Create a Short Story- length: 4 double spaced typed pages. To receive full credit, your short story must include the following elements from below: You will be graded on your progress in class and the final product as well. There is also a homework assignment that is to be completed by next class, either through e mail or written.
A. Using the perspective of the character that you have been assigned and have developed, describe your setting(assigned). This character will explain the time period that they exist in and what their world looks like. Be conscious of the way a personality communicates their surroundings. Plan the details that they will include and how they see and describe their surrounding.
This should be at least one and a half pages of double spaced typed pages. If you write this by hand it should be single spaced and one and a half pages.
You may write this from the third person if you so choose, as long as you are including the character and an expression of their character in your work.
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B. What conflict will the character have in their environment? Write this into the story.
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C. Finish this short story by concluding with a logical and feasible closure to the story, with a substantial point.
Homework- Read the first 5 pages of the following short story. Explain the character, conflict and setting.
ELECTRIC MOON
Searching
He could feel that his clothes were
soaked through. It wasn’t just wet. His socks were drenched. But Owen was at the point where the wet was
becoming less irritating. It wasn’t cold
enough to do any harm. He could still
move his fingers and toes and he was close to the deer he had been
following.
His dark hair was thick and longish
now. For years now, he cut his own hair
when it was burden. He couldn’t remember
the last time he had actually sat down and let someone else do it. That event always seemed like an awkward 15
minutes of trust. A complete stranger-
stranger-to-stranger, searching for meaningless small talk. This moment was a substantial part of society
in a smaller more concentrated form. He
had made this comparison for at least four years before he finally decided to
leave Atlanta.
It would be dark soon, half an
hour.
Luckily, there hadn’t been any long
stretches of open space for it to make progress in evading him. And he had been so silent. His stealth was embarrassing; like a secret
he had never shared. Owen could move
through the forest more silently than most animals half his size.
Something moved in the brush up the
incline from Owen. It was too close to
be his prey; perhaps it was a bear or a bobcat.
Owen knew that he had to be careful
in woods such as these. This was a
territory where loggers were missing frequently. Perhaps, they were just transients who picked
up and left. Tourists fantasized that
bears were the culprits. A body could
disappear a long time in some of the caves around the mountains.
A bear would have made more
noise. It was too loud to be a
bobcat.
Maybe another hunter?
He made an ascent to the
right. He decided to flank the straight
way up. He would find a way up to the cliff above, for a view of whatever it
was. If he could move fast and quietly
enough, he would assume the advantage.
This was not a place where ownership and wealth dictated the winners;
mostly it was the opposite. The smaller
animals had to be fierce. But this was
not the pit of a ghetto. If you were
hungry, you would go out and get what you needed. Everything was simplified into survival’s
basic form.
But where had the deer gone? It was this unassuming creature he was
counting on. There were only so many
shrubs and potatoes he could eat. He was
starting to feel lighter. He thought
about the Native American shamans who starved themselves for enlightenment.
From the cliff, he might be able to
see both, his prey and the other.
As he moved up, he could hear
whatever it was- definitely not a bear- move up and to the right. This was going to make it much more
difficult. He would have to make a
larger arc around to the cliff, and faster.
He moved, glided from flat rock to
flat rock.
Within a few short minutes,
crouching, he perched on the corner of the cliff with sincere interest. He wasn’t an excessively large man but dense
and compact. Owen had wide shoulders and corded, defined muscle. He had been a Jai Lai athlete once. Throughout law school, Owen worked as a
carpenter. His build was meant for and
created by an evasive aspect of strength, controlled movement. At just under 200 lbs, he was an agile 6’.
1”. Even the barroom brawlers didn’t
usually choose a physical confrontation with him because of the perceptibly
even balance of physicality and demeanor.
His expressions were considerate without being overly sensitive,
analytical without awkwardness. His eyes
were gray and alert.
Despite his status as a rapidly
advancing trial lawyer, Owen had given up the days of suits and clean-shaven
sophistry for the life of a recluse. He
was almost thirty, living off of savings, killing and curing deer for
survival. Living in this manner was more
of an act of principle than actual necessity.
It seemed to Owen that most people lived in irresponsibility, rooting
from a lack of awareness. Most of his
friends thought he had gone mad and feared for their own sanity. He had an inward satisfaction; he knew that
he had surpassed debt, secured his comfortable liberty and escaped social
slavery. The money he had made at Jai
Lai and Law was enough to last him a modest lifetime in consideration of the
compounding interest. He made money
while he existed in this state of self-sufficiency. Maybe someday he would return; but not
today.
The deer that he had been tracking
stepped out of the foliage across the grassy landing. Unwittingly, he had been forced closer to his
prey by finding this vantage point. He
was somewhat concealed from the deer and above the path of his second
query. He could hear it getting
closer. Definitely not a bear. Man size- no shoes; it wasn’t kicking rocks
around like your typical hiker either.
His first priority was food. He remained very still, even as he slid an
arrow from his quiver and brought the compound bow off of his shoulder. The arrows head was wide (two flat surfaces
intersecting each other) with four razor edges.
This arrow could accomplish the predatory necessity he had been pursuing
for half a day. It came down to this,
not going through banal motions each and every day. Weighty consequences were decided in
unforgiving instants.
The deer took two steps into the
clearing. It bent down for grass. That was the complicated part. To get a clean shot at the heart, their head
had to be up which meant that it could be aware, looking in his direction. Luckily, he wasn’t off to the side.
On the path below, he could hear it
getting closer. Now, it was a matter of
seconds before the deer would be aware, not of Owen but the traveler on the
lower trail. He started to feel sweat,
mixed in with the rainwater. The shot
would have to be timed perfectly; as soon as the deer’s head was up, paying
attention to the sound on the lower trail, he would have to release the arrow.
No, he had to let it go before
that. Owen would anticipate the animal’s reaction.
For the first time, he got a full
view of the deer. As he had guessed,
from the hoof prints, a bit over 200 pounds.
The muscles in its shoulders and back gleamed electric gray. Its eyes, he imagined, were a yellowish
brown. Owen knew which leg the deer
would lead off on and which back leg it would push itself to the side with. The shot had to be timed perfectly.
Owen pulled the bowstring back
slowly, an inch each second. Finally,
the feathers of the arrow were almost touching his ear. Stability. He had to keep every muscle still. The stillness would make him invisible, but
not for long. He was fully aware that he
was a kind of gray reverie, an assassin, a shadow barely breathing.
It got closer on the trail
below. Owen inhaled. He was a sensory machine, taking in each
small piece of sound and smell.
Dusk lingered as the clearing
darkened. The moon was up and full in the sky.
An eerie feline hiss issued from
the lower trail. Owen exhaled and let
the arrow fly. Now, he had done
everything he possibly could for the shot.
He would not have another. After
the shaft left his fingers, he turned to peer down the cliff face.
What Owen saw was something he
would have a difficult time explaining to someone else. And it was directly underneath him, scaling
the rock face by grasping small trees, growing from the crevices and
spaces. It was apelike but with hands
that were a cross between a hand and a paw.
The nails were thick claws. As it
peered up, it snarled with a doglike maw.
Its eyes were oddly human-bluish green.
Its nostrils flared as it hissed and got ten feet closer; no time to
wonder. Owen had to act. He could feel the adrenalin begin to course
through his arms and chest. He would
have two to three shots before it reached him, depending on how accurate the
first two were.
Automatic, analytically, he placed
the arrow into its left shoulder. An
unnerving half hiss half snarl spat from its snout. Owen felt like running. He knew, however, that this thing would make
it to the top and he would have to kill it.
It was fast; it would catch him.
He shot again; this time, at its
head. The arrow pierced through its
snout into the lower jaw. It was still
coming. This shot was only to target its
left eye.
After he released the shaft, he
pulled the hatchet from his pack and dropped the bow. He had to keep it from getting onto the
landing.
A clawed hand clutched the top of
the cliff. Owen brought the hatchet
down, almost cutting the paw-ish hand in half.
He didn’t dare to peer over.
Silence.
He waited. Breathing deeply.
Then, he could hear it growling in
what sounded like human anger, like the tone of a curse. The adrenalin was all throughout his body.
Now, both paws pulled and then
pushed the thing’s torso and large head above the surface of the cliff
face.
They were face to face. Its doggish lips snarled and twitched,
showing its large canine teeth. An arrow
protruded from its left eye. Another arrow
stuck out of the left side of its snout.
Owen brought the hatchet down onto
the side of its head, hard with most of his body weight; he felt nervously
strong as it sunk into its skull. The
hatchet was buried only a couple of inches from where it connected with the
handle. The creature’s right hand went
instinctively to the hatchet but clutched the arrow that happened to be in the
way. As the right side of its body began
to fall, the only thing that was holding it on the cliff was its attachment to
the hatchet, as Owen tried to pull the weapon back out of its skull. Now, both paw hands were at its eye and left
side of its head.
Owen let go of the hatchet. He thought about tying to pull it out for
another strike, but more than anything wanted this thing away from him. It tumbled down the cliff face and back to
the ground, still clutching its head as it ran off into the woods.
He sat with his back against the
tree. Breathing. Confused.
After he had stopped shaking and began breathing more evenly, he
remembered the deer. He also noticed that it would be dark very soon.
Picking up his bow, he looked
across the clearing to see that his shot had indeed done what was
intended. A bit more than twelve feet
into the foliage, the rather large deer lie dead with one razor backed arrow
buried in its heart.
The light was almost completely
gone.
Transitions
Owen’s cabin was so far back into
the woods that it was a twenty-minute hike to the dirt road where he kept his
Volkswagen Van. This was the van that Owen
was sleeping in while he built the rough cabin haphazardly situated on un-level
ground. He rarely had guests, except his
friend George. George was large and
clumsy; his presence was always announced.
Today, however, Owen didn’t notice his guest until she spoke. He was startled, as he looked up from his
garden, crouched and probing in the soft dirt for a potato.
“Didn’t mean to surprise you.” She loomed over him smiling with a Cheshire
grin and penetrating eye contact, iris to iris.
She touched her fingertips together and then moved the fingers on her
right hand as if she was touching the strings of a harp. Her hair was a dark
black. She was wearing a summer dress, a
green print. Owen noticed her sandals,
strong calfs, well-proportioned hips, shapely breasts, tan arms and full
lips. His embarrassment was evident as
she was aware of the inventory he had just exercised.
Something tingled in the back of
his mind. A rasping deep feminine voice
whispered, “so, so, subtle.” The s’s
were repeated and elongated with the sound of a snake. He though was imagining the voice.
She didn’t back away, however. She crouched closer as Owen backed up two or
three inches. He had an odd feeling of
seduction and being devoured all at once, like he was about to be bitten.
“I’ve never noticed this cabin
before. It is…..hidden. Barely here.”
She backed up a bit, stretching to her full height and looked around,
more at the tree line than the cabin or the garden. “How long have you been here?”
At this, he stood up and introduced
himself. “I’m Owen. And…uh who are you?”
“Oh, yes, I’m Marnie. I was hiking through here and noticed your
cabin.”
“Do you live around here?”
“ Yes, in the village.” He noticed now that she didn’t have a pack,
stood at about 5’9” and had hazel eyes with flecks of yellow in the
irises.
“ I moved here a couple of years
ago.” He was about to explain why he had
decided on such a peculiar lifestyle.
The questions were inevitable.
She just nodded, smiled and shook her head. It was a knowing expression. Once again, he felt as if something very
foreign was once again in his head.
“Yes, it’s much simpler here. Isn’t
it? No bosses and civilization games to
play.”
“ Uh, yeah. I guess so.”
“So, what do you do for…. fun
….around here? Must get boring
sometimes.” She said fun like it was a
word in a foreign language, like she was imitating the idea.
“Reading, sometimes. And I‘ve got a guitar.” Owen also spent a lot of time drinking with
his buddy George who also helped him sell deer meat to the local butchers. George was his connection to the world. He sold the firewood and made all of the
connections, so that Owen had money- the only thing that he couldn’t free
himself from. Owen was trying to live in
a very idealistic and self-sufficient world rather than the one that he had
come out of. So far, so good.
“Well, maybe sometime I could come
and listen to you play.”
“What is it that you do, in the
village?”
“I don’t really. My father died and left me all the money I
need. It’s charming.”
“Must be.”
Familiarity
She never really did return to
listen to him play.
Owen would sit on the back deck he
had built in an old Adirondack chair, also his own creation, and pluck and
strum on his crisp but bassy sounding Gibson.
He would experiment with any sound and rhythm he and the vibrating
strings could make. Phasing from
harmonics to bar chords and further, he would pour his innovation into what
could only loosely be defined as a song.
One night, he played for
hours. He could feel himself being drawn
into the sound that he was creating, like a trance. The song emanated from him as it poured out
into the woods. It loomed in the thick
air.
Two yellowy eyes glimmered deep in
the growth of moss and dim silhouetted leaves.
It rasped lowly. Its attention
gravitated toward the sound as it skulked through the wet leaves. The strings rang out in deep chords. They were more than strings. They were six voices, sometimes agreeing,
sometimes in piquant contrast. The
voices would make one lingering rush of emotion after the next. The voices would push all at once. Then, the full low ones would began as the
high slight ones would end. Then, the
whispering middle would hum out as the low and high joined in. Naz, the glowing eyed thing, felt denser as
he lay in the leaves. His eyes blinked
more rapidly as the tempo quickened and chords became exact, each voice
becoming more distinct and separate.
Owen’s hands moved up the fret
board, reaching chords at a higher octave.
His strumming hand phased to picking notes in singles and doubles. The hand slowly and seamlessly changed its
finger positions. The voices rang into
other voices, shining and disastrous.
They were impassioned warnings, pleading the ignorant. The hand eased back down the fret board along
the six thick threads, scratching and buzzing as it went. It was a warning that could not be
heeded.
The next chords were somber, cruel,
and direct. Waves crashed on the
beach. The land tore away into a great
chiasma. Naz got closer, heart pounding,
sharp teeth grating across each other.
The muscles in its legs and forearms flexed, as his nostrils
flared.
Owen in double and single notes
again, lower and more staccato. The
single and double voices contended against each other. Another chord tumbled down over them,
absorbing them. It was as if an impossibly heavy sharp triangular rock was
falling closer and closer…His skin and nerves bristled as he crept closer
still. Naz breathed through its nose as
it peered over the bushes to view the shadowy form, folded comfortably in the v
of the Adirondack chair. The candle on
the railing glowed and reflected off of the face of the guitar. The sound changed into jagged and abrupt
movements as Owen stood up, delivering three final chords. He stood looking directly at the bush where
Naz was concealing himself.
Owen felt her sensation as his
fingertips throbbed. It was as if she
were standing right in front of him, listening
Owen would have that familiar
tingling feeling for a moment or two and he would remember her; he would have a
recurring dream of her crouched over him with those predatory hazel eyes. She was smiling when her face would shift to
that of a very old woman’s, gaunt and bitter.
He awoke to the flapping of wings.
The sound was in a slow deliberate cadence accompanied by a rasping
voice saying his name.
Naz, picking himself up from the
wet leaves, ran back into the darkness, riveted and terrified.
UNFINISHED
