Here it is.
The assignment is to "furnish a place with a character". In other words, create a character through observation of the setting. Not so easy. Here's what I've got. (And, yes, I am writing this on Friday night at 11:30. If there are any comments about me being a loser that doesn't go out on Friday nights, you obviously have never been to Carrollton, Georgia.)
Barn’s about as busted up as I feel, Edna often reflected when she was in the cool lean-to. The electricity that had originally brightened the shed had long since shorted out. She figured a mouse had probably chewed through some wires, though she had never found an electrified mouse. Just live ones. After going through countless D batteries trying to light the shed with a huge Coleman flashlight, Edna had bought an oil lamp. She much preferred the flickering, warm light of the fire over the bluish halogen light of the flashlight anyway. She felt the shifting light of the flame inspired her in her craft. And the oil lasted much longer than the batteries had.
Sunlight stole through the cracks between the roughly hewn boards of the outside wall, giving a glimpse of the meandering flights of dust particles. The sunlight landed on the gleaming array of objects on the work table. Edna swore she could see molecules in this light, little halos suspended. Probably just dust on my corneas.
The packed dirt floor was covered with old straw and hay that had been flattened from years of being trodden. The sweet aroma of the hay still permeated the place, combining with the fragrance of mildew and musk. This perfume had long since replaced the stench of cows and other livestock in the barn.
Shelves lined the outside wall of the lean-to, reaching heights far above Edna’s head. Old glass Coca-Cola and Nehi Grape bottles filled every shelf, from top to bottom, from right to left. In these bottles were once-neglected plastic flowers, flowers that had blown into Edna’s garden from the graveyard across the road. These flowers had once represented poinsettias, irises, tulips. They had symbolized memories, love, respect. The sun had bleached the petals a dirty yellow color; the original color of the petals could only be guessed at by the shape of the flower and the plastic pistils and stamens. Rain-stained Styrofoam was still attached to many of the bunches of flowers, brown and harboring various forms of insects and fungi. Wires poked out of the green plastic stems, making handling the flowers hazardous and often painful. Like a real rose, Edna once thought.
The work table in the far left corner of the shed was constructed from several two-by-fours and plywood. It had long been a surface on which to gut fish or fix carburetors, but now the table held piles of sequins and beads, feathers and ribbons, hot glue guns and green florists’ tape. It held numerous cans of spray-paint – red and purple, green and neon pink. Edna knew that the neon pink paint was usually used for tagging gas lines or trees to be cut down, but she thought that it might add some energy to the flowers, some vitality.
Edna stepped onto the ladder and selected one of the bouquets from the top shelf. She placed it on the table and checked the glue gun to make sure it was hot. Ruth Walker. Born September 14, 1903. Died January 11, 1982, Edna thought as she reached for the purple ribbon.
Puh-leese give me some suggestions. Get lengthy with it. This is the one that's being critiqued in class on Monday.
Barn’s about as busted up as I feel, Edna often reflected when she was in the cool lean-to. The electricity that had originally brightened the shed had long since shorted out. She figured a mouse had probably chewed through some wires, though she had never found an electrified mouse. Just live ones. After going through countless D batteries trying to light the shed with a huge Coleman flashlight, Edna had bought an oil lamp. She much preferred the flickering, warm light of the fire over the bluish halogen light of the flashlight anyway. She felt the shifting light of the flame inspired her in her craft. And the oil lasted much longer than the batteries had.
Sunlight stole through the cracks between the roughly hewn boards of the outside wall, giving a glimpse of the meandering flights of dust particles. The sunlight landed on the gleaming array of objects on the work table. Edna swore she could see molecules in this light, little halos suspended. Probably just dust on my corneas.
The packed dirt floor was covered with old straw and hay that had been flattened from years of being trodden. The sweet aroma of the hay still permeated the place, combining with the fragrance of mildew and musk. This perfume had long since replaced the stench of cows and other livestock in the barn.
Shelves lined the outside wall of the lean-to, reaching heights far above Edna’s head. Old glass Coca-Cola and Nehi Grape bottles filled every shelf, from top to bottom, from right to left. In these bottles were once-neglected plastic flowers, flowers that had blown into Edna’s garden from the graveyard across the road. These flowers had once represented poinsettias, irises, tulips. They had symbolized memories, love, respect. The sun had bleached the petals a dirty yellow color; the original color of the petals could only be guessed at by the shape of the flower and the plastic pistils and stamens. Rain-stained Styrofoam was still attached to many of the bunches of flowers, brown and harboring various forms of insects and fungi. Wires poked out of the green plastic stems, making handling the flowers hazardous and often painful. Like a real rose, Edna once thought.
The work table in the far left corner of the shed was constructed from several two-by-fours and plywood. It had long been a surface on which to gut fish or fix carburetors, but now the table held piles of sequins and beads, feathers and ribbons, hot glue guns and green florists’ tape. It held numerous cans of spray-paint – red and purple, green and neon pink. Edna knew that the neon pink paint was usually used for tagging gas lines or trees to be cut down, but she thought that it might add some energy to the flowers, some vitality.
Edna stepped onto the ladder and selected one of the bouquets from the top shelf. She placed it on the table and checked the glue gun to make sure it was hot. Ruth Walker. Born September 14, 1903. Died January 11, 1982, Edna thought as she reached for the purple ribbon.
Puh-leese give me some suggestions. Get lengthy with it. This is the one that's being critiqued in class on Monday.
posted by Lauren | 11:23 PM
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