Luka walked up the stairs of the crowded apartment building. Papers were littered across the floor, torn and padded down to serve as a carpet-like timeline. Layers of documents recorded dates and pleaded for help or tried to convince to rise against Hitler’s army. “Kampf, Sieg, oder Tod!” A snoring man was hunched up against the doorway o one of the apartments. He breathed shallowly, in and out. When Luka walked by, he awoke with a start and glanced up at him. His unruly beard framed a worn face, his eyes black holes holding no emotion or thought. His hair grew wild and stringy down to his shoulders, the silvery grey clashing with the dirty red plaid of his shirt. Luka walked past, ignoring the man as he clawed for his pant legs. He walked straight to the farmiliar door on the second floor; nummer achtzehn.
He knocked on the hard wood, and heard a scuffle on the other side. The door cracked open, revealing a wrinkled eye in the gaudy light of the inner doorway. A shaky and frail voice questioned from the other side; “Luka?” The door opened, and he was let inside. His mother stood before him. She had become much smaller in the years he had been away. Her once well-rounded figure had changed into a sickly-looking thin frame. Every wrinkle on her face spoke of a lifetime wrought with hardships unnumbered. The years of worry and poverty had finally gotten to her, for her face looked hollow and her eyes no longer shone.
They embraced in the doorway, and he caught a sweet whiff of his childhood in her perfume. It brought back memories of playing in the green fields- carefree- gazing into the sky as if scrying, and trying to make sense of the smoke-like clouds. Now if he up, all he would see was the grey of the smoke-filled and sullied sky.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Friday, April 13, 2007
Character Exercise 5
Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?
Dominik woke up to the sound of a police siren wailing past his apartment building. Reaching to turn off the alarm clock, his hand landed on a newspaper instead. He perched himself on his elbow, the grit of the cement stoop grinding into his skin. He looked around as he rubbed his eyes open and realized this wasn't his bed, and there was no alarm clock to be found. For the third time this month, he hadn't made it inside.
He picked himself up stiffly, his joints impliable. Scratching his arm, he wandered down the sidewalk, weaving briskly in between passerbys towards the corner store. His stick-like figure looked as if it would break at any moment. The weight he had lost over the past couple months wouldn't be gained back, but he didn't mind. His t-shirt was loose around his shoulders, and it looked like maybe if you were to poke him in the stomach, you wouldn't find flesh and bones but thin air. His pants were loose so that every few steps he had to pull them up to keep them from falling. From watching him, it would seem that if they had fallen he would have just left them there on the street and kept going.
He walked into the corner store, the bell on the door jingling harshly as the door slammed shut. Scratching his arm again, he examined the display of food on the shelf before him; Doritos, Pringles, Roberto's Beef Jerky, Mrs. Field's chocolate chip cookies, and chocolate chocolate muffins. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of bagels and egg and cheese sandwiches under a hot lamp, and for a fleeting second, he thought maybe he could do with something more healthy for a change. He opted out. He snatched a bag of beef jerky and picked up a cold can of Mountain Dew out of the cooler. At the register, he fumbled through his pockets and realized in despair that he had nothing but a dime, a quarter, and a crumpled piece of paper. He glanced behind him, feeling as if someone was watching him, and scratched his arm. The itch was getting worse.
Outside of the store, safe from prying eyes, he flattened out the piece of paper on the nearest brick wall and read the big bold letters, scribbled in black pen: "FOOD!" He must have been hungry. Since he had nothing else to do for the day, he headed down to the grocery store. He stopped at the bank first to take out money. He walked up to the drive-through ATM, followed by two cars. He glanced behind him and saw that they were watching him. Those big glowing white eyes bored into his back. He could feel them drilling holes into his brain, grinning with their big silvery teeth. He panicked. They had caught on to him! But what had he done? He didn't remember. He ran.
Crouching in the decorative bushes in front of the bank, he saw a small girl standing next to him. "What are you doing here?" he asked surprisedly. She didn't respond. Her face was purple, black eyes pleading with him. Her green and strangely stemmish legs were rooted to the ground. He realized she was just as small as his index finger... like Thumbalina in the story books. "You are much to small to be out here all alone little girl. Where are your parents?" Again, no response. This time, she raised her green leaflike hands into the air, begging him to save her. "All right... this isn't something I'd normally do, but if you insist. First I have to get some money." He picked the pansy, and putting her into his pocket snuck carefully back to the ATM. When he knew that the cars were gone, he took out his card, swiped it, and entered his PIN. Withdrawal... Savings... $50. The machine beeped at him madly, and the screen flashed INSUFFICIENT FUNDS. He watched blankedly, then realized what had happened. "Those bastards stole my money!" he screamed in anger. He hit the machine, so that it stopped beeping at him. It spit his card defiantly. He tried again, asking this time for only twenty dollars. This time it gave him his money more than willingly. He had beat it into submission. Crumpling the money in his fist, he shoved it into his pants pocket for later. He gingerly cradled the pansy-girl in his palm as he walked along. He headed downtown.
It wasn't long before he made it to the police station. The tall cement pillars framed the antique wooden doorway that served as a portal to another world entirely. That world was safe. He thought this over and over to himself as he looked from side to side and he placed her on the doorstep. In the short time he had known her, he had become quite attatched. A small tear escaped the vice of his eyelids as he took a step back, her dark eyes following his. He left the pansy there.
http://www.grocerylists.org/lists/1400/Pages/1339.shtml
Dominik woke up to the sound of a police siren wailing past his apartment building. Reaching to turn off the alarm clock, his hand landed on a newspaper instead. He perched himself on his elbow, the grit of the cement stoop grinding into his skin. He looked around as he rubbed his eyes open and realized this wasn't his bed, and there was no alarm clock to be found. For the third time this month, he hadn't made it inside.
He picked himself up stiffly, his joints impliable. Scratching his arm, he wandered down the sidewalk, weaving briskly in between passerbys towards the corner store. His stick-like figure looked as if it would break at any moment. The weight he had lost over the past couple months wouldn't be gained back, but he didn't mind. His t-shirt was loose around his shoulders, and it looked like maybe if you were to poke him in the stomach, you wouldn't find flesh and bones but thin air. His pants were loose so that every few steps he had to pull them up to keep them from falling. From watching him, it would seem that if they had fallen he would have just left them there on the street and kept going.
He walked into the corner store, the bell on the door jingling harshly as the door slammed shut. Scratching his arm again, he examined the display of food on the shelf before him; Doritos, Pringles, Roberto's Beef Jerky, Mrs. Field's chocolate chip cookies, and chocolate chocolate muffins. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of bagels and egg and cheese sandwiches under a hot lamp, and for a fleeting second, he thought maybe he could do with something more healthy for a change. He opted out. He snatched a bag of beef jerky and picked up a cold can of Mountain Dew out of the cooler. At the register, he fumbled through his pockets and realized in despair that he had nothing but a dime, a quarter, and a crumpled piece of paper. He glanced behind him, feeling as if someone was watching him, and scratched his arm. The itch was getting worse.
Outside of the store, safe from prying eyes, he flattened out the piece of paper on the nearest brick wall and read the big bold letters, scribbled in black pen: "FOOD!" He must have been hungry. Since he had nothing else to do for the day, he headed down to the grocery store. He stopped at the bank first to take out money. He walked up to the drive-through ATM, followed by two cars. He glanced behind him and saw that they were watching him. Those big glowing white eyes bored into his back. He could feel them drilling holes into his brain, grinning with their big silvery teeth. He panicked. They had caught on to him! But what had he done? He didn't remember. He ran.
Crouching in the decorative bushes in front of the bank, he saw a small girl standing next to him. "What are you doing here?" he asked surprisedly. She didn't respond. Her face was purple, black eyes pleading with him. Her green and strangely stemmish legs were rooted to the ground. He realized she was just as small as his index finger... like Thumbalina in the story books. "You are much to small to be out here all alone little girl. Where are your parents?" Again, no response. This time, she raised her green leaflike hands into the air, begging him to save her. "All right... this isn't something I'd normally do, but if you insist. First I have to get some money." He picked the pansy, and putting her into his pocket snuck carefully back to the ATM. When he knew that the cars were gone, he took out his card, swiped it, and entered his PIN. Withdrawal... Savings... $50. The machine beeped at him madly, and the screen flashed INSUFFICIENT FUNDS. He watched blankedly, then realized what had happened. "Those bastards stole my money!" he screamed in anger. He hit the machine, so that it stopped beeping at him. It spit his card defiantly. He tried again, asking this time for only twenty dollars. This time it gave him his money more than willingly. He had beat it into submission. Crumpling the money in his fist, he shoved it into his pants pocket for later. He gingerly cradled the pansy-girl in his palm as he walked along. He headed downtown.
It wasn't long before he made it to the police station. The tall cement pillars framed the antique wooden doorway that served as a portal to another world entirely. That world was safe. He thought this over and over to himself as he looked from side to side and he placed her on the doorstep. In the short time he had known her, he had become quite attatched. A small tear escaped the vice of his eyelids as he took a step back, her dark eyes following his. He left the pansy there.
http://www.grocerylists.org/lists/1400/Pages/1339.shtml
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Character Exercise 4
Interspersing Dialogue With Action
He walked down the muddy pathway of the unpaved street between the bunk houses, the buckles on his boots clinking with every step. The silent squeal of new leather accompanied the conflicting rustle of his pants was interrupted by a soft sob. He glanced over in disgust at the dirty creature huddling helplessly. Cowering in a corner, shivering in the cold mud she looked so pathetic, he barely recognized her. He caught her gaze, and was immediately frozen. He studied her face, as if she was some sort of human anomaly. The dark, short cropped hair was patchy and faded. Her white face was tinted blue from the cold, so that it looked like there was no blood running through her veins. She looked almost dead. Her body was skeletal, every bone visible through the thin skin that covered. Only her eyes contained their original lustre.
He walked down the muddy pathway of the unpaved street between the bunk houses, the buckles on his boots clinking with every step. The silent squeal of new leather accompanied the conflicting rustle of his pants was interrupted by a soft sob. He glanced over in disgust at the dirty creature huddling helplessly. Cowering in a corner, shivering in the cold mud she looked so pathetic, he barely recognized her. He caught her gaze, and was immediately frozen. He studied her face, as if she was some sort of human anomaly. The dark, short cropped hair was patchy and faded. Her white face was tinted blue from the cold, so that it looked like there was no blood running through her veins. She looked almost dead. Her body was skeletal, every bone visible through the thin skin that covered. Only her eyes contained their original lustre.
Luka stifled a sob as he realized this was Antje. The love of his past lay broken before him. He dropped to his knees and tried to help her up, gasping “Antje, what’s happened to you?” Something like a shreik came out of her mouth, raspy and weak, as she flailed her arms in an attempt to get him away from her. The tears streaming down her face left streaks of clean skin, washing the dirt off. He backed away as she curled into a ball, trying to protect herself. He looked around to see if anyone was watching him, for it was a terrible thing to be seen helping a Jude.
Once again, he kneeled down next to her. He placed his hand on her back, and spoke to her. "Antje... it's me... Luka. Don't you remember? In the city when we were kids?" She looked up at him with those eyes. The green flecked with gold bored into him, seeing through the shell he had created for himself. An x-ray, revealing what was beneath the surface. She made him feel vulnerable. "Luka... what are you doing here?" She looked him up and down, "This isn't who you are... you're just like us." He nodded, and looked around again, nervous now. "Antje, I am going to get you to the hospital. They will take care of you there. At any rate, it will be better than staying in the work fields." She protested, pushing at his chest with her bony hand, "I must stay with my people. We are all in this together now." He looked into her eyes sadly, saying "Don't be silly... you're weak. You must be taken care of."
He picked her up. Her shoulders were so small, and she was as light as a 2-year-old. She stood shakily, swaying on her feet, and collapsed into the mud again.
He picked her up.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Character Exercise 3
The Street Child:
He was hungry. His stomach growled with such ferocity, if he was any younger he would have believed the monster inside to be trying to get out, clawing at the lining of his stomach and gnashing sharp razorblade teeth at his insides. On a breeze was carried the sharp smoky smell of the hot dog stand across the street. He perked up and jumped off the high pedestal of his wall, and headed over.
“Can I have a hotdog?” asked the hungry boy.
“Three fifty,” replied the man, picking up a steaming piece of meet with tongs.
“I don’ have any money,” replied the boy.
“Well you can’t just have food for free, kid. This is the real world. Go ask your mommy to make you macaroni or something.”
The boy wanted to scream he didn’t have parents. Atleast not really. His mother had once again forgotten to feed him because she was too caught up with one of the guys she brought home, and he hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning.
A professional Dancer:
“Hey honey, wanna come home wit’ me tonight?” asked the dark haired man in the front row, brandishing a few twenties. She walked towards him provocatively, and bent down, her cleavage at his eye-level, giving him a taste of something he wouldn’t get.
“I don’t do that, love, but if you walk outside I’m sure you’d find someone a little more willing on any street corner. Now let me dance for you.” Her voice was smooth as cream and rang like bells in the dark of the club. She unfurled her scarf from around her neck, and tossed it onto the stage, rippling satin floating on the air. She hummed to herself a song she’d heard so many times at the ballet dance studio as she moved.
Clerk at an X-Rated Movie Theatre:
“One ticket please,” he said.
“That’ll be five-fifty, sir,” Arthur replied, “Is she coming in with you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll have to buy two. That’ll be eleven dollars, sir,” he informed the man.
"You mean I have to pay for her too?” he asked, motioning to the scantily dressed hooker he entered with. He started getting angry. When Arthur nodded in reply, he shouted, “You mean to say, I have to pay five dollars and fifty cents for her on top of the one hundred fifty she’s getting for the night?”
“I’m sorry sir, but that’s the way it goes. Everyone pays five fifty, and your one hundred and fifty is really none of my business,” he said politely even though he was getting impatient. He wanted to see what happens to Lois Lane. Personally, he didn’t like the bitch. She was whiny, and always got into trouble. It would almost be a good thing if she croaked, because then Superman wouldn’t have to worry about saving her ass every other day. He could save more people in the city. The man handed him a crisp twenty dollar bill, and stormed into the theatre. Plus, Clark Kent was always trying to get her attention, but only as Superman was he noticed by her. Pathetic.
He settled into his seat and continued reading.
He was hungry. His stomach growled with such ferocity, if he was any younger he would have believed the monster inside to be trying to get out, clawing at the lining of his stomach and gnashing sharp razorblade teeth at his insides. On a breeze was carried the sharp smoky smell of the hot dog stand across the street. He perked up and jumped off the high pedestal of his wall, and headed over.
“Can I have a hotdog?” asked the hungry boy.
“Three fifty,” replied the man, picking up a steaming piece of meet with tongs.
“I don’ have any money,” replied the boy.
“Well you can’t just have food for free, kid. This is the real world. Go ask your mommy to make you macaroni or something.”
The boy wanted to scream he didn’t have parents. Atleast not really. His mother had once again forgotten to feed him because she was too caught up with one of the guys she brought home, and he hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning.
A professional Dancer:
“Hey honey, wanna come home wit’ me tonight?” asked the dark haired man in the front row, brandishing a few twenties. She walked towards him provocatively, and bent down, her cleavage at his eye-level, giving him a taste of something he wouldn’t get.
“I don’t do that, love, but if you walk outside I’m sure you’d find someone a little more willing on any street corner. Now let me dance for you.” Her voice was smooth as cream and rang like bells in the dark of the club. She unfurled her scarf from around her neck, and tossed it onto the stage, rippling satin floating on the air. She hummed to herself a song she’d heard so many times at the ballet dance studio as she moved.
Clerk at an X-Rated Movie Theatre:
“One ticket please,” he said.
“That’ll be five-fifty, sir,” Arthur replied, “Is she coming in with you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll have to buy two. That’ll be eleven dollars, sir,” he informed the man.
"You mean I have to pay for her too?” he asked, motioning to the scantily dressed hooker he entered with. He started getting angry. When Arthur nodded in reply, he shouted, “You mean to say, I have to pay five dollars and fifty cents for her on top of the one hundred fifty she’s getting for the night?”
“I’m sorry sir, but that’s the way it goes. Everyone pays five fifty, and your one hundred and fifty is really none of my business,” he said politely even though he was getting impatient. He wanted to see what happens to Lois Lane. Personally, he didn’t like the bitch. She was whiny, and always got into trouble. It would almost be a good thing if she croaked, because then Superman wouldn’t have to worry about saving her ass every other day. He could save more people in the city. The man handed him a crisp twenty dollar bill, and stormed into the theatre. Plus, Clark Kent was always trying to get her attention, but only as Superman was he noticed by her. Pathetic.
He settled into his seat and continued reading.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Character Exercise 2
Who's There?
A professional dancer:
Gracefully she twirled, her four-and-a-half inch stilettos clicking on the wood flooring of the stage. She sat down, bending her neck backwards and arching her back, pointing her toe as she raised it into the air. Like a swan. Her elbow dug into the floor as she flipped herself onto her knees, crawling entrancingly in the low lights. The skirt she wore was short and white, barely covering the top quarter of thigh. She stood up, posing as a man’s hand stuck a five dollar bill in her thigh-high fishnet tights, caressing her leg as it retreated. She turned her back to him and strode away, tauntingly.
The cool metal of the pole welcomed her hands as they slid up and down, up and down. Reaching up, she took her hair out of its tight bun and let it loose. She shook her head, her hair falling in front of her face naughtily, hiding the sparkling makeup over her eyes. She spun around, her hair flying behind her with the movement, then continuing to whip around her shoulder when she stopped.
She had always wanted to be a ballerina. She used to watch the rich girls dance in the studio a few streets over, just to go home and practice the moves herself. Plié, pirouette, croisé, assemblé, avant. Those came in handy every once in a while. No matter how many people were disgusted at her for the ‘degradation’ she imposed on herself and her body, in her mind she was always a professional. She could make more men fall to their knees for her than any ballerina ever could, and she was proud of that. She was a dancer.
A clerk at an X-rated movie theater:
The ship was sinking. The ship was sinking, and Lois Lane was inside. She was shouting and shouting for her savior, Superman, but he was nowhere to be seen, or heard for that matter. The scene switches. Lex Luthor had just exposed Superman to a chunk of Kryptonite when a man toting a skimpily dressed hooker came in wanting a ticket.
“One ticket please,” he said.
“That’ll be five-fifty, sir,” Arthur replied, “Is she coming in with you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll have to buy two. That’ll be eleven dollars, sir,” he informed the man.
“You mean I have to pay for her too?” he asked. He seemed to be getting angry. When Arthur nodded in reply, he shouted, “You mean to say, I have to pay five dollars and fifty cents for her on top of the one hundred fifty she’s getting for the night?”
“I’m sorry sir, but that’s the way it goes. Everyone pays five fifty, and your one hundred and fifty is really none of my business,” he said politely, even though he was getting impatient. He wanted to see what happens to Lois Lane. Personally, he didn’t like the bitch. She was whiny, and always got into trouble. It would almost be a good thing if she croaked, because then Superman wouldn’t have to worry about saving her ass every other day. He could save more people in the city. The man handed him a crisp twenty dollar bill, and stormed into the theatre. Plus, Clark Kent was always trying to get her attention, but only as Superman was he noticed by her. Pathetic.
He settled into his seat and continued reading.
A street child:
Anyone walking by on the busy sidewalk on any given morning would have seen him; a small, delicate figure sitting on the grey brick wall outside the bookstore. He wore dirt-covered jeans with gaping holes in the knees it was a wonder he kept warm at all. His grubby plaid button up cut off at the sleeves imitated that of his ‘father figure’, one of his mother’s friends, for he never really knew his real father.
Sometimes he sat on that wall on the busy street hoping that the father of his dreams would come. A man wearing a nice suit, shiny black shoes driving a new silver car, like the ones he saw coming out of the business office next door. In his dreams, his father would see him sitting there, and have pity, not knowing that he was his son. He would take him out to eat lunch, hot dogs from the stand across the street- his favorite. Upon telling the man that he had no father, the man would realize that he was his long lost son. They would embrace, and return home together to live happily ever after. They would go fishing, and his father might even buy him a dog for his 10th birthday.
Every day he waited, and every night he returned to the two-room apartment he and his mother lived in to fall asleep on the couch. Sometimes she’d remember to make him dinner, sometimes she’d be too caught up with the man she brought home that night to even realize he was in the same room. On those nights, he would pick up his blanket and walk into the bathroom, creating a warm nest of the cold, porcelain bathtub. He would turn on the faucet in the sink in hopes of drowning out the giggles and moans seeping under the door, and fall asleep to the sound of his stomach growling.
A professional dancer:
Gracefully she twirled, her four-and-a-half inch stilettos clicking on the wood flooring of the stage. She sat down, bending her neck backwards and arching her back, pointing her toe as she raised it into the air. Like a swan. Her elbow dug into the floor as she flipped herself onto her knees, crawling entrancingly in the low lights. The skirt she wore was short and white, barely covering the top quarter of thigh. She stood up, posing as a man’s hand stuck a five dollar bill in her thigh-high fishnet tights, caressing her leg as it retreated. She turned her back to him and strode away, tauntingly.
The cool metal of the pole welcomed her hands as they slid up and down, up and down. Reaching up, she took her hair out of its tight bun and let it loose. She shook her head, her hair falling in front of her face naughtily, hiding the sparkling makeup over her eyes. She spun around, her hair flying behind her with the movement, then continuing to whip around her shoulder when she stopped.
She had always wanted to be a ballerina. She used to watch the rich girls dance in the studio a few streets over, just to go home and practice the moves herself. Plié, pirouette, croisé, assemblé, avant. Those came in handy every once in a while. No matter how many people were disgusted at her for the ‘degradation’ she imposed on herself and her body, in her mind she was always a professional. She could make more men fall to their knees for her than any ballerina ever could, and she was proud of that. She was a dancer.
A clerk at an X-rated movie theater:
The ship was sinking. The ship was sinking, and Lois Lane was inside. She was shouting and shouting for her savior, Superman, but he was nowhere to be seen, or heard for that matter. The scene switches. Lex Luthor had just exposed Superman to a chunk of Kryptonite when a man toting a skimpily dressed hooker came in wanting a ticket.
“One ticket please,” he said.
“That’ll be five-fifty, sir,” Arthur replied, “Is she coming in with you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll have to buy two. That’ll be eleven dollars, sir,” he informed the man.
“You mean I have to pay for her too?” he asked. He seemed to be getting angry. When Arthur nodded in reply, he shouted, “You mean to say, I have to pay five dollars and fifty cents for her on top of the one hundred fifty she’s getting for the night?”
“I’m sorry sir, but that’s the way it goes. Everyone pays five fifty, and your one hundred and fifty is really none of my business,” he said politely, even though he was getting impatient. He wanted to see what happens to Lois Lane. Personally, he didn’t like the bitch. She was whiny, and always got into trouble. It would almost be a good thing if she croaked, because then Superman wouldn’t have to worry about saving her ass every other day. He could save more people in the city. The man handed him a crisp twenty dollar bill, and stormed into the theatre. Plus, Clark Kent was always trying to get her attention, but only as Superman was he noticed by her. Pathetic.
He settled into his seat and continued reading.
A street child:
Anyone walking by on the busy sidewalk on any given morning would have seen him; a small, delicate figure sitting on the grey brick wall outside the bookstore. He wore dirt-covered jeans with gaping holes in the knees it was a wonder he kept warm at all. His grubby plaid button up cut off at the sleeves imitated that of his ‘father figure’, one of his mother’s friends, for he never really knew his real father.
Sometimes he sat on that wall on the busy street hoping that the father of his dreams would come. A man wearing a nice suit, shiny black shoes driving a new silver car, like the ones he saw coming out of the business office next door. In his dreams, his father would see him sitting there, and have pity, not knowing that he was his son. He would take him out to eat lunch, hot dogs from the stand across the street- his favorite. Upon telling the man that he had no father, the man would realize that he was his long lost son. They would embrace, and return home together to live happily ever after. They would go fishing, and his father might even buy him a dog for his 10th birthday.
Every day he waited, and every night he returned to the two-room apartment he and his mother lived in to fall asleep on the couch. Sometimes she’d remember to make him dinner, sometimes she’d be too caught up with the man she brought home that night to even realize he was in the same room. On those nights, he would pick up his blanket and walk into the bathroom, creating a warm nest of the cold, porcelain bathtub. He would turn on the faucet in the sink in hopes of drowning out the giggles and moans seeping under the door, and fall asleep to the sound of his stomach growling.
Monday, April 9, 2007
500 Word Setting
A young Luka ran through the open field, the low hum of the life of the forest like a song carried on the faint breeze. The greenery brushing at his ankles tickled him to the point that he didn’t know if he was laughing at the touch, or because of the joy he felt. When he could no longer see his house or the road, he collapsed into the lush, cool grass. He lay panting as the sun pounded down on his chest, burning him as if trying to bake him. The rough grass beneath him itched like hundreds of microscopic invisible bugs, crawling, but he was too happy to care.
The white and yellow flowers swayed in the breeze around him. He had an aura of naïveté about him, for he was just a child, still free from the weight of the world like the feather of a newborn bird. He stood up, and meandered towards the trickling sound of the stream, like tiny shells clashing against each other in the hands of a small girl. The stream laughed with him as he picked flowers on its shore, white, yellow, white, yellow, white… He cut each from the ground with his fingers close to the ground, in order to allow new flowers to grow again. Expertly, he created a long braid of flowers and grasses, the bright pollen staining his fingers.
Luka breathed in the deep, sweet smell of the flowers, the scent of the tart grass mingling together, making a perfect balance. Over by the mountains, he caught sight of a menacing black cloud. He watched as it approached slowly, undaunted. He continued to finish his crown of flowers. The field became darkened, shaded by the cloud, but it wasn’t until he felt the drops of rain pelting onto him that he started running.
He ran from the rain into the shelter of the forest, pebbles and twigs biting into the soft soles of his feet. He ran until he could run no more, the beautiful sunny day left behind him. He eyed the trees around him, and realized that he was lost. With great disdain, he reached up to find that he no longer had the crown of flowers he had made—he must have lost it somewhere in the field as he ran. He wandered through the woods that he thought would provide shelter, and soon realized it was quite different. The wet leaves gave in to the weight of the water, sending splatters of rain down onto him, soaking him through. He shivered, his teeth chattering and his bare chest quivering like that of a scared deer. He found himself deep in the heart of the forest… uncharted territory. He sat down and succumbed to his panic, crying as the rain crashed down on his head, unrelenting and cold.
The cloud had been but a small storm cloud, and passed in time. Luka was left alone in its wake, watching it with hating eyes as it rolled into the distance. It was incapable of mercy. He searched for hours to find the field again, and finally found it as the setting sun lit up the grasses like fire, a whole burning beacon to light his way home. Somehow he was ungrateful. He retraced his steps and searched avidly for his crown, to no avail. As he returned home in the dark, damp and cold, his feet numb from the dew so that he could no longer feel the sting of the gravel and twigs, he couldn’t wait to be home.
The white and yellow flowers swayed in the breeze around him. He had an aura of naïveté about him, for he was just a child, still free from the weight of the world like the feather of a newborn bird. He stood up, and meandered towards the trickling sound of the stream, like tiny shells clashing against each other in the hands of a small girl. The stream laughed with him as he picked flowers on its shore, white, yellow, white, yellow, white… He cut each from the ground with his fingers close to the ground, in order to allow new flowers to grow again. Expertly, he created a long braid of flowers and grasses, the bright pollen staining his fingers.
Luka breathed in the deep, sweet smell of the flowers, the scent of the tart grass mingling together, making a perfect balance. Over by the mountains, he caught sight of a menacing black cloud. He watched as it approached slowly, undaunted. He continued to finish his crown of flowers. The field became darkened, shaded by the cloud, but it wasn’t until he felt the drops of rain pelting onto him that he started running.
He ran from the rain into the shelter of the forest, pebbles and twigs biting into the soft soles of his feet. He ran until he could run no more, the beautiful sunny day left behind him. He eyed the trees around him, and realized that he was lost. With great disdain, he reached up to find that he no longer had the crown of flowers he had made—he must have lost it somewhere in the field as he ran. He wandered through the woods that he thought would provide shelter, and soon realized it was quite different. The wet leaves gave in to the weight of the water, sending splatters of rain down onto him, soaking him through. He shivered, his teeth chattering and his bare chest quivering like that of a scared deer. He found himself deep in the heart of the forest… uncharted territory. He sat down and succumbed to his panic, crying as the rain crashed down on his head, unrelenting and cold.
The cloud had been but a small storm cloud, and passed in time. Luka was left alone in its wake, watching it with hating eyes as it rolled into the distance. It was incapable of mercy. He searched for hours to find the field again, and finally found it as the setting sun lit up the grasses like fire, a whole burning beacon to light his way home. Somehow he was ungrateful. He retraced his steps and searched avidly for his crown, to no avail. As he returned home in the dark, damp and cold, his feet numb from the dew so that he could no longer feel the sting of the gravel and twigs, he couldn’t wait to be home.
Character Exercise 1
What's In a Name?
Luka:
Luka:
As Luka set the table in the dining room of the two story farmhouse he lived in, he realized how much he was going to miss it. The warm and inviting tones of hardwood table glowed a rich brown in the fading light of one of the last days of fall. The last four plates of china were what the family’s once extravagant table settings had been reduced to. Everything else had been sold in hopes of keeping the small farmhouse and property, but people like his family were no longer allowed to have land of their own, no matter how much they were willing to pay. Luka glanced in sorrow about the room, and realized that in leaving this, he would leave behind his childhood. The black and white pictures on the wall spoke of times when his family had been much better off, and he smiled to think of all the picnics he used to go on with his little sister in the fields. He set down the last silver-plated fork, and adjusted the white laced place-mat, the edges fraying from age, as he frowned at the thought of this table being the source of the money used to transport them and what was left of their personal belongings to the city.
Antje:
It was his second month in the new school. It was much bigger than the last one, with its grey stone walls extending 3 stories, slanting into a black-slate roof that would make the whole schoolhouse unbearably hot in the summer. Increasingly, the number of people grew smaller because many boys were dropping out to fight by Hitler's side for a better Deutchland. It was when his Biologie class consolidated with another for lack of students that he first saw her. She walked into the room and immediately his heart fell silent. The air about her shimmered in the morning light, turning her dark brown curls to a dark auburn red. Her hair in coils like smoke bounced with every step she took, and as she turned to face him, he caught a glimpse of her green eyes. Green as the forest and as the field he once played in, with flecks of gold like the sun. The sight brought back the carelessness and that long lost feeling of the freedom privilaged by naivite and innocence. That sight he would never forget.
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