Night Trucks Response

Kent Meyers' Night Trucks is a coming-of-age story, which is told through the author's experience of selling cattle. One of the admirable aspects of this piece is the author's intelligent writing style in descriptions.

Shadows of crooked branches slid over the wall above my bed, over the ceiling, over my sleeping brothers, over the model cars and airplanes we had built and placed on our shelves, over the chifforobe where we each had a drawer to store thing. (pg 124)

In this sentence, readers are not only given a description of the scene through the use of a shadow, but the repetition of the word 'over' also gives a moving image of a shadow elongating its reach. Aside from that, I think Meyers does a good job addressing conflicts and contrast in this piece, which creates a unity between reader and writer. 

There was always a feeling of loss in selling. At the same time we knew it was necessary, like so many other necessary things. (pg 126)

Not everyone knows how cattle selling is done, but feelings of excitement/sadness in giving away things that one has spent a considerable amount of time for other gains is a universal feeling when transitioning into adulthood. This relatable conflict, additionally, creates intimacy with readers as well.   

Classmate/APE Response: The Death of Fleeting Curiosity

First thing that struck me? Well, it has to be how both authors give a vivid picture of their surroundings but successfully include some abstract notions as well. The imaginative style that Woolf employs to describe rooks and Prater's description of the hallway, captures the interest of the reader, curious to know more.  This works especially well in building a suspense, which is particularly effective in Braden's piece of hide-n-seek. In addition, both authors were able to give perspective to their characters in their writing. This not only gives us different layers to explore but also multiple angles to interpret the piece.

"Whatever the scenario, he seemed to always know exactly how long to stay out of view and when specifically to make a noise, such as a knock on a wall, as not to fully give away his location but provide us with a proper hint" (Prater, pg 2)

"The moth having righted himself now lay most decently and uncomplainingly composed. O yes, he seemed to say, death is stronger than I am." (Woolf, pg. 268)

Dear Blue Swallow

How I envy this blue swallow that perches on my balcony. She chirps the same song every day. A song about how nature provides for her, how she never has to worry about tomorrow. Her friends—blue, red, brown—flock around her to sing in harmony, and they depart home before sunset, only to repeat again tomorrow. But, how I pity this swallow. She will never taste disappointment, and the joys of success. She will never know her true friends in absence of discord. Dear blue swallow, you will never know what today really means until you worry about tomorrow.

Still Motion

Play. Stop. Repeat.

Cool, this part looks great! This is going to be awesome.

Pause. Trim. Play.

Perfect! I even got her good angle. The lighting might be too bright though. Might need to edit that later.

Play. Stop. Delete.

What is that?! Who is that creep behind her?! Is he…ugh!   

Delete! Delete! Delete!

Alright, now to add the music

Play. Pause. Play.

Hmm, this song is catchy. I wonder who sang this…Cher Lloyd?! Let’s see how her music video looks like…

Play .STOP. CANCEL!

Ugh! The music isn’t syncing with her lips! Where’s the other clip?! I thought I’ve saved it! AHHH!!!!

Play. Stop. Play.

It’s almost 3 AM. Would anyone really appreciate this? 

Render. Render. Render.

JOSH! YOU’RE AN IDIOT! YOU MISSED THE POOL SCENE!

Save. Export. Render.

It's done...It''s finally done!

Play... Repeat... Pause.....

*sigh* Someday I won’t remember the searing pain from climbing down metal ladders under the scorching sun; or the sweat I dripped trying to capture the perfect scene; or even the meal of instant noodles while I sat soaked with laughter...Memories like all other memories will fade.  But, I want to preserve these moments -- the quirky smiles, the stream-like moves, the people. 
I want to remember.  

And when my memory becomes hazy, and the frames begin to fast-forward; I hope this treasury of clips will make time stand still. 
Just for a second.     
End.

Classmate/Short Take Response: Small But Mighty Winter

*Drum roll* *Mic descends* *Contenders strut forward*

On the Short Takes corner, spanning 7 pages long, story about a father and his outdoor furnace, let's hear it for Larry Woiwode's Winter! *crowd cheers*

And on the classmate essay corner, checking in with 4,304 characters, of siblings and might, give it up for Small and Mighty by Samantha Caulfield!! *enthusiastic chants*

***********

Thing thing I find similar with the two stories are their concise and simple writing style. Both authors project simple complete sentences, devoid from complicated abstract notions that occasionally "turns off" the readers interest, which generates an intimacy with the readers--as if the author is your friend and is speaking directly to tell you a story. Related to that, both Woiwode and Caulfield employ dialogues in their writing to give a real life representation of the characters and the moments they experience and further establishes a connection with reader.

The thing I enjoy most about the two pieces are how both are able to present a meaningful message through trivial-everyday-routines.Woiwode's perspective on life's short span, stemming from a broken furnace, and Caulfield's discovery of sisterhood through a racing sport, shows readers how their minds work and challenges our own thoughts about family bonds.

Elle Ai Elle

Spring

I couldn’t tell if this season would be different from the rest, but you wore a yellow shirt. Daisies. Your lips were the first thing I noticed. Red, luscious, tender. First day of knowing you: a debate erupts, shared our first giggle, and slap to the arm. . I was only 13. Too young to start holding roses. The thorns would prick wounds deeper than the flesh. To me, you were that rose. A blossoming infatuation.  

Summer

I was wondering how far we could travel before we arrived at a journey’s end—France? The AC in the bus was out. You gently leaned your head on my shoulder, exhausted from the heat wave circulating in the interior. Your hair cascading the like a waterfall. A different kind of warmth. You breached my safety perimeter--an undisclosed side where outsiders were prohibited. But, you didn't seem to care. It was just the two of us, in a pool of strangers. I got my answer.

Autumn

September called for breathing space. Someone else had set his sight on you--my best friend. And I found a dark corner by the edge of eyes. One filled with tears.The leaves of our friendship, withering: slowly.  I gripped the rose, and the thorns pierced and blood oozed.  

Winter

“Come back, okay?” she said faintly. Words that echoed a chill up my spine. But, not a word breezed through my mouth. Uncertain promises are always better left unsaid. Snowflake tears. We held on to each other—both seeking solace on a winter’s night. Like conspirators of the night, we exchanged a moment only shared between the two of us. Your hands around my back only serve as reminder of what we could have been. I’m 20. Still holding on to that rose.

Hoke/Roberts: Two Hot Weeks in Undercurrent

This Week's Pick: Ryan Hoke's Two Hot Weeks In August; and Katrina Roberts Undercurrent.

The one thing I particularly enjoy about both author's writing is their sense of writing style. They are both very visual in descriptions, writing in short sentences or broken up by comas, as if they were snap shots, which set a quick pace to the reading, as if the eyes were writing words

[T]he baby in his carrier peers out, kicks and coos. Two and a half months, young as a lima bean, strapped to my belly to walk Cottonwood Hill up past twenty acres of wheat, yellow eye that centers our loop. (Roberts)

[T]he smell of freshly cut grass welcomes you as you arrive, only to be replaced with a smelly cocktail of generic bathroom cleaner, sweat, dirt, grass and old equipment, as you reach the locker room. (Hoke)

Another reason why I find these two pieces mixing well together is the rich descriptions. Going to great lengths to describe the scene and to draw readers to picture the world they painted and the things they feel. Especially Hoke's description of the stadium, the sprinklers, etc.

[Y]our fingers and hands are tattered and torn, blistered and callused from months of off season lifting, drills, and throwing. (Hoke)

[T]hen, there in the lee in a fold of grass like a boat's wake: the housecat, cream and rust, seem to have ruin himself to sleep. (Roberts)