Grading: You will graded on word count, setting, characterization, strong diction, conflict, and resolution.
Word Count
A = 800+
B = 600-799
C = 400-599
D = 300-399
F = Below 300
Mr. D's Example:
The
Most Beautiful Suicide
Even her fiancé didn’t suspect anything, and then she
was gone. Floating, falling gracefully into the metal shroud that draped around
her lifeless body. Just three hours
before she stood on the ledge of the 86th floor of the Empire State
Building she was sitting across from the man she was expected to marry in a few
short weeks. Her fiancé, Barry Rhodes,
told reporters the next day that “when I kissed her goodbye she was happy and
as normal as any girl about to be married.”
Before that fateful kiss, they sat at a clichéd red
and white checkered table that looked like a bad prop in an Italian restaurant
near Easton, Pennsylvania. A red-haired, freckled teenager brought out their
lasagna and house wine. Sometime between
the garlic bread and their second glass of wine, Barry caught Evelyn’s gaze. He
saw something in her eyes at that moment, devoid of the sadness and confusion
that usually occupied the chestnut space of her irises. This most simple and
natural form of body language even made him forget the eyes that set the
bridesmaid dress on fire a year prior at his brother’s wedding. We all forget the things we don’t want to
remember, but Barry believed in the eyes that sat across from him.
“Do you remember the first time we met?” Barry asked
wistfully.
“How could I forget? There were a million open seats
on the bus, and you sat right next to me. I remember thinking ‘oh great’
because I just wanted to be left alone, but you made me forget about all that
when you asked me to tell you about the book I was reading.”
“You were reading As I Lay Dying, and you said that you couldn’t understand why
anyone would be so obsessed about their burial.”
Evelyn looked up from her lasagna, said nothing, and
then looked apologetically at Barry. Barry perceived this glance as an
invitation to compliment his bride to be.
“I remember you had on this beautiful dress, and a
bright red coat. And even though you were quite bundled up, I knew you were
stunning from head to toe,” Barry smiled at his intuitiveness. From a distance,
you would think that they were in love or at the very least happy to be
engaged.
“Aw. Thank you, Barry,” Evelyn said as her gaze went
back to focusing on the layers of lasagna, an Italian wedding cake. As she
concentrated on cutting a piece with her fork, the sauce and meat spilled out
the other end and on to the white space of her plate.
Never once did Evelyn ask if Barry was sure about
getting married next month. And never once did Barry inquire about Evelyn’s
feelings. He quietly accepted this nice evening together as a reminder that
their relationship was normal, not flaming bridesmaids’ dresses.
The next morning while the sun was still sleeping
Barry drove Evelyn to the train station, so she could start making her way back
to New York City. As he told reporters,
he kissed her goodbye; everything seemed normal, and she seemed happy. Evelyn thought about that kiss, the army, her
mother, and the night Barry walked outside and saw her standing next to a pile
of flames. When Barry ran to her, he saw fire reflected in her eyes, but what
scared him most was the glaze that made her eyes seem like nothing but dead
marbles. In that ashy pile of charred
dress, he saw no normal, and instead saw everything he thought he would never be
married to.
We can’t blame Barry for not running away; he was a
nice, normal guy, who had a gift for seeing past the horrors of reality. With each relatively normal date, Barry’s
uneasiness abated until he had even convinced himself that she had just been
having a bad night.
Evelyn peered out the window of the train. The sunrise reminded her of the army uniform
she burned before she met Barry, glowing orange on top of olive green. She held
a pearl necklace like a rosary between her thumb and forefinger as she watched
the sky catch fire.
She listened to the train come to a stop as it
approached Penn Station, metal on metal, screeching its way to the
platform. When everyone had gotten off
the train and started to make their way to wherever they were expected, she
stood up and started walking. You can
usually tell so much about a person from the way they walk, but if you saw
Evelyn exit this train, you would be able to make no assumptions.
It is a five minute walk from Penn Station to
Governor Clinton Hotel. Evelyn kept her
eyes straight as she walked down 34th Avenue. She did not look up.
She did not look down. She did look at any one until she said, “I’d like a room
for the evening, please.”
The key turned and the door opened to a sterile,
standard room. There was no clutter, the bed was perfectly made and stiff, and
Evelyn sat down at a little table next to the window. She gazed out the window
and thought about coming home to Barry and a family in some suburban Pennsylvanian
farmhouse. She thought about her own family and what her father had to come home
to when her Mom was still around. Then she began to write . . .
She left the note on that table and gently closed
the door behind her.
There is nothing quiet about Ten-thirty in the
morning outside the Empire State Building.
The city blocks speak their own language: street lights bing, vendors accost,
foot-longs sizzle, and policemen shout. Evelyn walked right through this noise
and into the towering high-rise.
“One ticket to the observation deck, please,” she
said casually.
Evelyn squeezed into the elevator and tried to block
out the touristy family’s excitement to see the whole city. She wished she were alone. At the ding of the
86th floor, she exited behind the giddy family.
The fire in the sky had been put out by clouds, and
she looked out at the city. She took off her red coat and draped it over the
banister. There was no hesitation.
She flew . . .
They found her letter later that day, alone of the
table.
“I don’t want
anyone in or out of my family to see any part of me. Could you destroy my body
by cremation? I beg of you and my family – don’t have any service for me or
remembrance for me. My fiance asked me to marry him in June. I don’t think I
would make a good wife for anybody. He is much better
off without me. Tell my father, I have too many of my
mother’s tendencies.”
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