The Silence of the Lambs
Clarice's Call to Adventure
Agent Clarice Starling walked uncertainly into Mr. Crawford's office. She had no idea what she'd been called for. She had been in the middle of running the Academy obstacle course and she was sweating profusely. The FBI Academy sweatpants and sweatshirt she wore over her t-shirt were practically soaked with sweat. The only things presentable about her now were the pearl earrings she always wore.
Clarice clasped both hands behind her back and looked around the empty office. There were bookcases and file cabinets to the right and left of her, all covered with stacks and stacks of books. Clarice noted the messy desk in front of her and the little computer desk and chair to the right of that; all covered with something. On the wall in front of her was what looked to be a couple of certificates or degrees. A lamp sat on top of one of the file cabinets, making the room seem both comfortable and eerie.
As her gaze swept around the full perimeter of the room, her body followed. She turned and suddenly stopped short. In front of her was a menagerie of massacre. It was only a bulletin board, but from one side of it to the other were photos of dead bodies taken at various crime scenes. The photos showed naked female bodies, most of them with their skin horribly ripped away; skinless torsos and bloodied legs and feet dominated the wall. Starling stared at the photos as if entranced. To the bottom of the board was clipped a newspaper's front page. The caption read “Bill Skins Fifth”, and below it were the pictures of the girls who had fallen victim to him. Clarice thought that this had to be related to the Buffalo Bill serial killer case.
“Agent Starling,” a deep and not unpleasant voice called, startling Clarice out of her gaze, “Clarice M. Good morning.”
“Good morning, Mr. Crawford,” answered Clarice, trying to maintain her composure after having seen the devastation on the bulletin board.
Mr. Crawford was a tall distinguished-looking gentleman. He wore a gray three-piece suit, white shirt adorned with a gray tie and silver eye-glasses. His freshly cut hair was neat against his head, parted on the side. His jewelry consisted of a silver watch and one thin gold bracelet. As he walked around his desk, taking off his jacket, Clarice could not help but wonder what he'd called her into his office for.
“I hear you're doing well in your studies here, Clarice; top of your class,” he said, taking a seat at his desk and reclining, bringing both hands up behind his head. The rush of movement caused Clarice to get a whiff of the cologne he was wearing. She didn't know what it was, but it was something fresh and clean; in complete contrast to the rest of the room.
“I hope so, sir,” answered Clarice, smiling.
“I have a job that's come up and I thought about you,” he said. “Sit down.”
Clarice sat down in the lone chair which sat in front of Crawford's desk. He pulled out a folder and started reading off Clarice's credentials and accomplishments. Visibly uncomfortable with the praise, Clarice started to fidget, reaching up and unconsciously rubbing her earring. “It says here that you'd like to come and work for me in Behavioral Sciences,” Crawford continued.
“Yes, sir,” Clarice said, “very much.”
He looked directly at Clarice for a brief moment, and then leaned forward onto the desk. “We're interviewing all serial killers now in custody for a psycho-behavioral profile. It could be a real help in unsolved cases.”
Clarice immediately sat forward. She listened intently now, brow furrowed.
“Most of them are participating, but there's one we can't seem to get to cooperate.” Crawford stopped a brief beat and said “You spook easily, Starling?”
Clarice laughed again, nervously. “No sir. Not yet, anyway.” She was still a bit uncomfortable to be sitting in front of the Director smelling of sweat, with her hair in slight disarray.
“You see the one we want most refuses to cooperate,” he said. “That's where you come in. We'd like to send you out to the asylum to take another crack at him.”
“And, who's the subject?” Clarice asked.
“The psychiatrist, Hannibal Lecter.”
“Hannibal, the cannibal,” Clarice said dreamily, almost as if she couldn't believe it. Suddenly, the room seemed much less comfortable and much more dreary.
“I don't expect him to talk to you,” says Crawford in the same calm and soothing tone he'd had throughout the conversation. “But I have to be able to say we tried. So, if he won't cooperate, I want just straight reporting: What's he doing. Is he painting? How does he look? Is he sketching? If so, what's he sketching? That kind of thing.”
Clarice swallowed hard, trying to grasp the reality of the situation. She was being asked to meet with Hannibal Lecter, and she realized the impact that this could have on her career as an agent. She focused intently on every word that Crawford was saying.
He picked up a thick file from atop a dozen other documents and sheets of paper covering his desk and placed it in front of Clarice. She was sitting completely upright. “Here's a dossier of Lecter, a copy of our questionnaire and a special ID for you,” he said, placing the other items on top. “Have your memo on my desk by 0800 Wednesday.”
“OK,” Clarice said, quickly grabbing the pile and standing. She turned to make her way out of the office, but suddenly stopped, seeming to have an afterthought. Turning back to Crawford, she said “Excuse me, sir, but why the urgency? Lecter's been in jail for many years now. Is there some connection between him and Buffalo Bill, maybe?” she asked, hunching her shoulders and lifting her head in the direction of the bulletin board.
“I wish there were,” Crawford answered, with what appeared to be the hint of a sad smile on his face. “I want your full attention on this, Starling.” Crawford remained seated behind his desk, but his presence was still the dominant one in the room.
“Yes, sir,” said Clarice, still intensely listening.
“Be very careful with Hannibal Lecter,” Crawford said, looking directly into Clarice's eyes. His voice had taken an ominous tone. “Dr. Chilton at the asylum will go over all the physical procedures used with him. Do not deviate from them, whatsoever. And by no means do you share anything personal with him, Starling. Believe me, you don't want Hannibal Lecter inside your head. Just do your job, but never forget what he is.”
“And what is that?” she asked, concerned.
“Oh, he's a monster.”
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Week Four - My "Menus"
A “menu” of things that make me happy.
Being tickled
Watching someone unexpectedly startled.
A really good situation comedy.
Drinking a good merlot.
Reading a really good book.
Playing a particularly adept tennis match.
Knowing someone loves me unconditionally.
Awards shows/Beauty pageants.
Watching the joy people get in victory/winning.
Lazing around the house watching tv, with no responsibilities.
A “menu” of things that make me mad.
People who are rude.
Unruly children.
Having to do something over again after I had it just right the first time.
Superficial, shallow people who consider themselves above others.
A particularly slow traffic jam.
People who drive while texting/on the phone.
Being kept waiting.
Forgetting something I know I should remember.
Clumsily spilling/dropping things.
Being lied to/about.
Being tickled
Watching someone unexpectedly startled.
A really good situation comedy.
Drinking a good merlot.
Reading a really good book.
Playing a particularly adept tennis match.
Knowing someone loves me unconditionally.
Awards shows/Beauty pageants.
Watching the joy people get in victory/winning.
Lazing around the house watching tv, with no responsibilities.
A “menu” of things that make me mad.
People who are rude.
Unruly children.
Having to do something over again after I had it just right the first time.
Superficial, shallow people who consider themselves above others.
A particularly slow traffic jam.
People who drive while texting/on the phone.
Being kept waiting.
Forgetting something I know I should remember.
Clumsily spilling/dropping things.
Being lied to/about.
10 Quantifiable Things About Me
10 Quantifiable Things
1.Number of siblings I have: 1 brother, 1 sister
2.Number of siblings I talk to regularly: 1 sister
3.Number of states in which I've lived: 5
4.Shortest length of time living in one state: 3 months
5.Number of partners that I've had: 10(?)
6.Number of partners that I've had who were felons: 3
7.Chances that I'll miss an awards show if it comes on tv: 2%
8.Number of times I go to the library a week: 1
9.Average number of books I check out: 3
10.Average number I actually read: 1.
1.Number of siblings I have: 1 brother, 1 sister
2.Number of siblings I talk to regularly: 1 sister
3.Number of states in which I've lived: 5
4.Shortest length of time living in one state: 3 months
5.Number of partners that I've had: 10(?)
6.Number of partners that I've had who were felons: 3
7.Chances that I'll miss an awards show if it comes on tv: 2%
8.Number of times I go to the library a week: 1
9.Average number of books I check out: 3
10.Average number I actually read: 1.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Week Three - I Don't Know Why I Remember
Week Three – Journal 2
I don't know why I remember riding in the back of a rental van driving across the country from Houston, Texas to Los Angeles, CA with the other members of the Drama club. We were all 5 of us laid out in the furthest part of the van, having some of the best fun any of us had ever had. I don't know why I remember the game we played as we waited impatiently to finally get to Hollywood and see some big stars. We were seniors in high school, with some level of dramatic prestige among our classmates, but we were more than ecstatic to get to see some real life celebs. My closest friend, Arnitta and our other good girlfriend, Donna, were playing a game where we'd count all of the Mercedes Benzes that we'd see on the road and once we spotted them we'd do our best Count (of Sesame Street fame) imitation - “ Two! Two Mercedee-cees! HA, HA, HA!” Why we called them 'mercedeecees', I have no idea.
I remember my drama coach in the passenger side, his stature almost dwarf-like, his little black toupee sitting comically on top of his head. Mr. Doner was his name, and he would later die a violent death from some guy he'd picked up and taken home. But that day, I remember him turning around in the passenger seat, beaming at us and pointing things out – we were his pride and joy back then. We'd won numerous awards under his tutelage and had gone on to the state drama competitions and won there also. I remember the trip being a sort of reward for us being such good students in our last year. I wasn't the best actor though, by a long shot. That would go to my friend, Donna, who struck me with her emphatic, cat-like eyes as a sort of stacked African-American Elizabeth Taylor. She actually performed a scene from “Cat on a Hot Tine Roof” in drama competitions. Her curviness was unequaled in our inner city high school.
Yes, Donna was the diva in our group. I was “the smart one” and fittingly when she won the Best Performer award at our last Drama banquet, I was bestowed the award for “Most Likely to Succeed”. Hilarious! That should have given me a clue right there that I was destined to do something other than act. But on this trip, I just remember laughter and excitement and joy. This was the most fun I'd had since I had been in high school. The Drama Club had changed my life. Whereas before, I had been the nerdiest of nerds, walking around with my super-thick eyeglasses and sporting the drippiest of jheri curls. Once I joined that group of hilarious misfits, we elevated one another and as a result elevated ourselves. I was no longer the quiet, reserved bookworm that I once was. I was confident, funny, fun and relatively talented. I remember on that trip I was wearing my favorite Red Devil jeans and my head was in Donna's lap. Donna had her head in Arnitta's lap and we were all laughing and joking around. I remember the sun coming through the windows of the van, illuminating our shiny happy faces and capturing the face of Jessie, the friend of Mr. Doner's who had come along to drive us. His light skin was smooth and I'm not sure whether I had a crush on him or not. But I did like his curly light brown hair and how it was not quite an afro, but almost.
I don't know why I remember Donna affectionately caressing my face, and playing in my hair, almost like a lover would. Her laugh was infectious and I can see her throwing her head back and roaring with laughter, her eyes squinting in a frown of hilarity. I remember licking her face. Yes. I licked her face. It was one of those things that I did because I knew it grossed her out. I'd lick her face and she'd scrub away at that spot for the next 5 minutes, all grossed out, but laughing the whole time. I don't know why I remember being in the back of that van playing “count the mercedeecees” with those girls and finally coming into my own as a young man; I hadn't yet figured out the “gay” part yet, but I think that maybe with that trip, I was on my way.
I don't know why I remember riding in the back of a rental van driving across the country from Houston, Texas to Los Angeles, CA with the other members of the Drama club. We were all 5 of us laid out in the furthest part of the van, having some of the best fun any of us had ever had. I don't know why I remember the game we played as we waited impatiently to finally get to Hollywood and see some big stars. We were seniors in high school, with some level of dramatic prestige among our classmates, but we were more than ecstatic to get to see some real life celebs. My closest friend, Arnitta and our other good girlfriend, Donna, were playing a game where we'd count all of the Mercedes Benzes that we'd see on the road and once we spotted them we'd do our best Count (of Sesame Street fame) imitation - “ Two! Two Mercedee-cees! HA, HA, HA!” Why we called them 'mercedeecees', I have no idea.
I remember my drama coach in the passenger side, his stature almost dwarf-like, his little black toupee sitting comically on top of his head. Mr. Doner was his name, and he would later die a violent death from some guy he'd picked up and taken home. But that day, I remember him turning around in the passenger seat, beaming at us and pointing things out – we were his pride and joy back then. We'd won numerous awards under his tutelage and had gone on to the state drama competitions and won there also. I remember the trip being a sort of reward for us being such good students in our last year. I wasn't the best actor though, by a long shot. That would go to my friend, Donna, who struck me with her emphatic, cat-like eyes as a sort of stacked African-American Elizabeth Taylor. She actually performed a scene from “Cat on a Hot Tine Roof” in drama competitions. Her curviness was unequaled in our inner city high school.
Yes, Donna was the diva in our group. I was “the smart one” and fittingly when she won the Best Performer award at our last Drama banquet, I was bestowed the award for “Most Likely to Succeed”. Hilarious! That should have given me a clue right there that I was destined to do something other than act. But on this trip, I just remember laughter and excitement and joy. This was the most fun I'd had since I had been in high school. The Drama Club had changed my life. Whereas before, I had been the nerdiest of nerds, walking around with my super-thick eyeglasses and sporting the drippiest of jheri curls. Once I joined that group of hilarious misfits, we elevated one another and as a result elevated ourselves. I was no longer the quiet, reserved bookworm that I once was. I was confident, funny, fun and relatively talented. I remember on that trip I was wearing my favorite Red Devil jeans and my head was in Donna's lap. Donna had her head in Arnitta's lap and we were all laughing and joking around. I remember the sun coming through the windows of the van, illuminating our shiny happy faces and capturing the face of Jessie, the friend of Mr. Doner's who had come along to drive us. His light skin was smooth and I'm not sure whether I had a crush on him or not. But I did like his curly light brown hair and how it was not quite an afro, but almost.
I don't know why I remember Donna affectionately caressing my face, and playing in my hair, almost like a lover would. Her laugh was infectious and I can see her throwing her head back and roaring with laughter, her eyes squinting in a frown of hilarity. I remember licking her face. Yes. I licked her face. It was one of those things that I did because I knew it grossed her out. I'd lick her face and she'd scrub away at that spot for the next 5 minutes, all grossed out, but laughing the whole time. I don't know why I remember being in the back of that van playing “count the mercedeecees” with those girls and finally coming into my own as a young man; I hadn't yet figured out the “gay” part yet, but I think that maybe with that trip, I was on my way.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Week Three - My Short Story
Week Three, Journal 1
A Deer in His Headlights
Jacob had just left the best party of his life. He'd finally hooked up with Sally there and he could hardly believe his luck. Ever since he'd moved here from Dallas, he'd been looking for somebody special to spend his time with. Sally seemed like she could be that girl. And man, she had looked good! Her hair was down, which was a change because she always had it pinned in the back of her head, and that tight dress she'd been wearing was rocking!
“Whoa”, he said, as he straightened the wheel of his new Honda Civic. He'd almost driven off the road. He thought about those 6 long island teas he'd had at the party and the two beers he'd had on the way over. He realized that he probably shouldn't be driving, but hell, he figured he had to get home some kind of way. Sally had had to leave because she was dropping a couple of her girlfriends off. She said she was gonna call when she got home to “check on you”, as she put it. And he could hardly wait to get there.
In his excitement, Jacob sped up. “Just a few miles over the speed limit's not gonna hurt anything”, he thought. Besides he was perfectly fine. In the past, he'd drank much more than what he'd consumed that night and he was always perfectly fine. Yep, Jacob considered himself a lucky duck.
He whistled merrily and smiled like he'd just won the lottery. Keeping his eyes on the road ahead, he reached over to grab his cell phone out of the console. “Dam, why is it so dark on these country roads in Minnesota?”, he thought aloud. As soon as he'd grabbed the phone, it rang.
“Yell-oo,” he said gaily. He listened intently, but didn't hear anything. “Yo! Hello!”. Still nothing.
Thinking that it might have been Sally, Jacob dropped the phone, irritated, and gave the car a little bit more gas. “Oh yes! I can not WAIT to get her over to my house tonight!” he said, still driving as carefully as he could. By this time, he was traveling close to 75 miles an hour on the not so brightly lit highway and he was feeling fine.
He looked down to retrieve his phone once again, it wasn't there. He looked into the seat and then looked over to make sure it wasn't on the floor on the passenger side and when he returned his gaze to the road ahead it was too late. He'd looked up just in time to see that a deer had jumped into the middle of the road and he was bound to hit it.
“Oh my -!!” he started, but that was all he could get out before the impact of the collision forced him into silence. As the body of the deer came crashing through the windshield, Jacob raised his hands up to shield his face, but the car's air bag beat him to the punch. The car spun once and Jacob heard the deer make the most horrible sound that he had ever heard, and then all was silent.
A Deer in His Headlights
Jacob had just left the best party of his life. He'd finally hooked up with Sally there and he could hardly believe his luck. Ever since he'd moved here from Dallas, he'd been looking for somebody special to spend his time with. Sally seemed like she could be that girl. And man, she had looked good! Her hair was down, which was a change because she always had it pinned in the back of her head, and that tight dress she'd been wearing was rocking!
“Whoa”, he said, as he straightened the wheel of his new Honda Civic. He'd almost driven off the road. He thought about those 6 long island teas he'd had at the party and the two beers he'd had on the way over. He realized that he probably shouldn't be driving, but hell, he figured he had to get home some kind of way. Sally had had to leave because she was dropping a couple of her girlfriends off. She said she was gonna call when she got home to “check on you”, as she put it. And he could hardly wait to get there.
In his excitement, Jacob sped up. “Just a few miles over the speed limit's not gonna hurt anything”, he thought. Besides he was perfectly fine. In the past, he'd drank much more than what he'd consumed that night and he was always perfectly fine. Yep, Jacob considered himself a lucky duck.
He whistled merrily and smiled like he'd just won the lottery. Keeping his eyes on the road ahead, he reached over to grab his cell phone out of the console. “Dam, why is it so dark on these country roads in Minnesota?”, he thought aloud. As soon as he'd grabbed the phone, it rang.
“Yell-oo,” he said gaily. He listened intently, but didn't hear anything. “Yo! Hello!”. Still nothing.
Thinking that it might have been Sally, Jacob dropped the phone, irritated, and gave the car a little bit more gas. “Oh yes! I can not WAIT to get her over to my house tonight!” he said, still driving as carefully as he could. By this time, he was traveling close to 75 miles an hour on the not so brightly lit highway and he was feeling fine.
He looked down to retrieve his phone once again, it wasn't there. He looked into the seat and then looked over to make sure it wasn't on the floor on the passenger side and when he returned his gaze to the road ahead it was too late. He'd looked up just in time to see that a deer had jumped into the middle of the road and he was bound to hit it.
“Oh my -!!” he started, but that was all he could get out before the impact of the collision forced him into silence. As the body of the deer came crashing through the windshield, Jacob raised his hands up to shield his face, but the car's air bag beat him to the punch. The car spun once and Jacob heard the deer make the most horrible sound that he had ever heard, and then all was silent.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Ron Carlson's "Story"
Ron Carlson's Story – Response
This was a very interesting take on the short story. I actually read this book in one sitting. The one major thing that I will take out of reading it is to "stay in the room". To tell the truth, I hardly ever actually "stay in the room" when writing a story. I usually get distracted by television or a phone call that comes in or some other part of everday life.
I completely agree with the concept of "staying in the room", because it means finishing something you've begun and making sure you've finished it. I find myself sometimes getting frustrated because I don't know what to say next or what the next event will be in a story, but I've gotten from the book that it's not important if you don't know. What's important is to stay with it. Something will eventually come if you're true to the characters and are in the story as them. I'm kind of excited to actually test the whole “stay in the room” concept out and actually write a whole story in one sitting because I've never actually done that before.
That's why I think his concept of the "outer story" is also important. Because the outer story can lead you places you never considered going before. He says on page 48, "The outer story is the world of the story, the real concrete elements and places of the story that is composed of all the sensory imagery." I think when you've created a full outer story, your story will naturally begin to flow and go in directions that you never would have thought to take it before.
It was also interesting to see how the story was built from the first idea to its completion. It was good to learn also that if an idea is important to you, then it's definitely worth writing about. Sometimes I have ideas and wonder which ones are worthy of being put down on paper. Carlson is clear in his opinion that if it's not something that is important to you, then you shouldn't write about, even if it's something that's important to someone else. You, as the writer, must be compelled by the idea and want to tell the story for yourself.
Sidenote: I thought his take on television writers was funny, because I had actually considered being a sit-com writer. But as he said, that would be writing for someone other than myself and I'd like to write about things that are important to me, not necessarily an audience.
This was a very interesting take on the short story. I actually read this book in one sitting. The one major thing that I will take out of reading it is to "stay in the room". To tell the truth, I hardly ever actually "stay in the room" when writing a story. I usually get distracted by television or a phone call that comes in or some other part of everday life.
I completely agree with the concept of "staying in the room", because it means finishing something you've begun and making sure you've finished it. I find myself sometimes getting frustrated because I don't know what to say next or what the next event will be in a story, but I've gotten from the book that it's not important if you don't know. What's important is to stay with it. Something will eventually come if you're true to the characters and are in the story as them. I'm kind of excited to actually test the whole “stay in the room” concept out and actually write a whole story in one sitting because I've never actually done that before.
That's why I think his concept of the "outer story" is also important. Because the outer story can lead you places you never considered going before. He says on page 48, "The outer story is the world of the story, the real concrete elements and places of the story that is composed of all the sensory imagery." I think when you've created a full outer story, your story will naturally begin to flow and go in directions that you never would have thought to take it before.
It was also interesting to see how the story was built from the first idea to its completion. It was good to learn also that if an idea is important to you, then it's definitely worth writing about. Sometimes I have ideas and wonder which ones are worthy of being put down on paper. Carlson is clear in his opinion that if it's not something that is important to you, then you shouldn't write about, even if it's something that's important to someone else. You, as the writer, must be compelled by the idea and want to tell the story for yourself.
Sidenote: I thought his take on television writers was funny, because I had actually considered being a sit-com writer. But as he said, that would be writing for someone other than myself and I'd like to write about things that are important to me, not necessarily an audience.
Week Two - Closer To Memory
Week Two – Journal Entry/Free-Write 2
Closer to Memory Exercise
I remember quite vividly one of the first houses that I lived in. Although it wasn't the first house I remember, I will never forget it because of a traumatic event that happened there. It was on a little dirt road called True Lane and it was the first house that my mom owned on her own. She was a single mother, raising three kids. I was the oldest at around 13. This would make my brother about 11 and my little sister, 3.
There was a leisurely knock on the front door that day. It was a sunny Saturday and I can remember us kids just sitting around the small living room, watching television with our backs to the window that faced our even smaller front yard. My mom was wearing some short-shorts and a little tee shirt and was in the kitchen making us lunch, I suppose. She stopped what she was doing and walked over to the door. We had of course, immediately looked out the window to see if we could see who was at the front door, but we couldn't. We were always excited to have people come over. This time, we weren't so excited.
When my mother opened the wooden front door and we saw through the screen door that it was none other than Willie Bush, we were immediately terrified. Willie Bush was the ex-husband of my mom's best friend, Angela and he was a bad customer. The week before, he had pistol-whipped Angela and she had come to our house bruised and upset. My mom had taken pictures of her and convinced her to go to the police. That night, violence had exposed itself to us and we were left shocked by what we'd seen. In our young minds, Willie Bush meant pain and fear. And there he was at our front door.
My little brother started crying instantly. I'm sure he suddenly saw images of her being beaten and kicked. I know I was seeing them. My little sister probably had no idea what was going on, but seeing my little brother crying set her off, too. My mother was all the parent that we had at the time and she and I were very close. I wanted to be there for her, but I was scared to death.
Her reaction stunned me. All I could do was watch her. She was very calm, which was the complete opposite of what I was feeling inside. I wanted to tell her to close the door and lock it, but I was frozen solid and couldn't do anything but watch. I remember him saying, “I just wanna talk to you for a minute” or something to that effect.
The cereal that I'd eaten that morning threatened to return when I saw he was a holding an ugly looking gun down by his side. My mom noticed it too, and spoke to him calmly. Somehow, she maneuvered Willie back down the porch and across the yard to the old LeSabre that she drove us around in. Fear finally got the best of me, and I burst out crying, too. Now there we all were, crying and snotting, looking out the front window at a sight we had never imagined we'd be seeing.
I knew why my mother had gone to the car. First of all, it was probably to get him away from us, but more importantly, my mom always kept a long, sharp knife underneath the floor paneling in the car. The knowledge of this gave me some hope, but not much against Willie. We knew him to be a maniac who could do terrible things.
Though I was feeling intense fear and worry for my mom, I did think enough to call 911 and blubber through my tears that my mom was in danger. I will never forget this image: my little brother, my little sister and me all straddled on the back of the couch, looking through the window, crying ferociously, and my mother sitting in the driver's side of the car, one leg in and one leg out with the door open and Willie standing above her. Although they seemed to be talking calmly, the menace emanating from Willie was evident. I didn't know exactly what he wanted, but I knew if he didn't get it, we would probably be crying for a long time to come.
I don't know how it happened exactly or how much time had passed, but before long a blessed police cruiser pulled up through the dirt lane and parked behind my mother's car. I had never been so happy to see the police. They both turned in the direction of the car at the same time and Willie said something to my mom and took off, running like his feet were on fire. I will never forget how we cried and hugged our mother that day. That house and True Lane will always remind me of the day my mom escaped Willie Bush.
Closer to Memory Exercise
I remember quite vividly one of the first houses that I lived in. Although it wasn't the first house I remember, I will never forget it because of a traumatic event that happened there. It was on a little dirt road called True Lane and it was the first house that my mom owned on her own. She was a single mother, raising three kids. I was the oldest at around 13. This would make my brother about 11 and my little sister, 3.
There was a leisurely knock on the front door that day. It was a sunny Saturday and I can remember us kids just sitting around the small living room, watching television with our backs to the window that faced our even smaller front yard. My mom was wearing some short-shorts and a little tee shirt and was in the kitchen making us lunch, I suppose. She stopped what she was doing and walked over to the door. We had of course, immediately looked out the window to see if we could see who was at the front door, but we couldn't. We were always excited to have people come over. This time, we weren't so excited.
When my mother opened the wooden front door and we saw through the screen door that it was none other than Willie Bush, we were immediately terrified. Willie Bush was the ex-husband of my mom's best friend, Angela and he was a bad customer. The week before, he had pistol-whipped Angela and she had come to our house bruised and upset. My mom had taken pictures of her and convinced her to go to the police. That night, violence had exposed itself to us and we were left shocked by what we'd seen. In our young minds, Willie Bush meant pain and fear. And there he was at our front door.
My little brother started crying instantly. I'm sure he suddenly saw images of her being beaten and kicked. I know I was seeing them. My little sister probably had no idea what was going on, but seeing my little brother crying set her off, too. My mother was all the parent that we had at the time and she and I were very close. I wanted to be there for her, but I was scared to death.
Her reaction stunned me. All I could do was watch her. She was very calm, which was the complete opposite of what I was feeling inside. I wanted to tell her to close the door and lock it, but I was frozen solid and couldn't do anything but watch. I remember him saying, “I just wanna talk to you for a minute” or something to that effect.
The cereal that I'd eaten that morning threatened to return when I saw he was a holding an ugly looking gun down by his side. My mom noticed it too, and spoke to him calmly. Somehow, she maneuvered Willie back down the porch and across the yard to the old LeSabre that she drove us around in. Fear finally got the best of me, and I burst out crying, too. Now there we all were, crying and snotting, looking out the front window at a sight we had never imagined we'd be seeing.
I knew why my mother had gone to the car. First of all, it was probably to get him away from us, but more importantly, my mom always kept a long, sharp knife underneath the floor paneling in the car. The knowledge of this gave me some hope, but not much against Willie. We knew him to be a maniac who could do terrible things.
Though I was feeling intense fear and worry for my mom, I did think enough to call 911 and blubber through my tears that my mom was in danger. I will never forget this image: my little brother, my little sister and me all straddled on the back of the couch, looking through the window, crying ferociously, and my mother sitting in the driver's side of the car, one leg in and one leg out with the door open and Willie standing above her. Although they seemed to be talking calmly, the menace emanating from Willie was evident. I didn't know exactly what he wanted, but I knew if he didn't get it, we would probably be crying for a long time to come.
I don't know how it happened exactly or how much time had passed, but before long a blessed police cruiser pulled up through the dirt lane and parked behind my mother's car. I had never been so happy to see the police. They both turned in the direction of the car at the same time and Willie said something to my mom and took off, running like his feet were on fire. I will never forget how we cried and hugged our mother that day. That house and True Lane will always remind me of the day my mom escaped Willie Bush.
Week Two - 101 Word Story
Week Two – Journal Entry 1
101 Word Story
The bus was full. Only one seat left. She looked into his eyes and felt warm. She sat next to him. He looked at her and smiled. Her beleaguered unhappiness, which had threatened to beat her down, eased. He offered the newspaper and winked when she shook her head. She felt an odd electricity, suddenly. Time, which had flown by, now seemingly stopped. They rode in silence, but their presence and eyes spoke volumes. It was no surprise when they reached his stop. This time, he offered his hand. Taking a deep breath, she stood and followed him into the future.
101 Word Story
The bus was full. Only one seat left. She looked into his eyes and felt warm. She sat next to him. He looked at her and smiled. Her beleaguered unhappiness, which had threatened to beat her down, eased. He offered the newspaper and winked when she shook her head. She felt an odd electricity, suddenly. Time, which had flown by, now seemingly stopped. They rode in silence, but their presence and eyes spoke volumes. It was no surprise when they reached his stop. This time, he offered his hand. Taking a deep breath, she stood and followed him into the future.
Week One - Four Sentences
Week One – Journal/Free-Write 2
Four first sentences
1. “Say one more word, and you'll never see him again,” Sister Mary said calmly.
2. I'd never felt pain the way I felt it on my wedding day.
3. Mary Agnes never wanted to have no babies in the first place, let alone one that was Black.
4. It was only the beginning of my descent, but at the time it already felt like rock-bottom.
Four first sentences
1. “Say one more word, and you'll never see him again,” Sister Mary said calmly.
2. I'd never felt pain the way I felt it on my wedding day.
3. Mary Agnes never wanted to have no babies in the first place, let alone one that was Black.
4. It was only the beginning of my descent, but at the time it already felt like rock-bottom.
Week One - First Sentence Story
Week One – Journal/ Free-Write Entry 1
I could tell the minute I got in the door and dropped my bag, I wasn't staying. For one thing, the place looked almost uninhabitable. As I looked around the room, it gave me the creeps to see their faces looking so glazed over, almost like zombies. How did I let my brother convince me to come back down here to Texas for the Labor Day weekend? I have no idea. I resented him already.
“What's up, dude?” said one of my brother's stoner friends, barely lifting his head off his chest.
“Hey,” I said. “Where's George?” There were at least seven people in what could be called a living room. My brother, Georgio, had just gotten an apartment with his girlfriend Nancy and from the looks of the place, they had an “open door” policy. Guys were slouched across the couch and splayed out on the floor, all heads turned towards the small color television, which was sitting on what looked like a nightstand.
“Yo, dude,” said zombie #1, “he's making a beer run. Paco over there just popped the last tab. Asshole.”
“Fuck you,” said a lanky looking Mexican kid, who couldn't have been more than 19. He turned and looked at his accuser, and belched loudly.
Nice. This is definitely not going to be where I'll be staying this weekend. I could smell the faint scent of marijuana in the air, and it confirmed my suspicion that these guys were fried.
I shifted around uncomfortably, still standing right inside the front door. I was the older brother who had moved across the country to be adventurous, but I didn't feel very adventurous right then. I just wanted to get the hell outta there. Not that I didn't occasionally smoke a joint or two, but I didn't like the crowd my brother hung out with. His friends ranged from his geeky Mexican friend to his thug-like Black friend, Pooky. Most of these kids I remembered from growing up in the apartment complex where my mom still lived.
Some of them hadn't amounted to much, which was no surprise. But I wanted something different for my brother. Which was one of reasons why I agreed to come hang out with him for the holiday weekend. I wanted to try to be a positive influence, but I could tell this was going to be challenging.
“So, where's Nancy?” I asked, finally leaning against the wall and crossing my arms.
Damon, who was my mom's best friend's oldest son, turned to look at me and finally noticed my presence. “Yo! Wassup, Dee?” he said, grinning.
“Hey, Damon,” I said, shaking my head. “Dude. Did you just notice I was standing here?”
“Man, you know Judge Judy don't play,” he said. “I can't miss a word!”
I could tell the minute I got in the door and dropped my bag, I wasn't staying. For one thing, the place looked almost uninhabitable. As I looked around the room, it gave me the creeps to see their faces looking so glazed over, almost like zombies. How did I let my brother convince me to come back down here to Texas for the Labor Day weekend? I have no idea. I resented him already.
“What's up, dude?” said one of my brother's stoner friends, barely lifting his head off his chest.
“Hey,” I said. “Where's George?” There were at least seven people in what could be called a living room. My brother, Georgio, had just gotten an apartment with his girlfriend Nancy and from the looks of the place, they had an “open door” policy. Guys were slouched across the couch and splayed out on the floor, all heads turned towards the small color television, which was sitting on what looked like a nightstand.
“Yo, dude,” said zombie #1, “he's making a beer run. Paco over there just popped the last tab. Asshole.”
“Fuck you,” said a lanky looking Mexican kid, who couldn't have been more than 19. He turned and looked at his accuser, and belched loudly.
Nice. This is definitely not going to be where I'll be staying this weekend. I could smell the faint scent of marijuana in the air, and it confirmed my suspicion that these guys were fried.
I shifted around uncomfortably, still standing right inside the front door. I was the older brother who had moved across the country to be adventurous, but I didn't feel very adventurous right then. I just wanted to get the hell outta there. Not that I didn't occasionally smoke a joint or two, but I didn't like the crowd my brother hung out with. His friends ranged from his geeky Mexican friend to his thug-like Black friend, Pooky. Most of these kids I remembered from growing up in the apartment complex where my mom still lived.
Some of them hadn't amounted to much, which was no surprise. But I wanted something different for my brother. Which was one of reasons why I agreed to come hang out with him for the holiday weekend. I wanted to try to be a positive influence, but I could tell this was going to be challenging.
“So, where's Nancy?” I asked, finally leaning against the wall and crossing my arms.
Damon, who was my mom's best friend's oldest son, turned to look at me and finally noticed my presence. “Yo! Wassup, Dee?” he said, grinning.
“Hey, Damon,” I said, shaking my head. “Dude. Did you just notice I was standing here?”
“Man, you know Judge Judy don't play,” he said. “I can't miss a word!”
I'm Back....Again
Hey, guess who's back? It looks like I'll be cranking this puppy up again. I'm currently taking a Fiction Writing class as part of my degree curriculum and one of our first assignments is to create a blog. Guess who's got a head start on that!? So, I'll be writing some stories and posting them and other writing exercises here. I'm excited to get started, so here we go!
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