Original Writing: Short Story
It was the night of the year that few children can sleep. The night
when everyone hopes that snow will fall and they will wake up to a
garden of glistening diamonds grown by the morning sun. It was
Christmas Eve.
As many had hoped, snow was falling. It slowly covered the houses and
streets in a thick blanket. The moon shone her silver light down on
the white world, and but for one, there was nobody to view the kind of
beauty that things such as love and dreams are made of. The only one
there to see the spectacle was a small boy of five, or six years.
This little boy possessed a beauty not of this earth, a beauty that
surpassed even all that surrounded him. His curly blond hair had never
seen a blade, and it framed a face that belonged to a cherub of a
painting of old. His eyes were of the brightest, clearest blue, and
they sparkled like pools of water born on the earth's first day. His
skin was as pink and soft as a newborn child's. It was a beauty born
in the dreams of dead poets, and the few lucky enough to see it with
their own eyes would remember it as long as they lived.
On this night of happiness and anticipation, the little boy wandered
sad and alone through a painting so beautiful no one could ever paint
it. The glistening tears frozen to his cheeks told a story, but it is
one that is lost to us. No one will ever know why the boy was alone,
and there was no one to even care that he was. And that was all he
wanted. He walked through the snow hoping only that someone would save
him. That someone would come to him, and hug him, and tell him that
everything would be all right. And maybe, jus...
... middle of paper ...
...wanted for Christmas. As before, he laid down on the church
steps, and waited for the man to come and take him away.
The next morning, on the most joyous day of the year, there was no joy
in one small church. Only sadness. More sadness than many had ever
known. Early, on that glorious morning, churchgoers found the little
boy. He laid there on the church steps, covered in snow that he wore
like a shining white garment. The little boy had frozen overnight, but
even death could not take his beauty away. It was said, that the
little boy looked more like and angel sleeping innocently on the
church steps, and less like a lifeless child. The little boy had died
with a smile on his heavenly face, and clutched in one hand was a gold
chain with a crucifix, and in the other, was a small plastic star,
covered in silver glitter.
them but they did not recognize him. At the village Jesus stopped and ate with
"And then I woke up."Thus goes the kind of "trick ending" that every first year writing student is told to avoid, a mark of cheap theatrics and poor craftsmanship.Historically, this kind of ending is often associated with Guy de Maupassant, the prolific French writer of the 19th century, or his 20th century American heir apparent, O. Henry (William S. Porter).In this well researched and at moments insightful book, Richard Fusco argues that Maupassant's bad rap as first and foremost the inventor and disseminator of the "trick ending" is undeserved.What Fusco feels Maupassant does deserve is recognition as perhaps the single most important influence on American short story writers of the late 19th and early 20th century, particularly Ambrose Bierce, Kate Chopin, Henry James, and of course O. Henry.However, even as Fusco's readings of these writers are laudable in their thoroughness (with the exception of his treatment of O. Henry), his overall argument seems finally too dependent on an understanding of "trick ending" which does not make necessary distinctions, and is therefore superficial enough to accommodate nearly any writer one cares to name.
March 1, 2001 5:39 p.m. - Nerves, nerves, nerves…how can one letter enclosed inside of an envelope determine so much? Michael Livingston had plenty to lose. Try four years of undergraduate school at Morehouse University, two years of Notre Dame graduate school, and Harvard Law. Yes he had plenty to lose. Walking into the door of his closed-space apartment, he sits down with the letter in plain view. Thump, Thump, Thump! His heart races like greyhounds at a race track. The time is here. The time is now. Michael opens the letter to find his results of the BAR exam he had taken…
A NEW PAGE by P. Ringon It’s been two weeks, and I haven’t made any real friends. It’s just that, I feel as if no one likes me. Sure, I’ve talked to a few people, like Jessica and this really hot guy Chase, but I’m starting to feel lonely again. I mean, I was captain of the cheerleading squad at my old school, and was one of the most popular girls.
the crowded room. She was like a red silk rose in a garden of weeds;
It was one of those nights that the sky was clear and the stars were visible. I had just defeated the stress of finals and was now ready to be back in action; the late night activity of the San Francisco underground scene was calling my name. It is where a person could go and walk down one street and probably visit at least 30 clubs by doing this. There was a particular flavor I was in search of this night, something that could make me exert my body to its fullest extent. I needed to go and release some stress by dancing at a club, I needed to let loose.
Once upon a time there was a kid named Alfred. Alfred was in the 3rd grade and he loved playing on the schools playground at lunch. Alfred was kind of an awkward fella and he had no friends. The kids made fun of him every single day.
It was about one-thirty in the morning in the town of Homestead Michigan. The almost florescent light of the moon bouncing off the fresh puddles that covered the ground. The grass and trees were covered in a thin layer of water causing every little beam of light to reflect back up. Anyone who may have been outside at this time would have without double, smelled the mix of fresh dirt and night crawlers. As the moonlight started to fade away through the cloud cover, three buses made there way through the streets and parked in front of HHS, the local high school.
There was a girl named Kandy, she was 15 years old. Her life was extremely boring, all she ever did was go to school, go on her computer, eat and sleep. She spent all summer on her computer. She was really good with HTML and spent her free time making web sites. Kandy didn't have many friends and rarely talked to guys because she was shy and unconfident about her looks. That's why she went into chat rooms. She made a web site with pictures of herself on it and told people in chat rooms to go there. A lot of people would tell her how pretty she was and some would say she was ugly. That made her feel awful. When anyone would say anything nice to her, she wouldn't believe them and think that they were just making fun of her. She only had one real friend that she could talk to, her name was Ang.
She dashed to her room with her head buried in her hands and slammed the door, tilting the photo of them both at the Sydney Opera House on their first date. Joshua dawdled across the hallway staring into the tilted photo. The memories rushed back into his mind like an untouched treasure chest opened again for the first time. Four years ago, the beach was a scorching furnace, under the sun, slowly cooking the people on it, but a scent had teased his nose. Not the overwhelming smell of sea water and sand, but a fresh smell, like the smell of skin just out of the shower. He had glanced sideways and saw the most perfect arm he'd ever seen in his life. Long, slender, graceful, full of sinewy muscle and smooth skin. His eyes followed the arm to the shoulder and then the head. Her head. A head covered with long brown hair and a face that made his heart stop.
Charlie woke up on one morning from a rough sleep, feeling like he did last night, not knowing where he fitted in the world. Everything was changing around him, the technology was getting more advanced, the music had more meaning and fashion started to kick in. It was a dark and cloudy Monday morning in Sydney and Charlie was getting ready for school, when he sat down on the edge of his single bed with his covers untucked and half on the bed and half on the fall, Charlie started putting on his school socks. He was still pondering the question that kept him up last night “where do I fit in this world?”. Charlie thought to himself “is anyone asking them-self the same Question, should I know where I fit in?. After pondering this for ten minutes, Charlie had to leave for school. While in the can on his long trip to school, his mother was listing to the radio, she turned the music up. Charlie sat listing to the song with him head on the window of the car and looking out at the house’s, kids walking and talking to their friends and other cars passing them, when he started thinking about the lyrics to this one song, once again he thought to himself “do I fit in ?, should I be a part of this generation ?”. He knew when the song stopped that he had to start finding where he fitting in the generation of the 60’s
The traditional short story is a genre of a prose. It is a fiction work that presents a world in the moment of an unexpected change. The traditional short story obeys some rules, such as the unexpected change and major events with detail. The modern short story is a revolution which is based on the traditional short story. In other words, if the traditional short story is in the first floor, the modern short story is in the second floor. Therefore, the modern short story still obeys some rules that the traditional short story obeys, and breaks some rules that the traditional short story obeys. One rule that the modern short story still uses is the unexpected change. The rules broken by the modern short story are that the major events are not detailed, and that the border between the real world and the fiction world. This paper first talks about the unexcepted change and uses the examples of “Eveline” and “The Open Window.” Then, this paper talks about major events with detail, and uses the examples of “Lottery,” “The Open Window” and “Hills Like White Elephants.” Finally, this paper talks about the meta-literary and the border between the real world and the fiction
Writing is such an essential part in any person’s life. If you’re anything like me, writing can be quite therapeutic. In elementary children find joy in writing their name and complete sentences. Once those students get older and reach a middle school age they are drilled to become “testing writers.” Texas students are completely overwhelmed with the writing structure and expectations of a test that by the time they reach high school students are completely burned out and so far withdrawn from a piece of paper and pencil.
face, and it was not a bitter smile. Not bitter at all"; this is the