Three Sentances - 02/04/10

[Edward Cheever]

Today in our Rough Writers meeting we each wrote a sentance, and then we all had to use all of our sentances to write a short story. Here are our results!

Those sentances were:
1 - She walked down the narrow street, her heart beating wildly against her chest.
2- He wanted to start off with a monologue about Finland, but he had only been there in his dreams.
3- It was his goal, his desire, his holy grail.

Mine -

He read, “She walked down the narrow street, her heart beating wildly against her chest.” He knew that the word “narrow” had something to do with the overall theme of the piece, but he couldn’t tell what. Ted leaned back in his old office chair and folded his arms behind his head. His gazed wandered the ceiling and he blew at a strand of hair that flitted over his eyes. Literary Criticism was most certainly not his forte.

He looked back over his paper. The beginning was still rough. He wanted to start off with a monologue about Finland, but he had only been there in his dreams. Besides, there was no telling how the teacher would take it. He felt that Finland had something to do with the literary work, whose name he’d already forgotten, He was just… having some difficulty tying it all together. But if there was one thing that his High school classes had taught him, it was that Finland could be applied to anything.

But would his teacher understand this? Ultimately, this paper was a plea. A plea for a great grade. It had to be perfect. He knew that he wouldn’t get an A for anything less. His GPA was all important. It was his goal, his desire, his holy grail. The tangent in the third paragraph about the statues of Easter Island was extremely well done, he felt, and so it should remain. Transitioning back to the gritty noir was difficult however. Nevertheless, his political quip should suffice. Transitions are clichéd anyway, who needs them.

The conclusion at least was masterful. It was a moving tribute to his favorite pet, and the days before she died. Sure, he didn’t really mention the literature much in it. But he was certain it was the emotional impact that would count in the end.

He printed it out and stapled it confidently. His first paper in his first semester in college was ripe; fit to amaze and wonder his inept professors. This college thing wasn’t going to be so difficult after all.

[glen]

“Pardon me,” the soft voice said, shaking him from his quiet reverie. “Do you know if the soup is good here?”
Lars looked up from his table in surprise. The voice sounded sweet, and as he stared at the young woman standing facing him, he felt it was also appropriate. A soft halo of light fell on wispy blonde hair and a delicate form wrapped in white lace. She stared at him expectantly, waiting, as his mouth dropped open and the sthingy drooped from one side.
“Uh…” was all he could manage to reply. She smiled slightly and her eyes looked down to the soup that sat half eaten before him. Soup, he thought to himself. She asked something about soup.
Suddenly soup was the last thing on his mind. He wanted more than anything to sweep her off her feet and the two of them escape in a gondola down the canals of Venice. But he first needed something witty to say. He wanted to start off with a monologue about Finland, but he had only been there in his dreams. He thought of the dog show that he had just attended, and wondered if she liked beagles. He desperately searched for the right words, knowing that the perfect sentence would change his life—and hers—forever. It was his goal, his desire, his holy Grail.
A thousand words, phrases, passages flooded his mind. Nothing was right. No words came. And the blood drained from his face as he realized the futility of words, the hostility of the sky, the vacant obsequiousness of the red and white tablecloth before him.
He stared at that tablecloth for what seemed like an eternity, searching for the right words. And it might have been an eternity. For he suddenly realized that she had moved on to another table where another young man sat sipping the soup.
“Pardon me? Is the soup good?” he heard her ask. In a rage, his face turned from ashen to blood colored. He took off his right shoe and launched it at the other young man. As the man opened his mouth to speak, the black patent leather shoe smacked the rival in the side of the temple. The pea soap flew through the air, the table overturned and the rival collapsed into a heap. Our hero’s eyes narrowed, satisfied, until he realized that she had left the restaurant.
He cried as he watched her from a distance. She walked down the narrow street, her heart beating wildly against her chest. She was happy to be alive, and swore to never again visit that restaurant or ask strangers about soup.

[Sarah]

Here is mine-

Author, Soren Alezander Von Kimmler sat at his desk, pen tapping on its surface. What should I write? He wanted to start off with a monologue about Finland, but he had only been there in his dreams. Ideas trickling through his head at a million miles per second did nothing to help his problem. He wanted to write a masterpiece. It was his goal, his desire, his holy grail. Would life ever work out how he wanted? He sighed, dropping his pen on the desk and putting his head in his hands. Misery washed off of him in torrents.
Suddenly, it was as if one of the Muses, goddesses of inspiration had touched his thoughts with imagination. He took his head out of his hands and picked his pen off his desk. The words seemed to fly across the page.

She walked down the narrow street, her heart beating wildly against her chest. The secret she carried must not fall into the wrong hands. Racing against time, she ducked into a side street. She could hear her pursuers passing the street. She ducked behind a pile of boxes for good measure. Suddenly a hand covered her mouth. Then all she knew was blackness.



Soren sat back against his chair, smiling in happiness. Maybe things were going to work out. He sipped his peach tea and smiled at his wife across the room. Yes, things were definitely looking up.