Some of my own writing, styled in the manner of various texts by authors studied in a literature class. Pt. 2.
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From the voice of Eleanor, of V. Woolf’s “Kew Gardens.”
For me, a trifle. Miss Wolff has made little show of the inner life. But why should I mind, really? In the end, it is a practical affair. Doesn’t one brood on the internal too intensely, for too long? The author must have some sense about her. It is silly to speculate when there are children to be tended to, and when history is ghosts lying under the trees. I spoke my memory aloud to Simon, and that was all that was needed. Five minutes squared away, by my watch. I don’t allow myself to linger for too long on the more precious moments, for what end is there? It is all that remains of a happy existence, these lovelier memories… how thoughtless to dull them by overuse. In any case, Simon inhabits his own world sometimes – what could he see of the water-lilies? It is economy. My words are like feathers on the air; shadows of words are even paler. Yes, she is a practical one, if a bit enamored of snails, and I don’t grudge her for it. Come, Caroline, come, Hubert. Now, if you don’t mind, I must be getting along–it is late and really I must be putting the children to bed.
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On the male-male relationship, as inspired by D. H. Lawrence.
The clock went ringing in ten strokes over the cool, black roads of the campus, where people seldom passed now, this deep into June. At the sound, which came through the open window of the chapel at the top of the student union, they bowed their heads. Tonight there were only two in the room, brothers, positioned angularly in chairs which did not face each other, exactly, but bent inward in a slight V; their knees almost knocked.
Each held a string of beads in his hand, one red the other white, and crossed himself with it. One brother, the older by a pair of years, spoke into the stillness of the night. Queen of the Holy Rosary, you have deigned to come to Fatima to reveal to the three shepherd children the treasures of grace hidden in the Rosary. He said the prayer diligently, with the constant rhythm of one who has made a routine of it, then recited his intentions. His prayer was For the strength of the Church and the health of their father. After a short silence, his brother added For all those for whom we have promised to pray.
The prayer went on, the older brother leading, a breeze blowing in from the window. It was Thursday and therefore they meditated on the Five Luminous Mysteries. Fingers moved over beads, lightly, in an unbreaking motion. In the cool air the clock rang again, a little jingle indicating the quarter-hour. O clement, o loving, o sweet Virgin Mary, they said, and the lamp overhead was throwing pale light. Then, after some minutes, they recited the Memorare, prayed for the world, the bishop, and the holy souls in Purgatory, and asked special favor from Blessed Jutta of Thuringia, whose Saint Day it was. Each kissed his beads and made the sign of the cross. They picked up their chairs and moved them to the wall, restoring the symmetry of the room. One brother pulled the window closed. In the moment before the other switched out the light, the lamp glowed like a little star. Together the brothers walked to the door and quietly parted ways.
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An alternate ending to Chekhov’s “The Lady with the Pet Dog.”
The weight of Anna Sergeyevna’s young body collapsed onto Gurov, as she went on weeping. He was faced toward the window, over which the thick green curtains were drawn but for a two-inch bar in the middle. Now apart from the small whimpers, there was silence in the room for many minutes; and Gurov stroked his fingers along her back again and again. Meanwhile he gazed ahead, at the thin bar between the curtains, and the night outside showed as a solid strip of black. The solidness of the sight affected him, and there came to his hands a quick, frenetic rhythm, which was danced out irrationally on Anna Sergeyevna’s back. As the minutes passed, the dance kept on and his gaze grew ever more fixed, while the black bar of the window seemed to expand, vaulting horizontally and then through a perpendicular, resolving into some three-dimensioned form of black light. Its surface was glassy and Gurov’s reflection was shining there, hovering monstrously against the dark. With a gasp he saw himself then, the large white eyes clouded by vanity, the dancing fingers afflicted by a restless curse. The black figure grew and grew, and the pale eyes swelled, magnified on the wall.
Suddenly, a gust of wind blew by, rattling the window. In a shock of agitation the black form exploded to pieces, the pale eyes disappeared; and in a tinkle a silver tea platter crashed to the floor from the corner; and in the heaviness of the burst, Gurov’s fingers went limp on the woman’s back.
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In the style of K. Mansfield’s “Carnation.”
On languorous days like this one, Alice spent the afternoon lolling in the grass. It was an idle time for the town, in this middle part of the country, and if a war had ended only four years back, now there was a great blanket of stillness falling over everything. Alice plucked a flower from the grass. Girls her age were fond of making daisy chains, to use as crowns in their hair. Alice found the custom especially distasteful and now, thinking no particular thought, she crushed the stem, a pale green curve, beneath her thumb. The heat of the air weighed heavy. Lying on her back, Alice licked her fingers, chubby and white, and pulled the flower to pieces; she was eating the thing petal by petal, imagining to herself little red explosions as each blossom fluttered down to her tongue.