Tag Archives: old writing series

Old Writing: Untitled

While I am unsure of the class this was written for or my age at the time of its writing, I do remember writing this and being very proud of the phrase, “…explode in a fatal shot of a gun being fired and the scream of pain as the bullet hit its mark.”

Now that I have finished transcribing it, I think it was written from a prompt of a black and white photo of a young man sitting on a balcony. It might have been in high school — possibly Freshman year.

Ever since they were children, Rene's brother, Ryan, was the favored one. Ryan always had the best things, toys in the beginning, then more important things. Ryan even had better women. They said that it was because Ryan was older. Could be, could be.

These thoughts, plus many others passed through Rene's mind as he sat on the balcony of the unused ballroom of his huge home, waiting. Waiting for when the fatal "there he is" would ring out from below.

Rene had no emotion. No fear, sadness, remorse, or even the hateful jealousy he had felt for as long as he could remember. It had subsided into a dull hardness. Hardness was all he felt. His face was set in a hard expression.

He could now hear voices in the passage before the old ballroom. The voices faded into a dream and he was back in his brother's room as he had been only a quarter of an hour before. He heard, now he felt again the terrible, horrible jealousy that he had kept under control for the past seventeen years explode in a fatal shot of a gun being fired and the scream of pain as the bullet hit its mark.

The voices returned, louder than before, closer. The moment was near when he would see his father's wrath and hurt and his mother's expression of unbelievability, hate, and pain all mingled into one.

The door opened; from his viewpoint he could see quite clearly the five people of the small party -- Mother, Father, local father of the church, and two neighbors. It was now that his fear gripped him, it tore through his body like fire. What to do? He could try to escape, he knew a stairway beyond the far wall. It was a chance, unless..., unless he jumped. It was another chance. It would end all his problems. 

He knew no fear like this fear as he heard his mother cry, "There he is!"

"Oh God, help me," pleaded Rene, "help me endure what I am going to..."

Writing #7 (Freshman English assignment)

I thought for sure I’d blogged this, but cannot find it via the search.

I remember when this happened. I still have that backpack!

The teacher gave me a score of 9.5 and wrote, “Fully detailed and evocative — your theme is successful.”

Writing #7                                                           Dona Patrick

My usual routine after math on Wednesdays is to clime the stairs by the lounge, shrug off my backpack full of books, and sit on the stone ledge at the front entrance, waiting until 2:05 when I walk to the bust stop my the North Annex. The bus, usually on time, comes at 2:12. One particular Wednesday, though, I thought I'd leave at 2:00, since the driver hadn't been the regular one for the past two days and consequently the busy schedule was a bit messed up.

As I stood up, putting my right arm through the red strap of my heavy backpack and walking to the revolving door, slipping the other strap in place around my left shoulder, I noticed, through the window, that the bus was already on its way down Fleetwood Drive. In a matter of seconds it would be past the bus stop and I would have to wait a half hour for the next bus.

I pushed through the revolving door, not paying attention to the squeaking sound of the rubber around each door on the glass that usually makes me think of a window washer's squeegee. Then I ran: my shoes making a flapping sound on the cement, and my books in their bag, bouncing back and forth on my back. I  passed two well-dressed men, wondering if they thought I was being pursued. All the while I was watching the bus, which by this time had come to a halt. No one was boarding so I wondered if the bus driver perhaps saw me running. I doubted that so I speeded up my pace and reached the bus in what I thought was the nick of time. I paid my fare of one bus token, taking my books off before I collapsed in the nearest unoccupied seat, panting, waiting for the bus to leave. Ten minutes later the driver put the bus in gear and pulled away from the bus stop, back on schedule, seeming unaware of the panic his early arrival had caused.

Old Writing Series: The Dancer

Weirdly, this is not in my handwriting — or any handwriting I remember. So perhaps I didn’t write this after all — or perhaps it was a long-forgotten collaboration with a long-forgotten colleague. It looks like it might have been a school assignment. Hopefully grade school.

If I did indeed write this, I wonder what my obsession was with girls whose parents would not let them attend dancing school.

The Dancer

There was once a young girl. Her name was Jennifer. Her parents called her Jenny for short; so will we. To begin this story I will start at her house in the morning. Well just after Jenny had gotten dressed she stamped down the steps and into the dining room.

She usually was happy but today, NO! Today there was no dancing lessons. Her parents did now want her to go to dancing lessons in the first place, but Jenny insisted so her mom and dad had to take her. She said that she would run away and she started to pack. But her mom and dad said to STOP! So she did.

She sat down on her chair with a plop. And the glasses trembled as her parents came in. Her mother said that she was a poor sport. Her father just sat down to eat and then there was a silence and it was broken when Jenny’s little sister came in the room and said, “I WANT SOMETHING TO EAT!” So her mother took her and put her on the chair and put a towel around her neck.

Jenny had nothing to do except to read. This was a Saturday that flew like it was not even in there. No dancing, no dancing, no dancing kept floating in her mind and she was almost crying. But she did not know what to do about her mom and dad.

So she decided to leave so she did. She went to dancing school and lived there for a little while. But she got lonesome for her parents.

So she went home and her parents sent her up to her room. Her sister’s dog licked her in the face and hands.

She had learned to dance. So her parents let her be in the play and that was all.