assign5

The main street crooked in the middle at the pedestrian crossing. There in the slabs of sidewalk stood the monumental clock designed by the Miller brothers. Small children played hide-n-go-seek between its pillars.

assign3&4: beginnings and endings

Opening Sentences by karynkonynenbelt

God?

Would it be racy to ask a beggar for his shoe?

But to what end?

His profound, shallow eyes were frigid and his breath, staccato.
The oxymoron draws immediate attention to his eyes--deep, yet superficial--and frigid. I chose the word frigid over still, because #1 the dual meaning of the word (emotionless and still) and #2 the meter of the word suits the sentence well. The metaphorical approach of describing short, detached breaths also lures the reader in. The word, "staccato" has a sort of metrical choppiness to it (almost onomatopoeia-like), emphasizing the patterns of breath taken by the character. What furthers the 'startlingness' of this opening sentence is the lack of information. There is no context, no character name, no information say for the description of "his" character behavior.
source: drug addicted boyfriend

The whiteness stares at me in contempt as I sit, marking the two-dimensional figure with the last ball point pen I may ever touch.
The use of the present-tense and modal verbs makes this opening sentence 'startling'. Additionally, the sentence does not reveal an adequate amount of information for the reader to be able to decipher for him/herself who is taking the action (I-narrator) and where the action is taking place. The use the modal verb "may" signifies the uncertainty of the narrator and also ratifies the use of the present tense.
source: personal experience at Pine Rest Mental Health Hospital

He’d read somewhere, as if it were some universal fact, not to pass judgment on an individual unless you have walked two seasons in their sneakers.
The... stylistic terms, why is it 'startling'?
source: Walk Two Moons, by Sharon Creech

When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home.
The Outsiders, S.E. Hinton
I liked this opening sentence for a few reasons. 1) There are many assumptions made in this sentence in establishing a tentative setting; the narrator went to the movies during day hours, Paul Newman either directed, produced, or acted in the movie that the narrator had gone to see, the narrator is a participating character (I-narrator), and so forth. I like the contrast between the "bright sunlight" and the "darkness" of the movie house in the initial description. The NRTA, "things on my mind" reaffirms the established character-narrator POV.

When I stepped up into the bright streetlight from the darkness of the alley way, I had only two things in my hand: marijuana and a loaded pistol.
By changing "out" into "up" I have manipulated the spatial POV and inferred meaning into the sentence that may not have already been there. Stepping up to something infers the idea of confronting it in hopes of conquering whatever it may be. I chose to change the context of the story to fit the idea of "stepping up". As a result the good feeling of participating in leisure activities turned into the bad feeling of participating in criminal activities. The connotations words carry bring loaded meanings to simple sentences. Lastly, to confirm the connotations, I changed "on my mind" to "in my hand" and "Paul Newman and a ride home" to "marijuana and a loaded pistol". The assumptions are still there, the character-narrator has not provided adequate information for the reader to know precisely what occurred prior to the opening sentence, but there are plenty of implications.

In walks these three girls in nothing but bathing suits.
A&P, John Updike
Firstly, "walks" is bad grammar. The character-narrator's voice is recognizable by the poor usage of the English language. The deictic expression, "these" suggests a close relationship; however, if you read on, they are strangers. Interestingly enough, the use of deixis remains an interesting part of the opening sentence since, as a narrator-character, one can assume that he is story-telling. The reader also assumes that the narrator is inside, "In walks these three girls...", indicating a spatial setting for what comes next in the text. The rest somewhat speaks for itself; any reader will question where, exactly, is the action taking place?

In stomps those four boys in nothing but whitey tighties.
Stomps versus walks, those versus these, boys versus girls and underpants versus bathing suits. I did not have to change much, but what I did change completely destroyed the established plot and story. I made the veritably "sexy" story into a story about rambunctious little boys.

A woman I don’t know is boiling tea the Indian way in my kitchen.
The Management of Grief, Bharati Mukherjee
I think the reason I particularly liked this opening sentence was because of the modality and scantiness. It is very brief and I like it. It also poses questions for the reader; why is there a woman in "my" kitchen? Is she Indian? Assuming that the narrator can see the woman and the kitchen, the I-narrator must be in close proximity of the woman-character. Thus, the spatio-POV is established. It is interesting how in few words, a reader can be submersed into a fictional reality.

A man I'd like to know is smoking pipe the ostensive way at my bedside.
Basically, all I've done here was change the modality to "would like to know" as opposed to "don't know" which shows more about the "relationship" or lack there of, between the narrator-character and the character-man. I've also made it more modal with the use of the word "ostensive", "appearing as such". It forces the rest of the short story to be somewhat ostensive in and of itself.

I seemed to be standing in a busy queue by the side of a long, mean street.
The Great Divorce, C.S. Lewis
I think I have a thing for modality, for once again, my found opening sentence contains a modal verb. However, I chose this opening sentence, not for its modality (at least I do not think that crossed my mind), but for its assonance and (for lack of better terminology) personification; "mean street".

I had been standing in a vacant lot by the side of a bleak, lethargic farm.
I removed the modality and focused more on the assonance. Without modality, there is a definite time/location implied. The focus, thus, is brought more on the setting and less on the doubtfulness of the narrator-character. However, if you read on, modality is somewhat crucial to the story. Uncertainty is a fairly common feeling of the character.

Deadly Endings by karynkonynenbelt

The colorlessness of the ward had taken on a shade seemingly brighter than before. The last of her chairs lay splintered across the void. Vaera’s lungs cracked as though she’d taken her first breath of air. In the morning, Jem would not call out her name. Tomorrow, Jem would say nothing. Taboo forbids him to talk about buckets and daisies.

assign1: childhood memory

The Weary Night by: karynkonynenbelt

Four hours. The moon had long before awoken the night. Crickets and quarreling tom cats fought to be heard over the roar of the carrier trucks passing by on the freeway. Somewhere a floor board snapped back into place as they often do in the hours after the sun sinks into the land. Cherlote lay; eyes wide open, listening to the second-hand tick-tock its way around the face of the clock. Everyone in her family lay tucked away in the comfort of their beds asleep while she waited, her heart beating twice as often as the second-hand's pulse. The sounds of the ordinary night had often lulled her to sleep; however, this was no ordinary night.

One hour. "If you’re not awake when I’m ready to leave, I won’t be bringing you along. Do you understand?" Cherlote had drifted into a light sleep; the voice of her father still lay heavily on her mind, her anticipation growing ever stronger.

Tring-tring-tring

The weight of sleep lay deep inside her body until in a slow, prolonged stretch she managed to break free from its tranquil embrace. Excitement quickly replaced her weariness as the familiar sounds of her father's footsteps traveled up the staircase. Cherlote bolted out of bed, her wrinkled clothes wearing the stench of sleep. Her father nodded towards the door where her tennis shoes sat ready to go. He slumped down to tie his own tattered shoes, thick with grim from months of hard labor in flour and sweat.

Cherlote stepped anxiously into the brisk air followed by her father. She climbed into the family’s old rusty van. The rumble of its engine and the 14.50 WHTC chime of the radio station simultaneously broke the natural song of the night.

Six minutes.

The hinges whined as the heavy back door was pushed open. Her father switched on the lights and proceeded to the closet. Cherlote followed hastily behind him. Tying his apron across his waist, he signaled to her to do the same. “Wouldn’t want to bring you back to Mom lookin’ like I baked you into a cake now, would we?”

He walked swiftly about the place, flicking switches and pulling large, metal bins out from under the work table. Cherlote climbed up top a metal bin and sat, watching intensely as her father weighed the dry ingredients and tossed them in the tub-like mixing bowl. She had dozens of questions.

“What are you going to make with that?” and “Why do you weigh the sugar? and “How do you make the muffins?” and “When do you bake the bread?” and,

“Can I help?” Cherlote asked.

“You can make the donut holes,” her father responded, somewhat perturbed by all of her inquiries. He hadn’t had the time to play his role as father. Not here. Not at work.

Cherlote’s eyes beamed with pride as she watched her father’s calloused hands manipulate the leavened dough. He rolled out a few sheets of dough and tossed cinnamon spice over them. From those, he formed braids and pretzels and placed them on several screens to rise. He rolled out a couple more sheets of dough.

“When do I get to help?” Cherlote interrupted.

“In a minute.”

He rolled dough and spread fillings and operated machines and tossed flour and rolled more dough. The arm of the dough mixer thud loudly as a drum whilst the rotating oven shelves whistled as a flute. Together all of the sounds merged into a melodious lullaby, beckoning Cherlote to sleep. At this point she had moved from the metal bin to the mountain of flour sacks.

Four hours.

“Cherlote… Cherlote…?”

Forcing herself out of the trance, Cherlote lifted herself off of the flour sacks.

“It’s time to go, hun.”

“But Dad, I didn’t get to help!” Cherlote cried.

“You’d fallen asleep and I couldn’t wake you,” he explained. “Tell you what, we’ll go to Mc Donald’s for breakfast to make up for it.”

“But I don’t want to make up for it. I want to help!”

“Next time. This time it’s too late. Do you want to change your mind about Mc Donalds?"

assign2: interactive situations

One Evening in the Lab, by karynkonynenbelt.

"You should just print it."
"Yeah, but, um..."

He sighed.

His eyes sunk into his cheek bones and his breath smelt of slumber.

Between the turning of textbook pages, the clattering of keys on the keyboards, and the hum of the computers, which by the way, established quite a placid “silence”, were the hurling of random statements and remarks.

"Shonge-jonge-jonge."

"Maybe we should start with 'this is a special project'"

"This part." He pointed somewhere in the text. "Introduction to..." the voice trailed off.

That is the problem with accents. They are not always easy to follow.

"...I thought it... it’s pretty funny..." he remarked minutes after typing several sentences on the screen.

He stared intensely at the pages of adobe reader. Perhaps they were working together, discretely, since collaborative work was seen as a form of plagiarism by some of the instructors on campus.

"Is this correct?" a voice somewhere down the row of computers broke out.

"En la cuarenta y cinco." Spanish—quite the popular language track amongst the Dutch students of the university.

The cellular phone of the young woman with dark hair and delicate hands broke the mumble of diligently working students. Speaking quite loudly, rudely,

"You haven't started yet?"

"Yes, I've got the assignments written down somewhere. One sec."

"Okay… …you're going to regret not starting. There’s quite a lot due tomorrow."

"Mmmm... you have to write about a childhood memory. One page. And come with significant drafts."

"It's on workspaces."

"Wait, there’s more. You also need to do fieldwork."

"Yeah, well, you should have started at the beginning of the weekend. He also mentioned printing off the short story that we need to read for Friday, so..."

"Well, I will let you go."

"See ya t’morrow."

She tossed her phone into her handmade school bag and went back to work on her computer. She sat alone.

My attention was adverted back to the drowsed male students. I heard them say,

"There's a difference in men and women and their reactions as well."

A trilling on the desk nearly went unheard.

"Ja?”

"Nou, ik zit nu in Eleanor."

"Ik ben een PowerPoint aan het maken."

"Oke."

"Oke. Is goed."

"Tot dan."

A code-switch. The call was the means by which the students continued their dialogue in Dutch, their mother tongue. The rest of their conversation rushed by like the wind. It would be impossible for a foreigner like myself to keep up with their 'snel praten'. I could only hear that the student with thin hair came from the South.

A female’s voice murmured in the back row. She seemed to be talking to herself, for when I looked; there was no one around her, 'side for the humming computer boxes and the blank monitor screens.

A couple of the workers removed their sweat shirts from their backs.

There were extensive lulls in the conversations. Most of them worked independently, including our Dutch conversationalists, who seemed to have fallen slave to their work; their eyes illuminated by their monitors light. The chair grunted and whined.

How unfortunate the life of a chair, I thought to myself. All too often do men foul themselves on the laps of their recliners. No wonder they whine. Their groans sound of stomach grumbles. Speaking of stomach grumbles…

"Hey."

On the phone again.

"Ja is goed. Of zit je... ik kom er ah... langs."

Someone in the other room was talking on their cellular phone. A tall, dark, and handsome walked into the lab. The conversations kept mumbling on. The jangle of metal wrist bands added a sweet sound to the ornery chairs and tiresome computers. A loud ktankt from the vending machine outside the lab signified someone's shared craving for a snack.

The night was minutes to close.

The young woman with dark hair and delicate hands typed her last word. The following day, he did not see her. He would not see her. She logged out.