[stylist] Writing prompt: Finding the good in the villain

Thu Jun 3 12:45:41 UTC 2010

Some people go through life unable to display their love for others.  I 
think subconsciously they are afraid to display the emotion because they 
know their love can be replaced by another.  When situations require their 
unequivocal love they are all giving with no sign of the previously insular 
person.  Why does this happen?  Who knows?  The world is made up of many 
complex personalities.  Judith
----- Original Message ----- 
From: "Bridgit Pollpeter" <bpollpeter at hotmail.com>
To: "writers division" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Sent: Thursday, June 03, 2010 3:24 AM
Subject: [stylist] Writing prompt: Finding the good in the villain

Hello all,

Here is what I have in the way of making a person complex.  I think that is 
the point of this prompt.  Whether it is fiction or non-fiction, writers 
must try to make characters complex.  One-dimensional characters fall flat 
and usually frustrate rather than entertain.  Here is my attempt.  It is a 
bit long so sorry.

"Baby"

The incessant drip of the IV filled the silence as she lay pale and dying in 
the hospital bed.  Her mother sat semi-conscious in the blue vinyl recliner 
the nurse had brought in.  Two months and no change had occurred.  Her 
family watched day after day as she slipped further away from their reality. 
The unknown virus had taken her strength, and all it left was a tiny shell 
that seemed ready to collapse at the slightest touch.
The girl on the bed moved and murmured slightly.  Her mother placed her 
fingertips on the girl’s hand.
“Honey, are you okay?  It’s Mommy.  I’m here, sweetie.”
“It hurts,” she whispered.
“I know, baby.  I’ll call the nurse.”
Her mom pressed the call light and prepared for the inevitable wait.  She 
stared at the wires and tubes that stuck all over her daughter.  The main 
line sticking from her daughter’s protruding collar bone had taken an hour 
to put in.  Her mom recalled the frustration of the nurse who attempted to 
glide the line through her daughter’s collapsed veins.  Sweat had formed on 
the nurse’s brow and she had seemed ready to give up.  The blood that 
spurted from her daughter’s vein had made her nauseous, but she had gripped 
the bed until she had almost passed out.  Her daughter had laid there unable 
to cry from the dehydration that left her face hollow.
A nurse entered with squeaking footsteps and a cheery expression that belied 
the distance she kept from her patients.
“What can I do for you?” the nurse asked.
“She is having the pain again.  Can we give her more morphine?”
The nurse raised an eyebrow as she reached for the chart clipped to the foot 
of the bed.  “It’s too soon.  Maybe if you can get her out of bed and walk 
around it would do some good.”
“Excuse me?  Are you insane?  My daughter has been here for almost two 
months and dying and you want her out of bed?”
The nurse remained grinning as she crossed her wide arms.
“I am just making a suggestion.”
The conversation was interrupted by a scream as the girl on the bed twisted.
“Can’t you see she is in pain?” the mom asked.
She touched her daughter’s warm skin that a moment before had been ice cold 
and whispered soft, soothing sounds.  The mom glared at the nurse, who still 
retained her composure.
“Let me call the doctor.”  The nurse waddled out of the room with her 
permanent smile.
“Mommy, please make it stop.”
“I know, baby.”  The mom sighed deep and heavy.
She always felt the pain of her children, but revealing her emotions would 
not make it stop.  Her first born, the one most similar to her, was slipping 
away and she couldn’t cry.  Not in front of her, but she wanted to take it 
all away.  She would trade places if it were possible.  All she could do now 
was squeeze the boney hand that felt child-like once again.

My twenties were supposed to be the time of my life.  I was supposed to be 
going to parties and living life along with my friends, but instead I was 
battling some unknown viral infection along with pneumonia.  I suddenly had 
the constitution of an eighty-year-old woman and it was enough for me to 
just wake up each day.
I spent my life in and out of the hospital for one reason or another and yet 
I did not expect my life to come to a crashing halt at the age of 
twenty-two.  Between my brother’s premature birth and subsequent 
hospitalizations trying to correct his renal failure, or my own constant 
barrage of doctor appointments due to my Juvenile Diabetes, and even my 
mother’s frequent bouts of unidentified illnesses, I was no stranger to 
hospitals.
So much about this time is vague, like a dream.  The one thing that will 
always stick out though is my mom’s inability to leave my side.  It was as 
though she was determined to give me life, something the doctors seemed 
incapable of.  I was not used to such attention from my mother, and some of 
my warmest memories of her are from my extended illness.
What can be said about two women who are so similar that they constantly 
butt heads?  Ever since childhood it feels as though my mother has picked 
out my flaws one by one and hung them on the wall as constant reminders of 
what is wrong with me.  The, “I love you,” and, “Honey, I’m proud of you,” 
are scattered among the never-ending, “You’ll never get a guy looking like 
that,” or, “I don’t know if you’re smart enough for college.”  Yet there was 
my mom refusing to give up on me.  She kept me alive.
Depression is hereditary in my family even if we don’t acknowledge this 
simple fact.  I spent my adolescence moving from one extreme mood to the 
other.  The pressure of life weighed heavy on me and by the age of eighteen 
I just wound down like a clock.  I had witnessed this behavior in my mother 
again and again.  In the fourth-grade I came home to a house dark and 
silent.  Mother lay on the rose-print couch with an arm draped across her 
eyes.  She made no sound as I sat by her side searching in my nine-year-old 
vocabulary for words to comfort.  Dad came home and walked right by us.  I 
choked on emotions not fully realized at my young age.  Days went by before 
I saw the mother who did not resemble a sick and dying person.  Eager to 
start the day, she did her usual morning work-out then chirped around the 
kitchen making breakfast for me and my siblings.  I knew her behavior was 
not normal, but I didn’t know what to do.  I grew up terrified I would turn 
out the same way, crazy.
I recalled the day my parents forced me into a psychiatric facility after 
reading my journal in which entry after entry expressed my desire to “go far 
away.”  They claimed I was suicidal.  Later I learned that they used this as 
an excuse for their insurance to cover my hospital stay.  Mother said I was 
just trying to get attention when I could not get out of bed for a month.  I 
was eighteen and full of potential, but I just couldn’t force myself to 
engage in anything.
“Bridgit, get out of bed.  You’re just lazy,” my mother shouted.
I laid with my back towards her, facing the wall as tears sailed down my 
cheeks.
“You won’t get any sympathy from me.  You always have to be the center of 
attention,” she huffed while shaking my shoulder.
I remained silent, too weary to speak.  My mind wanted to move, but my body 
would not follow the command.
“I’m done with her,” my mother said, flinging her hands up.
My father gripped me around the waist and pulled as I wrapped my hands 
around the bedpost and was amazed at my strength that seemed a match to his.
Eventually my hospital stay turned out to be a positive event, but not until 
I sorted out the fact and fiction with my therapist.  My parents told her I 
was violent and was causing a rift at home.  It was impossible to live with 
me, they said.  I began to realize, though, that I was not crazy, and all 
the blame was not to be put on me.  My mother refused to attend joint 
therapy sessions and soon pulled me out when I remained tight-lipped about 
what I discussed with Dr. Lovett.

Yet I found a compassionate woman in my mom as she fought for my life. 
Being deathly ill changed everything for me and my mother and I realized 
just how tenuous our relationship was.  I would lay awake at night unable to 
sleep from the pain or the steady flow of nurses checking hourly stats, and 
there was Mom watching television with me.  We bonded through the Ellen 
DeGenorous show as laughter proved to be a balm to soothe our wounds.
She held my hand as I slipped in and out of consciousness.  She was the one 
who helped me roll the IV monitor to the bathroom, and when I was too weak 
to stand, she gently washed my hair in a bed pan.  I could barely hold my 
head up at times as my blood pressure crashed and physical movement was 
impossible.  Mom was always there though to pick up the slack of the nurses.
She may not have always been the most compassionate or tender mother, but at 
twenty-two when I sunk further away it was her who reeled me back.  My mom 
called me baby then and I can not recall that word anywhere in my mind.  She 
would lie in bed with me, rubbing my back and whisper “Baby” and it eased my 
pain.  I never thought she could be so affectionate towards me and despite 
my pain I was happy for once.

The day the doctors declared me okay and gave me the approval to return home 
allowed Mom to finally breathe.  As I waited for all the tedious paperwork 
she finally left my side to prepare the house.  She wanted to clean and make 
dinner since she had not been home in weeks except to shower and change 
clothes.
I walked at last into our house in a dazed stupor from the percacet that 
eased the pain that ran through my nerves still.  I remember the smell of 
corn chowder wafting from the kitchen.  A light fall breeze blew the 
curtains since Mom opened them because the house always was too warm when 
someone was cooking.  There was a shiny tinge to everything and I knew she 
had disinfected the entire house.  The dining room table was set in proper 
fashion, of course, and a centerpiece of leaves and pines and berries 
decorated the table.  A “Welcome Home” banner hung from the ceiling and my 
two sisters and brother hugged me as Dad cried and thanked God for my 
recovery.  Silently, Mom stood by smiling.
When I could not sleep or cried out from the burning, insensible pain that 
shot through me, she would still lie next to me and rub my back as though I 
were a child.  Always she whispered “baby.”
While my mother and I still do not communicate what we truly feel, I can 
never forget the strength and courage she revealed as I struggled with life. 
The nurse who refused to see me as anything other than a hopeless case found 
a formidable foe in my mom.  Mom demanded the doctors take action and when 
they did not she transferred me to another facility.  When I was well enough 
to eat it was Mom who brought me food that did not come from a cafeteria. 
Her actions proved the love for me that I thought had been lacking.  When 
four years later she was diagnosed with breast cancer I sat on the phone 
with my husband and cried to the point of convulsions.  I wanted to take on 
her pain.  I wanted to be by her side, but I was now living in another city. 
The religion of my childhood was all I had to rely on as I prayed to Jesus 
to heal my mom.

Tragedy touches us and we move quickly away, but not before feeling its 
sting.  I can say that we are alive and well, but the bond that began to 
form did not hold tight enough.  I wish I could say that we are close, but I 
do not believe that has been written for my mother and me.  Once again we 
have lapsed into our relationship of polite noncommittal conversations.  I 
see other mothers and daughters who seem to be best friends and I wonder 
what that must be like.  My mother passed along her strength though.  She is 
a woman who has dealt with her own struggles and she loves the best way she 
knows how.  I understand for her that self preservation means distancing 
herself even from loved ones, but for one moment, though, I was held by my 
mom and called baby.

Thanks,

Bridgit P
Writing prompt:  Finding the good in the villain
> From: stylist-request at nfbnet.org
> Subject: stylist Digest, Vol 74, Issue 2
> To: stylist at nfbnet.org
> Date: Wed, 2 Jun 2010 12:00:07 -0500
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> Today's Topics:
>
> 1. (no subject) (Jewel S.)
> 2. Re: (no subject) (loristay)
> 3. Writing Prompt: Finding the Good in the Villian (Jewel S.)
> 4. Re: Writing Prompt: Finding the Good in the Villian (Judith Bron)
> 5. Re: (no subject) (Judith Bron)
> 6. Re: Writing Prompt: Finding the Good in the Villian (loristay)
> 7. Re: Writing Prompt: Finding the Good in the Villian (Chris Kuell)
> 8. flash movie start (Judith Bron)
>
>
> ----------------------------------------------------------------------
>
> Message: 1
> Date: Tue, 1 Jun 2010 15:31:21 -0400
> From: "Jewel S." <herekittykat2 at gmail.com>
> To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Subject: [stylist] (no subject)
> Message-ID:
> <AANLkTikN5xlmaOLktlzY_I6JmmCbLavtyUv7tAFvJ4mZ at mail.gmail.com>
> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1
>
>
>
>
>
> ------------------------------
>
> Message: 2
> Date: Tue, 01 Jun 2010 15:44:37 -0400
> From: loristay <loristay at aol.com>
> To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Subject: Re: [stylist] (no subject)
> Message-ID: <D30C6A8B.9A94.47BE.B32F.EF01182C1B48 at aol.com>
> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"
>
> Jewel, I don't see any text here. ?Would you please send again?
> Lori
> On Jun 1, 2010, at 3:31:21 PM, "Jewel S." <herekittykat2 at gmail.com> wrote:
>
> From: "Jewel S." <herekittykat2 at gmail.com>
> Subject: [stylist] (no subject)
> Date: June 1, 2010 3:31:21 PM EDT
> To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
>
>
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> ------------------------------
>
> Message: 3
> Date: Tue, 1 Jun 2010 16:07:18 -0400
> From: "Jewel S." <herekittykat2 at gmail.com>
> To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Subject: [stylist] Writing Prompt: Finding the Good in the Villian
> Message-ID:
> <AANLkTikAGXGPAAn0wIpdfYd8cxZ5PFoleH9sa7eZo-MG at mail.gmail.com>
> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1
>
> Hi all,
>
> So, I thought I would throw out another prompt for anyone interested.
> This is a prompt that can be used for fiction or non-fiction (memoirs
> and such().
>
> Think of someone in your past whom you didn't like: a bully in your
> elementary class, the principal who slapped your hands for blinking
> too much, an abusive neighbour who always gave his son a black
> eye...or make someone up. Now, give that person a "redeeming" quality,
> something good about them that you wouldn't expect. Perhaps the
> abusive neighbour is an avid recycler, the bully has a great green
> thumb, the principal...well, you get the idea. Now, write a short
> passage with this villian, including their "redeeming" quality. Below
> is mine:
>
> Jessica was eating breakfast, cold oatmeal that was clinging in clots
> to the side of the neon orange plastic bowl. Beside her, her sister
> Cary was stabbing at her own orange bowl of oatmeal goop, her nose
> wrinkled in disgust.
>
> "Mum," Cary whined. "Do we *have* to eat this gunk? It's pig sl-"
>
> Before she could get out the last of her complaint, her head swung
> sharply to the right as their mother flung a blow with her fist to the
> older girl's temple. There would be a knot and a bruise later, but
> Cary would cover it with her hair. She always wore her hair forward,
> almost covering her eyes, anyway. No one would notice.
>
> "How dare you complain! There are starving children in Africa who
> would eat your breakfast without a second to waste. If you don't eat
> it, I'll put it in the fridge, and you can have it for supper. You
> won't get anything else until you eat your oatmeal."
>
> And Jessica knew she meant it. She had once gone on a two-day strike
> after they wre served black lumps, supposedly ravioli. The raviolis
> had stayed in their neon green bowl, the designated color for dinner,
> for the entire two days. Jess finally gave into the hunger and ate the
> charred stuff, which by that time tasted like ashes. Her reward for
> eating it was the priviledge of eating what everyone else was having.
> That day, dinner was some burnt fish, which their mother called
> "blackened."
>
> Jessica was shocked out of her memory by a sharp blow to the back of
> her head. "Eat! I have to get to work. If I have to stand here and
> watch you eat, Jessica, I will be late, and then you'll pay for
> embarrassing me."
>
> Jessica dutifully shovelled the goop into her mouth, wondering when
> her father was getting home. He was out at sea again, a common enough
> occurence as he was a Navy sonar technician. He could cook, and more
> than made up for their fasting in his absence. Shrimp scampi, oysters
> on the half schell, chicken and sausage gumbo...her mouth salivated at
> the memory of her last gumbo five months ago.
>
> Her bowl clean, Cary nudged Jess, whispering "Hurry up...she's coming
> back," and Jess stuffed the last two bites in her mouth in one
> over-flowing spoonful. Jumping to her feet, she held out the bowl for
> Mother to inspect, then rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher. A swat
> on the butt with the fly-swatter told her it was time to get to the
> bus stop.
>
> * * *
>
> Marie Landreneau wandered into her classroom, singing, "Mares eat
> oats, and goats eat oats, and little lambs eat ivy. A kid'll eat ivy,
> too, wouldn't you?" What she was thinking was, Not my kids...they
> won't even eat real food. They certainly wouldn't eat ivy. They are so
> ungrateful. At least my school children are not so ungrateful. I wish
> I could take them home and leave Jessica and Cary to learn what real
> life is like on the streets.
>
> It was a Tuesday, Mrs. Landreneau's favourite day of the week at
> school. Her children were not too wound-up from the weekend, nor too
> wound-up in preparation for the end of the school week on Friday.
> Tuesday and Wednesday were truly the best days in her Special
> Education classroom.
>
> A bell rang out, signaling that it was time for the students to get to
> their classes. Some of the Special Education children would be coming
> in with their aides soon. Others would come in the afternoon, having
> spent the morning in the 'regular' classroom.
>
> The door opened and Miss Mary came in with a five-year-old who could
> be Mrs. Landreneau's daughter, with her beautiful brown eyes and long
> chestnut brown hair in two braids. She could easily pass as a
> miniature of her teacher, though there was no Down Syndrome in Mrs.
> Landreneau's genes.
>
> "Good morning, Ellen!" she smiled gently at the youngling. Ellen
> didn't reply, but glanced at Miss Mary, then ran to her seat.
>
> "She's being a little shy today, Marie." Miss Mary explained.
>
> The other children filed in one by one, six in all. A large class for
> Special Education. But everyone wanted Mrs. Landreneau to teach their
> children. She was the best teacher the public school had. Her gentle
> nudging and kind patience brought out the best in each of her
> students, and every parent wanted their child to blossom under her
> direction.
>
> "Ok, guys, we're going on a little field trip today!"
>
> The shouts of glee were mainly Eric's, a seven-year-old with what his
> mother called "weak eyes." Eric had been born prematurely, and besides
> his blindness, his allergies to nearly everything under the sun meant
> regular tube feedings and the use of gloves and face mask. Despite his
> disabilities, Eric was the rowdiest of the bunch, and Mrs. Landreneau
> knew to keep a close eye on him. He may be blind, but he didn't let
> that stop him, climbing trees he couldn't get down from and squeezing
> into holes that he couldn't quite fit in.
>
> Grinning at Eric's enthusiasm, the gentle teacher showed the children
> a book about bugs. "Today," she declared, "we are going on a bug hunt.
> Miss Alexandria, do you have Michael's inhaler and Eric's face mask?
> They'll need them outside."
>
> "Right here," assured the young teacher's aide, who was in charge of
> three of the six. The other three were Miss Mary's charges, with Marie
> Landreneau watching over them all, guiding and encouraging. "All
> right," she told the class cheerfully, "here we go!"
>
> She led the group out ontot he playground to lift rocks and dig holes,
> searching for the bugs in the Big Book of Bugs.
>
> * * *
>
> What villian will you come up with? What is their redeeming quality?
> Go nuts! Enjoy!
>
> ~Jewel
>
>
>
> ------------------------------
>
> Message: 4
> Date: Tue, 01 Jun 2010 17:50:05 -0400
> From: Judith Bron <jbron at optonline.net>
> To: Writer's Division Mailing List <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Subject: Re: [stylist] Writing Prompt: Finding the Good in the Villian
> Message-ID: <000501cb01d4$65796460$3302a8c0 at dell5150>
> Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed; charset=iso-8859-1;
> reply-type=original
>
> Great idea! Actually, every person, no matter how rotten has some 
> redeeming
> quality. Hitler was one of the most wicked people who ever lived. However,
> he loved children and dogs. Human nature is hard to figure. Judith
> ----- Original Message ----- 
> From: "Jewel S." <herekittykat2 at gmail.com>
> To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Sent: Tuesday, June 01, 2010 4:07 PM
> Subject: [stylist] Writing Prompt: Finding the Good in the Villian
>
>
> > Hi all,
> >
> > So, I thought I would throw out another prompt for anyone interested.
> > This is a prompt that can be used for fiction or non-fiction (memoirs
> > and such().
> >
> > Think of someone in your past whom you didn't like: a bully in your
> > elementary class, the principal who slapped your hands for blinking
> > too much, an abusive neighbour who always gave his son a black
> > eye...or make someone up. Now, give that person a "redeeming" quality,
> > something good about them that you wouldn't expect. Perhaps the
> > abusive neighbour is an avid recycler, the bully has a great green
> > thumb, the principal...well, you get the idea. Now, write a short
> > passage with this villian, including their "redeeming" quality. Below
> > is mine:
> >
> > Jessica was eating breakfast, cold oatmeal that was clinging in clots
> > to the side of the neon orange plastic bowl. Beside her, her sister
> > Cary was stabbing at her own orange bowl of oatmeal goop, her nose
> > wrinkled in disgust.
> >
> > "Mum," Cary whined. "Do we *have* to eat this gunk? It's pig sl-"
> >
> > Before she could get out the last of her complaint, her head swung
> > sharply to the right as their mother flung a blow with her fist to the
> > older girl's temple. There would be a knot and a bruise later, but
> > Cary would cover it with her hair. She always wore her hair forward,
> > almost covering her eyes, anyway. No one would notice.
> >
> > "How dare you complain! There are starving children in Africa who
> > would eat your breakfast without a second to waste. If you don't eat
> > it, I'll put it in the fridge, and you can have it for supper. You
> > won't get anything else until you eat your oatmeal."
> >
> > And Jessica knew she meant it. She had once gone on a two-day strike
> > after they wre served black lumps, supposedly ravioli. The raviolis
> > had stayed in their neon green bowl, the designated color for dinner,
> > for the entire two days. Jess finally gave into the hunger and ate the
> > charred stuff, which by that time tasted like ashes. Her reward for
> > eating it was the priviledge of eating what everyone else was having.
> > That day, dinner was some burnt fish, which their mother called
> > "blackened."
> >
> > Jessica was shocked out of her memory by a sharp blow to the back of
> > her head. "Eat! I have to get to work. If I have to stand here and
> > watch you eat, Jessica, I will be late, and then you'll pay for
> > embarrassing me."
> >
> > Jessica dutifully shovelled the goop into her mouth, wondering when
> > her father was getting home. He was out at sea again, a common enough
> > occurence as he was a Navy sonar technician. He could cook, and more
> > than made up for their fasting in his absence. Shrimp scampi, oysters
> > on the half schell, chicken and sausage gumbo...her mouth salivated at
> > the memory of her last gumbo five months ago.
> >
> > Her bowl clean, Cary nudged Jess, whispering "Hurry up...she's coming
> > back," and Jess stuffed the last two bites in her mouth in one
> > over-flowing spoonful. Jumping to her feet, she held out the bowl for
> > Mother to inspect, then rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher. A swat
> > on the butt with the fly-swatter told her it was time to get to the
> > bus stop.
> >
> > * * *
> >
> > Marie Landreneau wandered into her classroom, singing, "Mares eat
> > oats, and goats eat oats, and little lambs eat ivy. A kid'll eat ivy,
> > too, wouldn't you?" What she was thinking was, Not my kids...they
> > won't even eat real food. They certainly wouldn't eat ivy. They are so
> > ungrateful. At least my school children are not so ungrateful. I wish
> > I could take them home and leave Jessica and Cary to learn what real
> > life is like on the streets.
> >
> > It was a Tuesday, Mrs. Landreneau's favourite day of the week at
> > school. Her children were not too wound-up from the weekend, nor too
> > wound-up in preparation for the end of the school week on Friday.
> > Tuesday and Wednesday were truly the best days in her Special
> > Education classroom.
> >
> > A bell rang out, signaling that it was time for the students to get to
> > their classes. Some of the Special Education children would be coming
> > in with their aides soon. Others would come in the afternoon, having
> > spent the morning in the 'regular' classroom.
> >
> > The door opened and Miss Mary came in with a five-year-old who could
> > be Mrs. Landreneau's daughter, with her beautiful brown eyes and long
> > chestnut brown hair in two braids. She could easily pass as a
> > miniature of her teacher, though there was no Down Syndrome in Mrs.
> > Landreneau's genes.
> >
> > "Good morning, Ellen!" she smiled gently at the youngling. Ellen
> > didn't reply, but glanced at Miss Mary, then ran to her seat.
> >
> > "She's being a little shy today, Marie." Miss Mary explained.
> >
> > The other children filed in one by one, six in all. A large class for
> > Special Education. But everyone wanted Mrs. Landreneau to teach their
> > children. She was the best teacher the public school had. Her gentle
> > nudging and kind patience brought out the best in each of her
> > students, and every parent wanted their child to blossom under her
> > direction.
> >
> > "Ok, guys, we're going on a little field trip today!"
> >
> > The shouts of glee were mainly Eric's, a seven-year-old with what his
> > mother called "weak eyes." Eric had been born prematurely, and besides
> > his blindness, his allergies to nearly everything under the sun meant
> > regular tube feedings and the use of gloves and face mask. Despite his
> > disabilities, Eric was the rowdiest of the bunch, and Mrs. Landreneau
> > knew to keep a close eye on him. He may be blind, but he didn't let
> > that stop him, climbing trees he couldn't get down from and squeezing
> > into holes that he couldn't quite fit in.
> >
> > Grinning at Eric's enthusiasm, the gentle teacher showed the children
> > a book about bugs. "Today," she declared, "we are going on a bug hunt.
> > Miss Alexandria, do you have Michael's inhaler and Eric's face mask?
> > They'll need them outside."
> >
> > "Right here," assured the young teacher's aide, who was in charge of
> > three of the six. The other three were Miss Mary's charges, with Marie
> > Landreneau watching over them all, guiding and encouraging. "All
> > right," she told the class cheerfully, "here we go!"
> >
> > She led the group out ontot he playground to lift rocks and dig holes,
> > searching for the bugs in the Big Book of Bugs.
> >
> > * * *
> >
> > What villian will you come up with? What is their redeeming quality?
> > Go nuts! Enjoy!
> >
> > ~Jewel
> >
> > _______________________________________________
> > Writers Division web site:
> > http://www.nfb-writers-division.org 
> > <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
> >
> > stylist mailing list
> > stylist at nfbnet.org
> > http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
> > To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
> > stylist:
> > http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/jbron%40optonline.net
> >
>
>
>
>
> ------------------------------
>
> Message: 5
> Date: Tue, 01 Jun 2010 18:31:54 -0400
> From: Judith Bron <jbron at optonline.net>
> To: Writer's Division Mailing List <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Subject: Re: [stylist] (no subject)
> Message-ID: <000301cb01da$3cc4a650$3302a8c0 at dell5150>
> Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed; charset=iso-8859-1;
> reply-type=original
>
> Jewel, Was there a message here? Judith
> ----- Original Message ----- 
> From: "Jewel S." <herekittykat2 at gmail.com>
> To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Sent: Tuesday, June 01, 2010 3:31 PM
> Subject: [stylist] (no subject)
>
>
> >
> >
> > _______________________________________________
> > Writers Division web site:
> > http://www.nfb-writers-division.org 
> > <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
> >
> > stylist mailing list
> > stylist at nfbnet.org
> > http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
> > To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
> > stylist:
> > http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/jbron%40optonline.net
>
>
>
>
> ------------------------------
>
> Message: 6
> Date: Tue, 01 Jun 2010 19:28:42 -0400
> From: loristay <loristay at aol.com>
> To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Subject: Re: [stylist] Writing Prompt: Finding the Good in the Villian
> Message-ID: <393A6366.F24C.4AAE.955F.95A9AC49529E at aol.com>
> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"
>
> Strangely enough, I find it tough to believe a good teacher would punch 
> her kids in the face at home if they didn't eat.
>
> As for a villain in my life who has redeeming qualities, I've thought of 
> one, a fellow I used to know. ?I'm not sure I understand how that creep 
> became a rabbi, but he did, and the people in his congregation love him, 
> so I've heard. ?As for fictionalizing him, let me work on it!
> Lori
>
> On Jun 1, 2010, at 4:07:18 PM, "Jewel S." <herekittykat2 at gmail.com> wrote:
>
> From: "Jewel S." <herekittykat2 at gmail.com>
> Subject: [stylist] Writing Prompt: Finding the Good in the Villian
> Date: June 1, 2010 4:07:18 PM EDT
> To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Hi all,
>
> So, I thought I would throw out another prompt for anyone interested.
> This is a prompt that can be used for fiction or non-fiction (memoirs
> and such().
>
> Think of someone in your past whom you didn't like: a bully in your
> elementary class, the principal who slapped your hands for blinking
> too much, an abusive neighbour who always gave his son a black
> eye...or make someone up. Now, give that person a "redeeming" quality,
> something good about them that you wouldn't expect. Perhaps the
> abusive neighbour is an avid recycler, the bully has a great green
> thumb, the principal...well, you get the idea. Now, write a short
> passage with this villian, including their "redeeming" quality. Below
> is mine:
>
> Jessica was eating breakfast, cold oatmeal that was clinging in clots
> to the side of the neon orange plastic bowl. Beside her, her sister
> Cary was stabbing at her own orange bowl of oatmeal goop, her nose
> wrinkled in disgust.
>
> "Mum," Cary whined. "Do we *have* to eat this gunk? It's pig sl-"
>
> Before she could get out the last of her complaint, her head swung
> sharply to the right as their mother flung a blow with her fist to the
> older girl's temple. There would be a knot and a bruise later, but
> Cary would cover it with her hair. She always wore her hair forward,
> almost covering her eyes, anyway. No one would notice.
>
> "How dare you complain! There are starving children in Africa who
> would eat your breakfast without a second to waste. If you don't eat
> it, I'll put it in the fridge, and you can have it for supper. You
> won't get anything else until you eat your oatmeal."
>
> And Jessica knew she meant it. She had once gone on a two-day strike
> after they wre served black lumps, supposedly ravioli. The raviolis
> had stayed in their neon green bowl, the designated color for dinner,
> for the entire two days. Jess finally gave into the hunger and ate the
> charred stuff, which by that time tasted like ashes. Her reward for
> eating it was the priviledge of eating what everyone else was having.
> That day, dinner was some burnt fish, which their mother called
> "blackened."
>
> Jessica was shocked out of her memory by a sharp blow to the back of
> her head. "Eat! I have to get to work. If I have to stand here and
> watch you eat, Jessica, I will be late, and then you'll pay for
> embarrassing me."
>
> Jessica dutifully shovelled the goop into her mouth, wondering when
> her father was getting home. He was out at sea again, a common enough
> occurence as he was a Navy sonar technician. He could cook, and more
> than made up for their fasting in his absence. Shrimp scampi, oysters
> on the half schell, chicken and sausage gumbo...her mouth salivated at
> the memory of her last gumbo five months ago.
>
> Her bowl clean, Cary nudged Jess, whispering "Hurry up...she's coming
> back," and Jess stuffed the last two bites in her mouth in one
> over-flowing spoonful. Jumping to her feet, she held out the bowl for
> Mother to inspect, then rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher. A swat
> on the butt with the fly-swatter told her it was time to get to the
> bus stop.
>
> * * *
>
> Marie Landreneau wandered into her classroom, singing, "Mares eat
> oats, and goats eat oats, and little lambs eat ivy. A kid'll eat ivy,
> too, wouldn't you?" What she was thinking was, Not my kids...they
> won't even eat real food. They certainly wouldn't eat ivy. They are so
> ungrateful. At least my school children are not so ungrateful. I wish
> I could take them home and leave Jessica and Cary to learn what real
> life is like on the streets.
>
> It was a Tuesday, Mrs. Landreneau's favourite day of the week at
> school. Her children were not too wound-up from the weekend, nor too
> wound-up in preparation for the end of the school week on Friday.
> Tuesday and Wednesday were truly the best days in her Special
> Education classroom.
>
> A bell rang out, signaling that it was time for the students to get to
> their classes. Some of the Special Education children would be coming
> in with their aides soon. Others would come in the afternoon, having
> spent the morning in the 'regular' classroom.
>
> The door opened and Miss Mary came in with a five-year-old who could
> be Mrs. Landreneau's daughter, with her beautiful brown eyes and long
> chestnut brown hair in two braids. She could easily pass as a
> miniature of her teacher, though there was no Down Syndrome in Mrs.
> Landreneau's genes.
>
> "Good morning, Ellen!" she smiled gently at the youngling. Ellen
> didn't reply, but glanced at Miss Mary, then ran to her seat.
>
> "She's being a little shy today, Marie." Miss Mary explained.
>
> The other children filed in one by one, six in all. A large class for
> Special Education. But everyone wanted Mrs. Landreneau to teach their
> children. She was the best teacher the public school had. Her gentle
> nudging and kind patience brought out the best in each of her
> students, and every parent wanted their child to blossom under her
> direction.
>
> "Ok, guys, we're going on a little field trip today!"
>
> The shouts of glee were mainly Eric's, a seven-year-old with what his
> mother called "weak eyes." Eric had been born prematurely, and besides
> his blindness, his allergies to nearly everything under the sun meant
> regular tube feedings and the use of gloves and face mask. Despite his
> disabilities, Eric was the rowdiest of the bunch, and Mrs. Landreneau
> knew to keep a close eye on him. He may be blind, but he didn't let
> that stop him, climbing trees he couldn't get down from and squeezing
> into holes that he couldn't quite fit in.
>
> Grinning at Eric's enthusiasm, the gentle teacher showed the children
> a book about bugs. "Today," she declared, "we are going on a bug hunt.
> Miss Alexandria, do you have Michael's inhaler and Eric's face mask?
> They'll need them outside."
>
> "Right here," assured the young teacher's aide, who was in charge of
> three of the six. The other three were Miss Mary's charges, with Marie
> Landreneau watching over them all, guiding and encouraging. "All
> right," she told the class cheerfully, "here we go!"
>
> She led the group out ontot he playground to lift rocks and dig holes,
> searching for the bugs in the Big Book of Bugs.
>
> * * *
>
> What villian will you come up with? What is their redeeming quality?
> Go nuts! Enjoy!
>
> ~Jewel
>
> _______________________________________________
> Writers Division web site:
> http://www.nfb-writers-division.org <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>
> stylist mailing list
> stylist at nfbnet.org
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
> To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for 
> stylist:
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/loristay%40aol.com
>
>
>
> ------------------------------
>
> Message: 7
> Date: Tue, 1 Jun 2010 22:39:52 -0400
> From: "Chris Kuell" <ckuell at comcast.net>
> To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Subject: Re: [stylist] Writing Prompt: Finding the Good in the Villian
> Message-ID: <3ACDFE5229104FF788178C2B095D39D1 at ChrisPC>
> Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed; charset="iso-8859-1";
> reply-type=original
>
> Hi Jewel (and others)--
>
> I'm new here to the Stylist, so I beg pardon if I'm not following proper
> protocol.
> I enjoyed your story, especially the differently colored bowls for
> designated meals--signs of a strict disciplinarian. I did have a little
> trouble believing the same woman who could hit her own kids so violently
> would be the 'sought after' special-ed teacher, but I suppose stranger
> things have happened.
>
> Below is my own quick response to the prompt. I don't know how you all 
> work
> with prompts, but I don't take them too literally, prefering to take the
> concept, tumble it around in the old noggin for a while and see what comes
> out.
>
>
> Lester
>
> Something hard nudged at his shoulder, interrupted his dream. Elizabeth
> Taylor, dressed in a see-through, silk kimono, was washing his back.
>
> "C'mon, Lester. Time to get up."
>
> The nudge came harder, pushing Elizabeth far away, forcing him to deal 
> with
> the cold, the lights, the noise.
>
> "It's almost seven o'clock," the voice said. "Time most respectable folk 
> are
> at work. Now get up. Move along."
>
> Lester used a dirty finger to smear the sleep glue from his eyes. A dark
> figure stood above him, waving a night stick. He blinked, twice, and he 
> saw
> it was that cop.
>
> like a freshly hatched moth, unfolding its wings for the first time, 
> Lester
> forced his frozen bones to move, to uncurl from their fetal embrace, shift
> into a sitting position. He blinked a few more times, ran his fingers
> through his ragged, gray beard, picked out a little piece of carrot.
>
> "Ain't you got nothin' better to do?" Lester's voice came out uneven, as 
> if
> one lung had more air than the other.
>
> "Serve and protect," the cop said. "Which means getting bums like you off
> public benches like this."
>
> Slowly, methodically, Lester put his boots on the pavement and slipped his
> mismatched socked feet inside. He took the boots off at night to keep the
> thieves from stealing them. He slept clutching the boots like they were a
> sack of cash. They had no laces; he'd traded them for a few slugs of 
> whiskey
> to the Puerto Rican.
>
> Lester rubbed his gloved hands along his thighs in an attempt to bring 
> about
> feeling. He heard footsteps and rapid breathing, looked up just in time to
> see a young woman wearing headphones and a sports bra run by. The cop 
> turned
> to admire the view.
>
> Lester shut his eyes, slipped a hand into his jacket pocket, past the 
> crust
> of bread wrapped in a napkin, ran the tip of one exposed finger along the
> rosary beads. Sylvia's rosary beads. He saw her auburn hair twisted in a
> braid halfway down her back, eyes bright as new pennies. It gave him the
> will to push himself up, to stand, to shuffle through another day.
>
> --chris kuell
>
>
>
>
> ------------------------------
>
> Message: 8
> Date: Wed, 02 Jun 2010 10:32:37 -0400
> From: Judith Bron <jbron at optonline.net>
> To: Stylist <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Subject: [stylist] flash movie start
> Message-ID: <000e01cb0260$73346280$3302a8c0 at dell5150>
> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1
>
> When you want to hear or see a video and the only access to the footage 
> ies the "flash movie start" button, how do you get this to work? I've been 
> trying for years but can't get it to work. Judith
>
>
> ------------------------------
>
> _______________________________________________
> stylist mailing list
> stylist at nfbnet.org
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
>
>
> End of stylist Digest, Vol 74, Issue 2
> **************************************

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