Project Proposal with Rubric out of 100 points: I intend to complete a project composed of both several short stories (and by short I mean very short) and either poetry/free form writing. They will involve a certain cast of characters who are all related to each other in some way/shape/form. Blood relation, acquaintance, enemy. It'll be awesome, I promise.
Narrative Pieces (40): Character creation, plot, actions, choice of words, completion of an idea
Poetry/Freeform (40): Structure (or perhaps lackthereof), creation around an idea or character, clarity of subject, being generally awesome.
Theme (20): Sticking to the general theme, having characters mesh together well, being generally awesome, etc. etc.
Due at the End of Class on 4/22: My rubric and idea! (Finished!)
lass on 4/23: Comment on 2 persons. (David & Briana)
Finish a freefrom/poem based on one or more characters. (Holly)
Due at the End of Class on 4/24: Comment on 1-2 persons, depending on time it take to write:
1 Narrative piece using one or more characters. (Ms. Fairfax, Olivia & Dezzi)
Due at the End of Class on 4/28:Comment on 1-2 persons, depending on time it take to write:
Freeform/poem piece using one or more characters. (Harry, Cory & Jocelyn)
Due at the End of Class on 4/30: Comment on 1-2 persons, depending on time it take to write:
1 Narrative piece using one or more characters.
Presentations/Celebration will occur on Friday, May 1.
Final Comments/Self-Evaluation:
OH HAY. I'M A COMMENTS SECTION. HOW COOL AM I?
David Kang -teh c0mm3ntz )v(@zT@-
lol, for some reason it feels like the book theif, though I know it is not. Holly, any meaning you wanted with Holly or did you just like the name? Holly as in holly wood? Holly wood that is supposed to be boiled and tea'd and cause dreamless sleep? If so the irony is caught. If not... well then I just learned I look way too far into the names of characters.
(comment)- oOOoooOOoo! Is this kinda like a more poetic and cooler version of samantha who? VERDY NIIICE!
Let's meet Holly.
Holly. My name is Holly. My name wasn’t always Holly. I think it might’ve been something else a long, long time ago. If I tried, I could remember it, maybe. I don’t think I really want to. I have a job. I’m good at my job. I work day and night. I’m always tired, but I can’t sleep. It’s not my job. People tell me I look haunted, Holly the Haunted. People tell me there are pills to cure insomnia. They don’t really understand. But the people who try and soothe me, the woman who stroked my hair at the hospital when I collapsed from exhaustion- my eyes still open and my mind still awake- I give those people good dreams. Because it’s my job. It’s been my job for a long, long time. It’s a punishment. I must have done some bad, bad things, but I can’t remember what I did. I can give people dreams or nightmares. I can make them go to sleep. But the comfort of a pillow or a bed means nothing to me. Nothing nothing nothing. No-thing. I am no-thing. I am Holly.
Holly the Haunted.
There was only one thing that Ms. Lily Fairfax could never overcome. This was her irrational fear of Windex. Perhaps it was the eerie blue color or the insidious way in which it swished in that horribly designed bottle. Or maybe it was the chemical, clean smell. Or the “streak-free shine.” Whatever the reason, this fear made it very difficult for Ms. Fairfax to properly clean her windows and mirrors. So instead of cleaning them, whenever one or two windows became obscured by a layer of dust and grime, she simply threw those windows away and bought new ones. Of all different sizes, shapes, and shades.
Despite this eccentricity, she was well-loved in her neighborhood and was known for baking possibly the best cookies anyone had ever eaten. Ms. Fairfax was a squat, aging woman who had done practically everything in her earlier years. The photo albums and portraits covering the walls did not look like her. They featured a young, pretty woman doing a great variety of things: a nurse in an intensive care unit, a dancer for a prestigious ballet, a lion tamer, an explorer of deep jungles. In the place of this girl was a smiling old woman who always had tea time at 3 pm every afternoon.
She owned the two houses on either side of her, as her late husband had built all three of them in a nice little area of the community. Ms. Fairfax rented both these houses, which were small and charming and easy to keep. The man on the left was rarely ever there and Ms. Fairfax barely saw him. But his payments were on time and his lawn was immaculate and since he seemed to have no annoying quirks, Ms. Fairfax was perfectly content with the neighbor on the left. Although, the few times she had seen him, he gave off a rather eerie aura with his politeness. And he seemed all too familiar, really, as if Ms. Fairfax knew him quite well.
The neighbor on the right was a young girl who always seemed tired. Her lawn was not as tidily kept as the man on the left, but Ms. Fairfax was quite willing to let this slide. She felt sorry for the poor dear and very often stopped by with cookies or soup or some home remedy for insomnia. The girl always let her in with a droopy smile and listened quietly to whatever Ms. Fairfax wanted to talk about. She didn’t say much, herself, and what she did say was usually in the slow, halting manner of one who is trying to talk with molasses in their mouth.
It was on one afternoon, when Ms. Fairfax was having tea, that the girl approached her door of her own volition and was promptly and warmly invited in for tea. The girl sat at the table shifting uncomfortably, looking down at her charming flower-decorated tea cup. Her dark hair framed her face and only accentuated the dark circles under her eyes. When the girl finally looked at Ms. Fairfax in the eye, she spoke sluggishly and hesitantly.
“My name is Holly,” she said, “and I want to be your friend.”
Ms. Fairfax used to swing dance with her husband. Now she dances alone. I can see her through her mismatched windows. She’s playing “Beyond the Sea” by Bobby Darin. A look of bliss is in her eyes as her old, arthritic feet carry her around the room with an impossible grace. Ms. Fairfax is going to die in 34 hours, 16 minutes, and 51 seconds. I know this because it is on my desk, printed in size ten Times New Roman. I almost feel guilty that I haven’t talked to her all that much. I think she recognizes me, however, when I sat by Mr. Fairfax’s beside on that warm August night. Or perhaps at the funeral, when I stood beside him as he watched his body being committed to the earth. He handled it well. I respect that in a person. She’s put on Frank Sinatra now and she’s singing along. I think she has a very nice voice, for an old woman. Holly tells me that she used to be a singer. She’s been spending time with her lately. I think it’s because she knows what is bound to happen. Holly always tries to get close to them before they go. Or close to me, which I don’t like. I don’t like getting close to people. But Holly is envious of them, of their ability to go. So she always befriends them before they begin to decline so that she can empathize. Maybe she pretends that she’s dying too, so she can finally rest. I admit, there are times that I am envious of it. The everlasting sleep. No more worries, no more cares. But I know too much. I know how it works. And in this knowing, I can never have it. I have accepted this. It is late. I must work early tomorrow. I must work early.
Project Proposal with Rubric out of 100 points: I intend to complete a project composed of both several short stories (and by short I mean very short) and either poetry/free form writing. They will involve a certain cast of characters who are all related to each other in some way/shape/form. Blood relation, acquaintance, enemy. It'll be awesome, I promise.
Narrative Pieces (40): Character creation, plot, actions, choice of words, completion of an idea
Poetry/Freeform (40): Structure (or perhaps lackthereof), creation around an idea or character, clarity of subject, being generally awesome.
Theme (20): Sticking to the general theme, having characters mesh together well, being generally awesome, etc. etc.
Due at the End of Class on 4/22: My rubric and idea! (Finished!)
lass on 4/23: Comment on 2 persons. (David & Briana)
Finish a freefrom/poem based on one or more characters. (Holly)
Due at the End of Class on 4/24: Comment on 1-2 persons, depending on time it take to write:
1 Narrative piece using one or more characters. (Ms. Fairfax, Olivia & Dezzi)
Due at the End of Class on 4/28:Comment on 1-2 persons, depending on time it take to write:
Freeform/poem piece using one or more characters. (Harry, Cory & Jocelyn)
Due at the End of Class on 4/30: Comment on 1-2 persons, depending on time it take to write:
1 Narrative piece using one or more characters.
Presentations/Celebration will occur on Friday, May 1.
Final Comments/Self-Evaluation:
OH HAY. I'M A COMMENTS SECTION. HOW COOL AM I?
David Kang -teh c0mm3ntz )v(@zT@-
lol, for some reason it feels like the book theif, though I know it is not. Holly, any meaning you wanted with Holly or did you just like the name? Holly as in holly wood? Holly wood that is supposed to be boiled and tea'd and cause dreamless sleep? If so the irony is caught. If not... well then I just learned I look way too far into the names of characters.
(comment)- oOOoooOOoo! Is this kinda like a more poetic and cooler version of samantha who? VERDY NIIICE!
Let's meet Holly.
Holly.
My name is Holly.
My name wasn’t always Holly. I think it might’ve been something else a long, long time ago. If I tried, I could remember it, maybe.
I don’t think I really want to.
I have a job.
I’m good at my job. I work day and night.
I’m always tired, but I can’t sleep. It’s not my job.
People tell me I look haunted, Holly the Haunted. People tell me there are pills to cure insomnia. They don’t really understand. But the people who try and soothe me, the woman who stroked my hair at the hospital when I collapsed from exhaustion- my eyes still open and my mind still awake- I give those people good dreams.
Because it’s my job.
It’s been my job for a long, long time.
It’s a punishment. I must have done some bad, bad things, but I can’t remember what I did.
I can give people dreams or nightmares. I can make them go to sleep.
But the comfort of a pillow or a bed means nothing to me. Nothing nothing nothing.
No-thing.
I am no-thing.
I am Holly.
Holly the Haunted.
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There was only one thing that Ms. Lily Fairfax could never overcome. This was her irrational fear of Windex. Perhaps it was the eerie blue color or the insidious way in which it swished in that horribly designed bottle. Or maybe it was the chemical, clean smell. Or the “streak-free shine.” Whatever the reason, this fear made it very difficult for Ms. Fairfax to properly clean her windows and mirrors. So instead of cleaning them, whenever one or two windows became obscured by a layer of dust and grime, she simply threw those windows away and bought new ones. Of all different sizes, shapes, and shades.
Despite this eccentricity, she was well-loved in her neighborhood and was known for baking possibly the best cookies anyone had ever eaten. Ms. Fairfax was a squat, aging woman who had done practically everything in her earlier years. The photo albums and portraits covering the walls did not look like her. They featured a young, pretty woman doing a great variety of things: a nurse in an intensive care unit, a dancer for a prestigious ballet, a lion tamer, an explorer of deep jungles. In the place of this girl was a smiling old woman who always had tea time at 3 pm every afternoon.
She owned the two houses on either side of her, as her late husband had built all three of them in a nice little area of the community. Ms. Fairfax rented both these houses, which were small and charming and easy to keep. The man on the left was rarely ever there and Ms. Fairfax barely saw him. But his payments were on time and his lawn was immaculate and since he seemed to have no annoying quirks, Ms. Fairfax was perfectly content with the neighbor on the left. Although, the few times she had seen him, he gave off a rather eerie aura with his politeness. And he seemed all too familiar, really, as if Ms. Fairfax knew him quite well.
The neighbor on the right was a young girl who always seemed tired. Her lawn was not as tidily kept as the man on the left, but Ms. Fairfax was quite willing to let this slide. She felt sorry for the poor dear and very often stopped by with cookies or soup or some home remedy for insomnia. The girl always let her in with a droopy smile and listened quietly to whatever Ms. Fairfax wanted to talk about. She didn’t say much, herself, and what she did say was usually in the slow, halting manner of one who is trying to talk with molasses in their mouth.
It was on one afternoon, when Ms. Fairfax was having tea, that the girl approached her door of her own volition and was promptly and warmly invited in for tea. The girl sat at the table shifting uncomfortably, looking down at her charming flower-decorated tea cup. Her dark hair framed her face and only accentuated the dark circles under her eyes. When the girl finally looked at Ms. Fairfax in the eye, she spoke sluggishly and hesitantly.
“My name is Holly,” she said, “and I want to be your friend.”
Ms. Fairfax used to swing dance with her husband.
Now she dances alone. I can see her through her mismatched windows. She’s playing “Beyond the Sea” by Bobby Darin.
A look of bliss is in her eyes as her old, arthritic feet carry her around the room with an impossible grace.
Ms. Fairfax is going to die in 34 hours, 16 minutes, and 51 seconds.
I know this because it is on my desk, printed in size ten Times New Roman.
I almost feel guilty that I haven’t talked to her all that much. I think she recognizes me, however, when I sat by Mr. Fairfax’s beside on that warm August night.
Or perhaps at the funeral, when I stood beside him as he watched his body being committed to the earth. He handled it well.
I respect that in a person.
She’s put on Frank Sinatra now and she’s singing along. I think she has a very nice voice, for an old woman.
Holly tells me that she used to be a singer. She’s been spending time with her lately. I think it’s because she knows what is bound to happen.
Holly always tries to get close to them before they go. Or close to me, which I don’t like.
I don’t like getting close to people.
But Holly is envious of them, of their ability to go. So she always befriends them before they begin to decline so that she can empathize.
Maybe she pretends that she’s dying too, so she can finally rest.
I admit, there are times that I am envious of it. The everlasting sleep. No more worries, no more cares.
But I know too much. I know how it works. And in this knowing, I can never have it.
I have accepted this.
It is late.
I must work early tomorrow.
I must work early.
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