriptive,effective,visual
2)The use of 2 ellipsis.
3)short sentences.
Que.I cannot see any simile..like or as
Rhetorical.."WELL?
Same features as O'Conners
Hold...,The old man cryed, contained himself ,then spoke up.
Just...you know stop argueing .
The gunman proceeded to walk towards us, we became very silent hoping help would arrive before it was too late.
She dawned a black hat an veil giving her swollen eyes a rest after the funeral service
Five places Lance loves..
1)Wine section local liquor store
2)Casino
3)Local Drug store(vitamin section)
senior day.
4)Handicap pking area
5)Pro Tennis club house
Five places Lance hates
1)Grocery lines
2)Traffic Jams (caddie burns lots of gas).
3)Loud music in stores
4)slippery roads and sidewalks
5)Church
Lance in Casino ...
Plush red and black decor suites Lance just fine, sound of bells ringing, buzzers buzzing excites the old boy. Life can get pretty dull after 70..So this is the place to be,maybe pick up some spare pocket change to supplement the old age pension ,besides that, check out some of the old gals, they don't look like they are hurting for money the way they are throwing it into those machines. Man that would be nice to find myself a "Kept Man", just as long as she didn't insist on "Till Death do us Part". OK enough daydreaming, throw down a Sawbuck(old time street talk for $10.00)Spin that wheel,loving the clicking sound of the small flapper striking the pegs.WOO! not a big win but OK double my money.I'll just let the winnings ride, maybe the "Winds of Luck "are blowing my way . Hey!Hey! Winner,Winner Chicken Dinner! one hundred big ones,that will just nicely get me a bottle of wine and a tank of gas,no old gal to share it with, can't have it all in one day .
Brent loves the pool hall, the local swimming hole, the Chevrolets on Main Street, the view from the school parking lot, the darkened store at 3 a.m.
He hates the high school math classroom, the detention hall, the confines of his parent’s car, the desk in his bedroom, the too-small chairs at Sunday school.
Interacting with a Setting: The Pool Hall
Brent picked up the cue and studied the tip for a moment. He walked around the table perusing the cue ball tight against the bumper. It would take a near superhuman shot, one where one ball jumps over another then sinks the eight ball.
“Shh!”
Brent’s girlfriend leaned toward him, shushing the crowd. She came to see all his afternoon games, to watch Brent relieve suckers of their hard earned dollars. Often as not, he cleared the table before the poor mark even knew what hit him.
The cue banged off the table as the cue ball shot upward, clipped the eight ball and sent it into a nearby pocket. Brent unscrewed his custom cue, placed it carefully back into its case, bowed slightly to his opponent, and held out his hand.
Five places Jane loves: Her apartment, Bear Pub, beach, her grandmother’s house, church.
Five places she hates: Hunted houses, morgue, hospital, cemetery, casino.
Setting: Jane’s apartment:
The hallway is perfectly clean, thought Lance. As he and Jane walked toward the only red door in the apartment. 202 read the sign on the door. “The building owner is a good costumer,” said Jane.
“Well, that explains the colour scheme.”
As Jane pushed the door open, Lance was imagining what kind of place, a girl as mysterious as Jane, would look like. And to his surprise, it was the complete opposite of what he had in his mind.
“Wow,” exclaimed Lance. “Your place is well lit up, organized.”
“Do you mind taking off your shoes?”
“Oops, my bad.”
“Thanks.
“No worries,” said Lance, now sitting at the couch, browsing through the magazines and books, neatly piled in a bookshelf. “You read, Osho? That guy is dangerous. He‘ll brainwash you, like what Jesus Christ did to billions of people!”
“I’m not stupid, you know. And please don’t speak ill of Christ—I am a Catholic. If you don’t mind.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be. By the way, I put some food in the oven. Mind checking it from time to time?”
“No problem.”
"I'm going for a bath."
At one corner, beside the window, in a wooden desk, was an old record player, and stacks of vinyl. Billie Holiday read the title. Lance picked it up, turned the player on, carefully placed the vinyl, and put the needle down. “Blue moon, you saw me standing alone . . .” Billie’s voice was angelic, heavenly. “Without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own.”
Lanced opened the window and the cold wind came rushing in. He was hoping to see the moon, blue moon, but all he saw was a dark sky filled with nimbus clouds.
She's taking too long, thought Lance.
". . . And the way you look, tonight," Billie was now singing."
“What the hell are you doing?” said Jane, coming out from the bathroom, shivering. “You know it is cold right?” Then went to her room.
Shit, the food, Lance thought, as he closes the window. Furtively, he walked pass Jane’s room, tip-toeing his way to the kitchen. He opened the oven, and in a matter of seconds, the tiny kitchen had been filled with smoke. The alarm went on and rang their eardrums. He fanned the smoke detector using a table mat. The alarm stopped. Jane came rushing out of her room, wearing only her underwear, and took the food out of the oven—burnt chicken.
“I’m sorry,” said Lance.
“Relax, old man. Mind waiting in the living room, I‘ll just put on some clothes.”
Like a young kid caught by his mother while having a late-night-fridge-raid, Lance made his way to the couch with his head down, and a frown.
Jane went straight to the desk in the living room, grabbed a vinyl, put it on the player, placed the needle, and offered Lance her hand. “C’mon, Champ,” said Jane, her arm stretched toward Lance. “It’s Moondance”
Lance’s hands were on Jane’s hips, her arms were clasped on his neck, his chin was touching her shoulder, her forehead was resting on his chest, they swayed left and right, while Van Morrison filled the apartment with his soothing voice, “Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love . . .”
“Can I just make some more romance with you, my love?” Whispered Lance. “I like “Moon-songs”.
“O.K,” said Jane. “Moon River is next.”
Thomas loves (or loved) his office with the huge panoramic windows overlooking Wall Street. He so enjoyed gathering with his buddies at the various local pubs after work, especially Wellington's. He loved going to the Metropolitan Museum of Art with Delia (though he now cringes, almost cries over the memories) on the occasional
weekend when he wasn't caught up with work. He loved the theater, whether it was Broadway or off-Broadway productions, he loved them all, particularly Les Mis and Joseph. Thomas found the ocean both romantic and mysterious at the same time.
Whether it be day or night, he loved the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks or just lulling along the sandy shoreline. Thomas hated casinos and any sort of gambling. It brought back harsh episodes of his childhood watching his father squander away so much of the family inheritance. He hated rock concerts and the deafening, pounding music (he had lost too many friends to the drugs and rock lifestyle). He shudders at the thought of senior care homes.
They were too depressing for him to even visit for a few minutes. He hated walking or driving through the ghettos of Harlem, the Bronx, and such. Not only because, of course, it was dangerous, but also because it made him feel twinges of guilt. He had "achieved" so much and was well to do in his penthouse loft on the Upper East Side. But looking at the "holes" some of those people lived in. . .well, it almost made him feel embarrassed by his success. He tried to stay clear of any and all graveyards. It was too stark a reality to face his own mortality. It was all he
could do to avoid missing his father's funeral. But of course, in the end, he went.
Interaction:
Thomas walked down the familiar hallway. An old man wearing a newsboy hat and a robe was struggling with his walker in the opposite direction. Thomas' reflex action was to look away and make no eye contact with him. Nurses were walking briskly up and down the hall, into and out of rooms, busily carrying trays or clipboards. He checked in at the front desk. Mrs. Weymouth signed him in.
"Well, hello Mr. Rush", she said. "I haven't seen you around here for some time. Been away on business, I guess?"
Thomas replied, "Yes, Ma'am. Something like that."
After signing in, he continued walking down the long corridor. It was late afternoon but the smells of cabbage and tomato soup still lingered in the air from lunchtime.
In the distance, from another room, he heard the clattering of something metallic falling to the floor.
"No I won't go! I won't, I tell you!" the sound of an old lady's voice pierced the air.
Thomas gave a deep sigh. "That must be old lady Mulligan. Up to her old antics with the bedpan again", he thought.
His pace quickened now down the hallway. The sooner he got to the room, the sooner he could get out of that place. For a brief moment, he thought about turning around and making an exit out of the building.
"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," he thought. "I just can't stand. . ."
Too late. He was already at her room. He took a deep breath and knocked on her door. The old lady was laying on her bed, sort of half asleep, watching tv. She looked up at him.
"Thomas!" she looked surprised and glad at the same time.
"Hi, Ma," he gave a kind smile to her and walked into her room. Though he didn't like the "home", he was glad to see her too. It had been far too long. He pulled up one of the chairs next to her bed and sat down.
"How are you doing, Ma?" he reached out and took her hand.
"Well, not so bad, I guess. The food has improved," she chuckled.
He gave a sly grin, "Glad to hear it."
"It's so good to see you, son," she said with a smile.
"Ma, I'm sorry I haven't. . ."
"Shh-shh," she shook her head. "Don't even say it. I know you've been busy lately."
"When aren't I?" he said with a frown, disappointed in himself.
Mrs. Rush now held his hand in both of hers. She looked a little sadly at him.
"Delia was here," she said gently.
Thomas now gave another big sigh. He didn't say anything.
"She was ever so kind. She brought me flowers again. We had a nice long chat." She patted his hand now.
"What happened, Thomas?" she asked sadly.
Thomas looked down at the floor. He felt almost the same way he had when he was 8yrs old, and brought home a bad report card. His mother had asked him the same question. Only this time, milk and cookies wasn't going to fix it.
He shook his head slowly. "I don't know, Ma. I don't know," was all he could say.
Post a Comment