Two Paintings

The Assignment: This is another version of Two Images Separated at Birth (exercise 15): Write a story that is an attempt to bridge two photographs or paintings by, for example, Diana Arbus, Eric Fischl, Cindy Sherman, Edouard Manet, Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot, Tina Barney, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Roy Lichtenstein, Max Beckmann, Mark Tansey, Weegee, or Paul Klee.  As in the previous exercise, use two distinct and unrelated paintings or photographs by two artists.  You need not use fine art photography; collections of old and recent news photography or advertising photos might also be inspiring for this exercise.  Choose two paintings or photographs that are very dissimilar. 600 words.

My Response:

Picture #1:

Picture #2:

“This is your wedding day. Be happier.” My mother said as she walked into the room.

I was standing in the living room of our house. My brother was lounging on the couch behind me, and my father was watching over all of us from his regular perch beside my brother, a rare smile on his face.

Of course he was smiling. This was what he wanted.

“I’m not going to be happy about this, mother.” I told her, barely turning to look at her. My white dress had been hand picked by her, and bought from the most expensive of designers. I thought it looked ridiculous. I suppose I could only be happy that she hadn’t chosen a huge design that wouldn’t have fit in the small space between the table and the couch.

Instead I got to wear a white frothy creation that cinched just below the waist with a white bow, then flared out dramatically. It wasn’t a horrible dress, but I didn’t want to be wearing it at all.

“Stop that. It’s done now, and there’s not going to be any undoing it.”

The wedding. It had taken place only the hour before, and I was dreading that night. My mother had claimed that I had to come back here to get ready, but I didn’t want to leave.

“I still can’t believe you got away with wearing that thing on your arm.” My brother commented behind me, not looking up from his magazine.

He was talking about my armband. It twisted around, looping more than once, and ended with the head of a snake. I loved it. My mother hated it. But it had been the one thing I had refused to budge on.

“Yes, well, she did the family a favour today. And I promise, you’ll be happy.” My mother claimed.

Somehow I doubted that.

The doorbell rang, and my mother went to get it. It wasn’t long before my husband stood in the doorway.

Tall and handsome with jet black hair and steely grey eyes, he would be a catch by anyone’s standard. “Are you ready to go?” He asked.

I just nodded and walked over to him. I hadn’t packed, and I certainly hadn’t changed, but there was nothing I wanted less than to stand in a room with my family who had betrayed me.

The ride to the hotel didn’t take long. I stared around that room the Andy had gotten us. There were trees painted on the walls, and the canopy over the bed looked as if they had been trying to make it look like leaves. The bed itself had brown sheets, and flowers decorated the covers. And on the table beside the bed sat a bowl of apples. He’d brought us to the Garden of Eden.

Two hands fell on my shoulders, and I stiffened. “This wasn’t what I was expecting.” I commented.

“This is just for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll bring you home with me.”

I turned to looked at him, “Why can’t we just go there tonight?”

“Tonight? No, tonight we have much better things to do.” His steely eyes looked directly into mine, and I found myself shivering at what I saw there. “Tonight, we consummate this marriage.”

My eyes widened and I stumbled back. “You know, we barely know each other. Maybe we should wait.”

“You are my wife. You have duties.”

“To have sex with you? I don’t know what you think this is, but…” My words cut off as a hand smacked me across the face, sending me stumbling a few steps until I hit the bed, dazed.

I could feel his hands grab me again, but I didn’t fight. Not as he ripped my dress, not as he pleasured himself on me. Not until he fell asleep beside me, snoring with satisfaction.

A tear slipped down my cheek as I tried not to think about what I had gotten myself into. What my family had gotten me into.

A single hand brushed against the metal, warmed from being against my skin. A snake, it’s metal scales clinging to my arm. What had I done?

My Thoughts: When I was looking for two pictures and happened to come across those two, I thought 'I have to do it!' so I did.  It -- of course -- got rather dark, but I think it works for the assignment.

As always I would love to hear what you think of my interpretation.  And I would love to see what you come up with for the assignment.  Post in the comments section below.

All exercises are taken from The 3 A.M. Epiphany by Brian Kiteley 

Two Images Switched at Birth

The Assignment: Think up a vivid, haunting image.  Work hard to construct this image so it is not only visible to the reader but exciting and though-provoking.  Then think up another unrelated but equally vivid image.  The key to this exercise is to work at composing two unrelated images, two scenes or situations you do not think are part of a story.  Then write a story fragment out of the two images. 600 words.

My Response:

Image #1: A girl, no older than fifteen, dances on the edge of a roof. She seems happy enough, though she doesn’t have any headphones in. Around her rain is pouring down, sticking her dirty blonde hair to her head, and making her makeup run. Her dress would whirl every time she turns, but the water holds it down, so that it only moves awkwardly against her legs. Barefoot, though even that seems to elude her as she dances.

Image #2: A pool of blood in the streets. Dirt is mixed with it, and a few footprints can me seen on the outer edges. People are milled about, some of them with their arms crossed over their stomachs. Others appear more curious, trying to see around the crowd. Crime tape has been set up, and cops are taking statements. A boy, fifteen, stands on the edge of the crowd looking dazed.

“Elena!” I breathed as I stepped out on the roof.

There she was, just like I knew she would be. The rain was pressing her dirty blonde hair to her head as it tumbled from the sky. A flash of lightning brightened the roof for a second, showing me Elena at her finest.

Dancing across the edge of the roof in a way that reminded me of freedom and abandon. I had never been able to mimic her movements. To just let the music take me away. Of course, the fact that she wasn’t wearing headphones didn’t phase me for a second. And her lack of shoes was the least of my worries. This certainly wasn’t the first time I had found her up here.

“Elena, you need to come inside. Mom wants you.”

I cringed when heavy thunder rolled across the sky above our heads. I hated this weather. Always had. Mom said I used to hide under the table the second it started to rain. Sometimes I wished I still could.

Elena, though, barely looked at me. She was too caught up in it. In the dance that she was creating from music that only she could hear.

Mom would kill me if I left her out here for too long, though.

Marching over to her, I grabbed her wrist, and spun her to look at me. Her skirt twirled with her, sending droplets of water dancing across my green tshirt that was already wet from the rain.

“Corey, come on.” She said, a smile on her face, “Dance with me.”

Like that was the first time she’d said that to me.

“No, mom wants you.”

She sighed, and turned back to the edge behind her. Her hips swaying was the only indication that she was still listening to the music.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“You’re the only one who can hear it.”

“No, you can hear it too. If you listen. You could always hear it.”

Anger and frustration welled in my chest. She always said things like that. Why didn’t she realize that I didn’t hear anything. That I didn’t want to hear anything! That she was the weird one, and I was perfectly happy being normal?

Why couldn’t she be normal like me?

“Elena, come on!” I grabbed her wrist and tugged her toward the door.

“No!” She shrieked, yanking her hand out of mine. I tried to tell warn her. To grab her hand again as I watched her foot step back into nothing.

My breath rushed out of my as I stared at the spot where my sister had been only moments before, not knowing what to do.

Below me a scream sounded, covered by the sound of yet another clap of thunder above me. I didn’t hear any of it, though. I couldn’t hear anything over the sound of my blood rushing through my head.

Turning I ran to the door, frantic to get down to the street.

By the time I got there, a crowd had already formed around what I knew was my sister. I didn’t want to look, but I knew I had to.

“Hey, kid. Don’t look, that’s no sight for you.” I heard someone say as a hand landed on my shoulder, but I shrugged it off and pushed through the remaining crowd. The sight, though, was too much for me, and my eyes rolled up into my head.

When I woke up again, a cop was standing next to me. Seeing me awake, he started asking me questions. I couldn’t answer, though. The crowd had thinned out, and I could see where my sister had fallen. All that was left, though, was a pool of blood. Footprints lined the outside, and bright yellow tape had been set up around it while cameras flashed and people cops talked to the people all around.

Pushing away from the cop, I made my way to the edge, still staring at all that was left of my sister. How had this happened?

My Thoughts: This one was interesting.  I'll admit, I spent a lot of time on the images.  I'm a planner by nature, so thinking of the images first then the story wasn't easy for me.  I kept coming up with two that could work as a story.  I'm not sure I succeeded in making them completely independent of each other, but it had gotten to the point where I'd cycled through so many images I was afraid I was never going to write the thing.  Anyway, as always it ended up rather dark (I'm not sure I know how to do a happy-go-lucky type story) but I enjoyed writing it.  And adding in the description that was so necessary with this exercise.

As always, I would love to hear what you think of my response.  And I would also love to see what you came up with for it.  Post in the comments section below!!

All exercises are taken from The 3 A.M. Epiphany by Brian Kiteley 

 

No Ideas, But In Things

The Assignment: Write a very brief story told only in images -- concrete, simple, visually efficient movements and details.  This exercise does not ask you to eliminate people from your prose, just to watch what they do and what objects they crave and caress rather than what they say or think about these objects and actions.  300 words.

My Response:

He raised the fork to his mouth. Red sauce dripped off the fork, and a single curling noodle barely made it as he took the bite.

A slight scraping sound filled the air as the fork slid across his teeth, and he moved the utensil back to his plate, setting it down with a clatter as he chewed. His adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, and he paused, his hands moving to rub together in front of him.

A tiny dot of sauce rested on the corner of his mouth, but he made no move to wipe it away.

Once more he picked up the fork, digging into what was once a perfectly arranged plate. The square of lasagna was now spread across his plate, mingling with the green of his lettuce. The red sauce made it look as though it was bleeding. Cheese had been pushed aside, as it always was at first, and his fork flashed as it tore through the pale noodles.

Again he brought the fork to his mouth, and once more he paused in consideration while chewing.

“Well?” She asked.

His blue eyes flicked up to hers, amusement dancing across them, making them sparkle under the dim lights of the dining room.

“Well, what?”

His fork played with a piece of lettuce, but he made no move to bring it to his lips. It mixed the white dressing and sauce all the more until it turned pink.

“Do you like it?”

His twinkling eyes narrowed, as if he was trying to decide. Grabbing his fork he took another bite, holding up a single long finger while he chewed.

A bun flew across the room, crumbs streaming across the table until it smacked him in the chest, and he laughed a deep rumbling sound.

“It’s delicious.”


My Thoughts: This was the first exercise in the 'Images' section of the book.  I'll admit, I was a little worried about it.  If you ask my critique group they will no doubt tell you that my weakest point with writing is my description.  I didn't know how well I was going to be able to write a story, even a short one like this, using only images.  After all, I so enjoy living in my character's heads.  But, I think it turned out well, don't you?

As always I would love to hear your opinions, and even to see something that you've come up with for the exercise.  Post in the comments section below.

All exercises are taken from The 3 A.M. Epiphany by Brian Kiteley.  

God

The Assignment: The spectrum of narrative perspectives goes from benighted, flawed, unreliable first-person narrations to godlike omniscience -- all-knowing understanding of everyone's thoughts and deepest motives.  But God's POV is also, presumably, a first person narration -- or perhaps God speaks occasionally in the royal we or the second-person plural.  What would God see?  How would God know a very ordinary set of events -- or how could mere human readers see all that a god (let alone God) sees?  Since God should know how to be efficient and get right to the point, do this exercise in 200 words.

My Response:

What did I do?

The thought cut through all the others. The hopes and wishes, the fears and needs. Accompanied by such terrible sadness that it could not be ignored.

The thinker of this thought was ordinary by all means. Brown hair, brown eyes. His skin was tanned, though he’d spent no time in the sun. Normally he would be playing video games by himself in his living room. But that day could not be described as ordinary.

A gun wavered in his hand as he fought against the sick feeling that was building in his stomach. At his feet lay a man with a black mask over his face. Pain engulfed his entire being, and as the last bits of consciousness left him, he thought only of the face of his beloved daughter. The one he had broken into this house for in the first place. She had to eat.

The gun clattered to the ground, No, no, no! I can’t have done this, no!

His hands came up to his head, trying to wipe away the last couple of minutes, but they couldn’t. Nothing ever would.

The pain disappeared as the soul left the body of the man laying on the ground, it’s bright shining light unseen by the killer. Soon, all that was left was the jumbled thoughts of a man whose life would never be the same again.

My Thoughts: This one marks the end of the POV section of the book.  I'm sad to see it go, as there were some very interesting exercises, but POV has also never been a big weak point of mine, so I'm eager to move forward and see what's coming.  As for this assignment, I was a little stumped at first, but eventually I figured out what I wanted to do.  I don't know if this is how a god (or even God himself) would witness such a scene, but I thought I made a fair stab at it.

As always, I would love to hear what you thought of my exercise.  And, if you've come up with your own response to it, I would love to see that.  Post in the comments section below.

All exercises are taken from The 3 A.M. Epiphany by Brian Kiteley 

An Execution

The Assignment: Gather together three or four ordinary people.  Let them meet in a businesslike environment -- a conference room, a grade-school classroom after school hours, a hotel room that is part of a suite so the bed is out of sight.  These three or four people are going to decide to put someone to death.  They are not government officials, rogue CIA agents, Mafia lieutenants -- they're just plain folks.  And the person they choose to execute is also a run-of-the-mill person just like them, except he is slated for death.  Stay in this room.  Don't follow through on the death sentence.  Simply watch this group decide who needs to die and why.  Choosing the victim is going to be hard.  Keeping the group from simply going after someone who has angered them or cut them off in line or slept with a spouse -- that is your problem.  this group of executioners should know one another but not terribly well.  Don't tell us why or how they've been chosen to do this; just accept the situation and try to let them accept it too.  POV -- the executioners', as well as the intended victim's in a sense -- will matter a great deal.  One POV will predominate.  You probably want to tell this scene from a dramatic perspective, allowing only spoken ideas to come out (don't show us the executioners' thoughts).  700 words.

My Response:

 “Jonah,” Karen said as she walked into the room and sat down on one end of the long table.

“Karen,” Jonah was sitting on the other end of the table and barely looked up from the phone that he was staring at.

Both were dressed in jeans. Jonah had matched his with a white tshirt that depicted a fist and the words ‘Nerds Unite!’ on it. Karen had a deep green sweater that stated the name of her college, and her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Their style was in sharp contrast to the conference room they were currently sitting in.

A long brown table took up most of the space in the room. The top shiny, as if it had just been polished. Twelve black chairs circled it. On the walls were screens and projection charts. Neither bothered to look at any of it. They weren’t there for that.

“Karen, Jonah, where’s Mary?” Christian asked as he walked through the door. Unlike the other two, he was wearing a suit, though if it was examined closely, the fraying around the edges would give away it’s age and use. He had spent many long hours mending it so that only the most discerning eye would notice what he hoped to hide.

“Don’t know,” Karen said, pulling out her own phone, though it hadn’t gone off.

“Do you really think that now is the time to be doing that?”

She glanced up at him, a single brow raised, “I’m sorry, was I interrupting you?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, Christian, I don’t. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

“Are you two fighting again?” Mary’s softly accented voice sounded, cutting off the fight that was about to erupt. “Let’s get down to the task at hand rather than getting on each other’s nerves.”

Jonah still hadn’t looked up from his phone, and when Mary walked past she pulled it out of his hands, earning her a glare.

“You can get it back when we’re done here.”

“You sound like my teacher,” He complained. At eighteen, he had just finished high school, and hadn’t yet started college.

Mary just smiled at him, “I am a teacher. Now, let’s get down to business. Whose it going to be?”

The other three went quiet, each of them leaning back in their chairs and avoiding her gaze.

“I don’t want to do this anymore than you, but we don’t have a choice. So, come on, who is it going to be?”

“Why don’t you decide?” Karen asked her. She had her hands in fists and her head was leaning against the back of the chair. “I don’t want to do this.”

“Karen…” Mary began.

“No, Mary, if she doesn’t want to decide, that’s fine.” Christian cut in. “We’ll decide. But she won’t have any input.”

 Karen glared at him, but sat forward in her chair and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. “Here.” 

"Thank you,” Karen said, leaning across the table to grab it and spread it out. One the page four names were written.

Mark Haverty
Sarah DeCoure
Vanessa Melis
Arthur True

“So, which is it going to be?”

“Why does it have to be any?” Jonah complained.

“You know why,” Christian told him, “We’ve been over this. Now we’re just wasting time.”

“I vote for Mark,” Karen put in.

“So quickly, when you didn’t even want to participate.” Mary said with a small smile.

“Just put down my vote.”

A single mark was made beside his name, and Mary looked expectantly at Jonah. 

He was pale as he leaned forward. “Vanessa,” He said softly, ignoring the gasp from the other side of the table.

Mary put a mark beside Vanessa’s name, then looked at Christian.

“Mark.”

“No!” Jonah jumped up from the table. “Not Mark! He’s my brother, you can’t do this.”

“Jonah,” Mary said softly, “You know that this isn’t personal.”

“But…"

 “It’s the way it has to be. I’m sorry.”

Her pencil moved back to the paper and made another mark, then a third.

A tear ran down Jonah’s face, and he grabbed his phone from her grasp before taking off out of the room.

Mary sighed, “I feel sorry for him.”

“Of course you do,” Christian said as he stood from his seat, “We’re killing his brother.”

She nodded, folded up the paper and put it in the pocket of her black slacks. Smoothing down her bright red hair she started out of the room, but paused just before she left and looked over at Karen.

“You’ll let him know, I trust?”

Karen looked slowly up at the other girl and nodded, then stood from her chair and left the room. Their gruesome task was finally over.

My Thoughts:  I've never done this before, but I thought I would add in this section from now on.  This assignment was interesting.  I've always enjoyed torturing my characters (who doesn't) but having them sit down and discuss who should be killed?  That was new.  Definitely a great exercise.   I loved creating these characters, and not letting you -- the reader -- into the heads of these ordinary people who are making such a gruesome decision.  The POV isn't one I would enjoy writing from too often, as I really do like getting in the middle of their thoughts, but it was an interesting change from the norm.

As always I would love to know what you thought of my exercise.  And I would love to see anything that you might have come up with for it.  Post it in the comments section below!

All exercises are taken from The 3 A.M. Epiphany by Brian Kiteley 

The Cheerful Spectator

The Assignment: Introduce to yourself a narrator intimate to a story but outside it as well.  The wonderful effect of a narrator who is intertwined with a story, but also essentially unimportant to its outcome is that you have more leisure to explore the complexities of the plot, the kinks in it, and the gaps of knowledge this cheerful spectator is going to have.  Don't make her omniscient or even close to that, although she can guess expertly at the problems she is observing -- she can even be wrenched by the emotional logjams she is witness to.  This is a lot like The Reluctant I (Exercise 1), except in this exercise place an observer outside the stream of a story, but just outside. (In The Reluctant I, the narrator should be very important to the story.) 800 words.

My Response:

The blanket beneath me was scratchy and did nothing to stop me from feeling the rocks that were poking out of the ground, but I didn’t complain. It was the church’s annual picnic, and I couldn’t have been more excited.

I had spent the last week locked in my room thanks to my father who overreacted when he saw me talking to the Johnson boy. As if he would ever consider me. I’m not beauty to be seeking favours from.

Now, though, I had been allowed out and I would get to see Elena once more.

She walked through the park slowly, a blanket folded over her arm, and a basket in her hand. Her black hair curled where it hung to her waist, covering the pale green dress she wore that cinched at her tiny waist with a deep green ribbon. Beneath her matching bonnet, though, her pale blue eyes were distant.

What could she be thinking about? Now, at the picnic?

“Elena!” I called, waving my hand in the air so she would see me sitting there on the ground.

She smiled as she caught sight of me and made her way over. The distance in her eyes didn’t disappear, though.

“Hi,” She said as she spread out her blanket next to mine and sat down. “Good turn out this year.”

I nodded absently, “Yes. It usually is. The picnic is one of the few times the entire town comes out.”

Elena didn’t look interested in what I was telling her, though. Her eyes were scanning the crowd, searching for something. Or, perhaps, someone.

“Are you alright?” I asked, concerned.

Her blue eyes slid over to me, “Of course, why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know. You look strange. As if something has happened.”

She shook her head, though she averted her gaze, going back to scanning the park. “No. Nothing. I am not as interesting as you seem to think.”

I wasn’t so certain of that. Elena had moved to town only a few months before. Her past seemed a mystery that none could solve. She hadn’t even confided in me, her best friend. Every time the subject came up, she would quickly change the subject. I would find out, though. Perhaps one day when she felt ready to open up about it.

“Well, you’re certainly more interesting than the pastor and his wife,” I gestured to the older couple sitting only a few feet away. Chairs had been brought out for them, and they were sitting there staring at the crowd, waiting for someone to come talk to them. That was the way it always was.

Unfortunately, my joke didn’t seem to be funny to Elena, who only gave me a small smile.

I was just about to ask what was wrong again, when a shadow fell across us, and Elena jumped and whirled around.

“Hello,” A deep voice sounded, and I turned to see Matthew standing behind us.

Matthew had grown up here in town. He’d always been popular with the ladies, who would laugh and whisper behind their fans as he walked by. I had never seen the appeal. Certainly he was good looking with his soft blond hair and deep brown eyes. He was even well built, rather than most of the men in town who were starting to go soft around the middle, but he had always seemed rather self absorbed.

Across from me Elena had gone pale, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she was like the other girls. If she was in love with him too.

“Matthew,” Elena said softly, “How are you today?”

He smiled down at her as he crouched down, “Why, I’m good thank you. I received good news last night, and I intend to celebrate today.

“You received nothing last night,” Elena said sharply before I had a chance to respond. I stared at her in wonder as colour creeped up her cheeks. “I would ask you to leave.”

Matthew just chuckled under his breath. “A feisty one. I like that. We will be well matched when we are wed.”

Wed? My eyes widened, and my mouth dropped open.

Elena didn’t even look in my direction. She stood, forcing him to do the same. Tears had gathered in her eyes, and her hands were knotted by her sides in fists. “We will never be wed. Of that I can promise you.”

“Come now, Elena. After last night…”

Her hand came out and slapped him across the cheek. The sound echoed through the park, and suddenly everyone was looking in our direction.

“You will never speak of last night again. Ever. Do not presume anything, Matthew. You and I will never be wed. That is the last time I will speak of it!” She cried, before she turned and ran off.

Matthew just laughed, rubbing a hand over his cheek, which had gained a hand print. “I’m going to enjoy having her as a wife and making her pay for that.”

My eyes widened in horror as I watched him walk away, then stood to take off after my friend.

As always I would love to hear what you thought of my response.  And if you would like to also do the assignment, I would love to see what you come up with.  Post it in the comments section below.

All exercises are taken from The 3 A.M. Epiphany by Brian Kiteley 

The Ironist

The Assignment: Create an observer of events outside her own direct experience, someone who knows more than she lets on, who jokes with us (the readers) but who also indirectly reveals a complex reading of events she is describing.  M.H. Abrams, in A Glossary of Literary Terms, says, "...in Greek comedy the character called the eiron was a dissembler, who characteristically spoke in understatement and deliberately pretended to be less intelligent than he was." This will be a little like unreliable narrator, but there is the crucial difference that the unreliable narrator doesn't know that he's unreliable.  The dissembler or ironist or trickster is a wiseass, a clown perhaps, a teller of tall tales. 500 words.

My Response:

They say he was the worst of criminals. A string of deaths followed in his wake. Like children following the fabled piper out of Hamlin, he attracted death. Revelled in it. Soaked in the blood of those slain, and craved more.

I suppose that could be true. I certainly know nothing of such events. I am a simple seamstress that works in a shop on butcher street. I answer to my boss; a cow of a lady that demands I work late every night without recompence if I have so much as a single seam crooked. What could I possibly know of a killer?

If I’d had a mother, she might have worried over my safety. But as she died while birthing me, I needn’t be burdened by the knowledge of another’s worry. I was alone in the world, and I preferred it that way.

This story, though, is not about me. No, it is of the killer.

DaVinci, he was called by many, though the police frowned upon the nickname. They thought it encouraged the killer. I am not certain that the people cared. A sense of fear has always given men motivation. Perhaps they enjoyed the uncertainty, the tantalizing thrill that ran down their spines with the thought that it may be them who would never return to their homes.

Regardless, that was his name. Because of what he did with the blood.

I have not seen paintings of the like in any museum upon this earth. Not that I have attended all that many museums. As I said, I am a simple seamstress. But I imagine that they could not compare.

The way the specks would tarnish the walls, dancing across each other. Each of them showing the slaughter under a new light. Only a true artist could have created the picture that each scene portrayed.

Nearly fifty deaths were attributed to DaVinci. I have always thought that the number must be much higher. That an artist such as himself could not simply stop. That there must be some out there that they never found.

The police, though, claim that he has ceased to kill. That we can walk from our homes, free of worry.

Life has dulled since then. It has been implied that something tragic must have befallen DaVinci. And yet, not a single word has been spoken of his fate. I do not know if even the police are aware of it.

Some say that he is dead. I am not so certain. I think that, perhaps, he simply tired of his work and is looking for new motivation. His own muse to once more create the art that he is so passionate about.

Of course, that is nothing more than a theory. One that I simply don’t have time to dwell on. I have seams that require sewing, and I do not relish the thought of staying late into the night once more.

As always, I would love to hear what you think of my response.  And, if you've come up with your own response, please feel free to post it here as well in the comments section below.

All exercises are taken from The 3 A.M. Epiphany by Brian Kiteley 

Historical Omniscience

The Assignment: Write about an event set well in the past, twenty or one hundred years ago.  Write from above, as if by means of researched opinion (bit I suggest you do little actual research). By this I mean write about several historical characters or interesting event, imagining any POV you want. 700 words.

My Response:

It was a morning just like any other. Alarms rang to get everyone out of bed. The cool September breeze made the kids playing outside huddle in their coats and laugh at each other. School buses ran as they always did, picking up the students to go to school. Homework was done. Friends were talking.

It was a normal morning.

The news didn’t take long to spread. Even those that avoided television in the morning, or whose parents didn’t allow, soon found out.

Laughter turned to solemn horror. Teenagers, usually intent on their own lives and whether their boyfriend was popular or not, were quiet as they took in the truth of what had happened.

Hijacked planes. Buildings on fire. Towers toppling. People dying.

It was too much for any of them to take in. How could such a thing happen in this world? Maybe not in the town they lived in. Maybe not even in their country, but they had thought that this world was safe. That they would never have to worry about any of this.

They got on with their day, as they had to. Teachers were not forgiving of students who lingered in hallways wondering how God could have allowed this to happen. They didn’t let children stare out the windows wondering if it could happen to them. If their school was next.

More than one teacher had to wipe their eyes quickly as the class filed in, but they could not allow their students to dwell on the horror. They had to be taught.

Not a thing was learned that day, though. Who could possibly care about the equation for math when the world had changed so dramatically in only a few minutes?

Once the day was done, home was not the sanctuary it normally was. Instead of the television shows that could take their minds off of this terrible event, the stations were filled with broadcasts. Videos of planes crashing into buildings. Of fires starting as debris began to fall. Of that debris starting to look sickeningly like the forms of people.

Images filled kids imaginations, of floors falling, crushing people. Of blood that would never be seen among the debris.

Tears weren’t enough to express the feelings of the world that day.

Parents, trying to protect their children, turned off the televisions. Told them to go read or do their homework. The kids weren’t fooled, though. They heard the sound when their parents turned the televisions back on.

The world was silent that night.

The next morning brought with it new stories. Images of those that had lost loved ones. Reporters digging for their stories. The kids saw it all. Drank it all in. Felt the pain and the anger. Understood that their lives would never be the same. They might not have been there, but the events of that day would echo across the world. There would not be a corner of the earth that would go untouched.

It was more than a week before stations stopped playing the same video’s on a loop. Before the world started to move on.

But the students couldn’t. They had witnessed something that no kid should ever have to witness. They had watched as the world had crumbled around them, even if it was only for a few days. They would tell the tales of that day to their kids. They would forever remember the images and videos. A sight cannot be unseen.

It was the students who remembered. Who held it close to their hearts and swore that nothing like this would ever happen again.

As always, I would love to hear what you thought of my response.  Or, if you were inspired to also complete the assignment, I would love to see what you came up with.  Post in the comments below.

All exercises are taken from The 3 A.M. Epiphany by Brian Kiteley