Post by subtlecollision on Nov 4, 2006 19:44:53 GMT -5
I can't believe I wrote this... it's so strange and not very good at all. I wrote this for English and my teacher really liked it, but as I explained in the chat thread, he's a bit clueless about these things. So I'm looking for suggestions to improve it. We had to first think of a charachter (that's why he's so quirky) and then write a story about him/her.
A Fateful Friendship
Oppressed and uncomfortable as he felt, he nonetheless wrapped his chubby fingers around the doorknob and sent his corpulent body through the door. The day reflected his feelings with a startling perfection-- a pearly fog hovered in the most air and a steadfast, noisy rain cooled his skin. A leaf crunched beneath his foot, and he smiled. It felt good to injure instead of be injured.
He did not know why he had stormed out of his house in such a fury. His parents were nice and his house likewise. Yet, he knew something was wrong, for last night, he had dreamt of a fire enveloping his house and trapping him inside of it. He had to flee. It was a foreboding; it was a warning.
A woman clad in a red coat traipsed down the street, her ebony hair blowing under her hat. She looked placid and tranquil; he wondered how it would feel to be placid and tranquil. Halfway down the block, he heard a shrill, disagreeably familiar voice. It belonged to his mother:
“HOW DARE YOU LEAVE WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU? Antipholus! Antipholus! At least turn around!”
He did not turn around. She had not even listened. She did not care that he felt some sort of evil was lurking in their house.
“PLEASE! WHAT’S BOTHERING YOU? COME BACK!”
He did not come back. Instead, he shouted, “I’d rather go to hell! Actually, on second thought, I’d rather you go to hell!”
Despite his furrowed brow and the twinkle in his eyes, he did not feel terribly angry. He almost felt happy. Recovering from the disturbance of his mother’s words, the air embraced a silence. He relished silence.
Shrouded by the fog, a stop sign caught his attention. Stop. It was ordering him to stop; it was a sign. He stopped. Though the curb of the road on which he sat was far from comfortable, he enjoyed the composure of mind it brought him.
A car, sleek and shining, raced around the corner. Twenty seconds later, and he could still hear the voices. How joyful they were!
For a while, he merely sat there and observed his environs. If his mother actually got off her rear and gazed down the street, she would see him. Like a suitor who averts his gaze as his crush walks by, he did and did not want his mom to see him. The rain, which had hitherto augmented in amount, became less and less. Now and then, it pecked his skin, but he hardly noticed.
Digging into his sweatpants pocket, he withdrew a piece of paper, upon which was ‘Sheldon,’ a drawing of a buffalo. Besides Antipholus’s internet friends, Sheldon was his only confidant.
“I have not had the pleasure of conversing with you all day,” said Antipholus.
As expected, the drawing did not reply. However, Antipholus’s imagination made Sheldon discourse his regrets for not having spoken to him since yesterday.
Antipholus said mildly, “I am rather fond of this stop sign, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose I am,” Antipholus replied as Sheldon.
He grinned. Talking to oneself was an infinite pleasure. He added as Sheldon:
“You were right to be mad at her.”
“Who are you talking to?” a voice, considerably higher in pitch than his own, woke him from his reverie.
At first glance, he only saw the color purple. But when he looked up once again, he saw two girls, probably around his age, wearing purple, frilly dresses. The girl from whom came the voice had a large dog at her heels, its teeth in a snarl.
“A drawing of a buffalo,” he said stupidly.
The girl grinned, “Really? Why?”
“Because he has no one else to talk to,” the other girl giggled.
“Sometimes,” he growled, “Talking to a drawing of a buffalo is better than talking to the people around you.”
Whereas the girl at whom his remark was directed scowled, the other girl laughed. She introduced herself as Melanie and asked him his name.
Although he normally would not have answered at all, he murmured, “Antipholus.”
“Strange name, that is,” the other girl hissed, “And your voice. Is it an accent?”
He was born in the English countryside and, having lived in America for three years, was accustomed to this question. He was also accustomed to ignoring it.
“This is Bess,” Melanie sang, “Antipholus. How’d your parents ever come up with that one?”
“They are actors. ‘Tis a Shakespearean name. I can understand your friend’s ignorance,” he said coldly, “I doubt she has the capacity of mind to comprehend Shakespeare.”
“We’re nine years old,” said Bess, “You seriously expect us to have read Shakespeare? I’m surprised you did. How old are you?”
“Ten,” Antipholus replied nonchalantly, “But age does not always indicate intelligence.”
The dog, shaggy and plump, barked vehemently at him. Melanie reproached it and asked, “Do dogs usually not like you?”
“Er… yeah. I’ve run into a few troubles before.”
“Let’s go,” Bess urged Melanie, who instead said, “Why are you sitting here? It could be dangerous.”
“Because it said to stop.”
“It talks?” Bess laughed.
“Well, if the buffalo does…” Melanie smiled.
Antipholus repositioned himself, causing the dog to start. It endeavored to break free of its leash. The rain came to a halt.
Thinking the conversation over, he rose to his feet. Thereupon, the dog jumped on him and, with Melanie’s shrieks staining the air, knocked him to the ground. A truck zoomed around the corner, but did not seem to notice this episode. Dazed and weary, Antipholus struggled to throw the dog off him. Sweat drenched his shirt, and his muscles tensed. As chubby as he was, the dog weighed more. It began to gnaw at his cheek, tearing the flesh and releasing blood. Soon the dog was at his nose, and the bites were more severe. Antipholus gasped for air.
The girls hovered above him, but as he delved into unconsciousness, their worried faces melted into the sky. Only the throbbing, scorching pain seemed real. Only the blood seemed real.
This was an omen.
When he awoke, it seemed as if nothing had transpired. The wind was strong as always and the fog unwavering. The pain was nearly gone. A pale, round object, which he determined to be Melanie’s face, captured his attention. Bess, along with the dog, was nowhere to be found.
He could not talk to Melanie. Though he usually did not care what other people thought of him, he did not want her to think him a complete fool. He thought himself a complete fool. To add to his consternation, he felt that fate was telling him he could not be her friend when her dog did not even like him.
“Are you alright?” Melanie exploded at once, “Bess went to get help. I’m so sorry. I didn't think he’d do that to you. He,” she laughed, “Has never done that to anyone.”
“I don’t appreciate your laughing,” he retorted despite himself.
“Really? I think you should. I think you should actually try to be happy.”
“After being attacked by your bloody dog?” Antipholus asked incredulously.
Melanie frowned, “Um… yeah. Sitting there with your buffalo drawing, you look like you don't even try to make friends. You just succumb to the bad in the world.”
“What the bloody hell are you talking about? Now you think you know all about me because your bloody dog attacked me?” Antipholus shouted, the pain overwhelming him so much that he had to lay his head down.
“I’m just trying to make you feel better,” Melanie shrugged and added, “Because my bloody dog attacked you.”
Anitpholus checked a grin. As the wind swept over his face, it swept away his inhibitions, too. He said:
“Would you like to be friends?”
“What about Charles?”
“Charles?”
“My dog.”
He rubbed his head, “Do you believe in fate?”
“Yes, definitely,” she stared into the distance.
“How do you know what’s fate and what’s not?”
“Meeting you was fate.”
“As was being attacked by your bloody dog,” he smiled and, as he would remember vividly in years to come, thought pleasant thoughts about the drying blood on his face.
A Fateful Friendship
Oppressed and uncomfortable as he felt, he nonetheless wrapped his chubby fingers around the doorknob and sent his corpulent body through the door. The day reflected his feelings with a startling perfection-- a pearly fog hovered in the most air and a steadfast, noisy rain cooled his skin. A leaf crunched beneath his foot, and he smiled. It felt good to injure instead of be injured.
He did not know why he had stormed out of his house in such a fury. His parents were nice and his house likewise. Yet, he knew something was wrong, for last night, he had dreamt of a fire enveloping his house and trapping him inside of it. He had to flee. It was a foreboding; it was a warning.
A woman clad in a red coat traipsed down the street, her ebony hair blowing under her hat. She looked placid and tranquil; he wondered how it would feel to be placid and tranquil. Halfway down the block, he heard a shrill, disagreeably familiar voice. It belonged to his mother:
“HOW DARE YOU LEAVE WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU? Antipholus! Antipholus! At least turn around!”
He did not turn around. She had not even listened. She did not care that he felt some sort of evil was lurking in their house.
“PLEASE! WHAT’S BOTHERING YOU? COME BACK!”
He did not come back. Instead, he shouted, “I’d rather go to hell! Actually, on second thought, I’d rather you go to hell!”
Despite his furrowed brow and the twinkle in his eyes, he did not feel terribly angry. He almost felt happy. Recovering from the disturbance of his mother’s words, the air embraced a silence. He relished silence.
Shrouded by the fog, a stop sign caught his attention. Stop. It was ordering him to stop; it was a sign. He stopped. Though the curb of the road on which he sat was far from comfortable, he enjoyed the composure of mind it brought him.
A car, sleek and shining, raced around the corner. Twenty seconds later, and he could still hear the voices. How joyful they were!
For a while, he merely sat there and observed his environs. If his mother actually got off her rear and gazed down the street, she would see him. Like a suitor who averts his gaze as his crush walks by, he did and did not want his mom to see him. The rain, which had hitherto augmented in amount, became less and less. Now and then, it pecked his skin, but he hardly noticed.
Digging into his sweatpants pocket, he withdrew a piece of paper, upon which was ‘Sheldon,’ a drawing of a buffalo. Besides Antipholus’s internet friends, Sheldon was his only confidant.
“I have not had the pleasure of conversing with you all day,” said Antipholus.
As expected, the drawing did not reply. However, Antipholus’s imagination made Sheldon discourse his regrets for not having spoken to him since yesterday.
Antipholus said mildly, “I am rather fond of this stop sign, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose I am,” Antipholus replied as Sheldon.
He grinned. Talking to oneself was an infinite pleasure. He added as Sheldon:
“You were right to be mad at her.”
“Who are you talking to?” a voice, considerably higher in pitch than his own, woke him from his reverie.
At first glance, he only saw the color purple. But when he looked up once again, he saw two girls, probably around his age, wearing purple, frilly dresses. The girl from whom came the voice had a large dog at her heels, its teeth in a snarl.
“A drawing of a buffalo,” he said stupidly.
The girl grinned, “Really? Why?”
“Because he has no one else to talk to,” the other girl giggled.
“Sometimes,” he growled, “Talking to a drawing of a buffalo is better than talking to the people around you.”
Whereas the girl at whom his remark was directed scowled, the other girl laughed. She introduced herself as Melanie and asked him his name.
Although he normally would not have answered at all, he murmured, “Antipholus.”
“Strange name, that is,” the other girl hissed, “And your voice. Is it an accent?”
He was born in the English countryside and, having lived in America for three years, was accustomed to this question. He was also accustomed to ignoring it.
“This is Bess,” Melanie sang, “Antipholus. How’d your parents ever come up with that one?”
“They are actors. ‘Tis a Shakespearean name. I can understand your friend’s ignorance,” he said coldly, “I doubt she has the capacity of mind to comprehend Shakespeare.”
“We’re nine years old,” said Bess, “You seriously expect us to have read Shakespeare? I’m surprised you did. How old are you?”
“Ten,” Antipholus replied nonchalantly, “But age does not always indicate intelligence.”
The dog, shaggy and plump, barked vehemently at him. Melanie reproached it and asked, “Do dogs usually not like you?”
“Er… yeah. I’ve run into a few troubles before.”
“Let’s go,” Bess urged Melanie, who instead said, “Why are you sitting here? It could be dangerous.”
“Because it said to stop.”
“It talks?” Bess laughed.
“Well, if the buffalo does…” Melanie smiled.
Antipholus repositioned himself, causing the dog to start. It endeavored to break free of its leash. The rain came to a halt.
Thinking the conversation over, he rose to his feet. Thereupon, the dog jumped on him and, with Melanie’s shrieks staining the air, knocked him to the ground. A truck zoomed around the corner, but did not seem to notice this episode. Dazed and weary, Antipholus struggled to throw the dog off him. Sweat drenched his shirt, and his muscles tensed. As chubby as he was, the dog weighed more. It began to gnaw at his cheek, tearing the flesh and releasing blood. Soon the dog was at his nose, and the bites were more severe. Antipholus gasped for air.
The girls hovered above him, but as he delved into unconsciousness, their worried faces melted into the sky. Only the throbbing, scorching pain seemed real. Only the blood seemed real.
This was an omen.
When he awoke, it seemed as if nothing had transpired. The wind was strong as always and the fog unwavering. The pain was nearly gone. A pale, round object, which he determined to be Melanie’s face, captured his attention. Bess, along with the dog, was nowhere to be found.
He could not talk to Melanie. Though he usually did not care what other people thought of him, he did not want her to think him a complete fool. He thought himself a complete fool. To add to his consternation, he felt that fate was telling him he could not be her friend when her dog did not even like him.
“Are you alright?” Melanie exploded at once, “Bess went to get help. I’m so sorry. I didn't think he’d do that to you. He,” she laughed, “Has never done that to anyone.”
“I don’t appreciate your laughing,” he retorted despite himself.
“Really? I think you should. I think you should actually try to be happy.”
“After being attacked by your bloody dog?” Antipholus asked incredulously.
Melanie frowned, “Um… yeah. Sitting there with your buffalo drawing, you look like you don't even try to make friends. You just succumb to the bad in the world.”
“What the bloody hell are you talking about? Now you think you know all about me because your bloody dog attacked me?” Antipholus shouted, the pain overwhelming him so much that he had to lay his head down.
“I’m just trying to make you feel better,” Melanie shrugged and added, “Because my bloody dog attacked you.”
Anitpholus checked a grin. As the wind swept over his face, it swept away his inhibitions, too. He said:
“Would you like to be friends?”
“What about Charles?”
“Charles?”
“My dog.”
He rubbed his head, “Do you believe in fate?”
“Yes, definitely,” she stared into the distance.
“How do you know what’s fate and what’s not?”
“Meeting you was fate.”
“As was being attacked by your bloody dog,” he smiled and, as he would remember vividly in years to come, thought pleasant thoughts about the drying blood on his face.
;D
But thank-you. 