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

Fri Jun 4 19:24:42 UTC 2010

I agree, quite beautifully writtenm, Bridget. Would love to read more of this!

~Jewel

P.S.- Yes, the ponit of the prompt was to create a more complex
character *smiles*

On 6/3/10, loristay <loristay at aol.com> wrote:
> Beautiful, Bridgit.
> Lori
> On Jun 3, 2010, at 3:24:36 AM, "Bridgit Pollpeter" <bpollpeter at hotmail.com>
> wrote:
>
> From:   "Bridgit Pollpeter" <bpollpeter at hotmail.com>
> Subject:    [stylist] Writing prompt: Finding the good in the villain
> Date:   June 3, 2010 3:24:36 AM EDT
> To: "writers division" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
>
> 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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