Intro
For the next two weeks you'll be working on writing a short story. This page is to help you in writing it. If you have any questions don't be afraid to contact me.
Opdracht
Planning
4-1-2021 t/m 10-1-2021: De leerlingen maken een begin met het schrijven van een short story (500-1000 woorden) met een zelfgekozen thema uit een lijst aangeboden thema's (Romance, Fantasy of Mystery) en perspectief. Deze moet ingeleverd worden via Peergrade.
11-1-2021: Feedback geven aan je klasgenoot (via Peergrade).
12-1-2021 t/m 19-1-2021: De leerlingen verwerken de peerfeedback die ze hadden gekregen en maken hun short story af.
Beoordelingscriteria
1. Uitwerking van de opdracht (10pt.)
2. Creativiteit/originaliteit (20pt.)
3. Opmaak (10pt.)
4. Opbouw/Samenhang (20pt.)
5. Perspectief (15pt.)
6. Beschrijvingen: personages, sfeer en objecten (20pt.)
7. Peerfeedback verwerken (5pt.)
PS: Als de short story korter is dan 500 woorden kijk ik niet na.
Deadline hele short story: 19-1-2021
Uitleg short story
A short story is a piece of written fiction usually between 1,000 and 4,000 words. It is simply said a shortened version of a novel that can be read in one go.
There are many ways to write a short story but a common structure is the three act structure. First comes the setup. Here you introduce the scene (for example: place and time) and the characters (the main and side characters). Then comes the confrontation and/or conflict. Lastly comes the resolution.
Example:
1. Once upon a time there was a girl with skin white as snow and lips red as a rose (setup).
2. The girl ate a poisoned apple given to her by the Evil Queen (confrontation).
3. A prince showed up, kissed her and therefore saved her. They got together and now live happily ever after (resolution).
This is an example of a closed ending. You can also leave it open by for example changing the last sentence to "The prince rode his horse through the forest as fast as lightning, dreading losing the love of his life. He could imagine no other as his future wife for once upon a time there was a girl with skin white as snow and lips red as a rose." An open ending leaves you with questions. What happens then? Did he make it? Did he save the girl? Who knows? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Genre
Short stories can be many genres. Here you have three genre you can choose from for your short story: Romance, Mystery and Fantasy. Choose one only.
Voorbeeld: Romance short story
Rachel
I've always enjoyed driving in silence.
No, not always. When I got my first car, I drove through ear-splitting noise. I’d made my first forage into what I called ‘non-radio’ music, moving away from mainstream hits and discovering a wonderful symphony of indie and punk rock bands. That was back in the days before Spotify, where you still had to download the music you wanted to listen to, and burn CD’s on Windows Media Player. I’d borrow ten albums a week from the library, create illegal copies of the ones I liked, and return to take more the following week.
It was on the spinning racks of that musty old library that I discovered bands like My Chemical Romance, The Arctic Monkeys, Good Charlotte and All Time Low. My car became my refuge - a safe haven where I could escape to play my songs as loudly as I wanted. If I close my eyes, and drift back to that time in my life, I can still feel the adrenaline coursing through my nineteen year-old body; can still see the wild, frenzied look in my eyes as my hands bashed against the steering wheel and I half-sang, half-screamed the lyrics until my throat ached.
That was a long time ago, and although my car is still a place of refuge, now it’s a quiet one, a place where the outside world is shut out, where I can collect my thoughts and recharge. I will confess that for quite a while I was one of those young men who recklessly skimmed through messages and playlists while hurtling along country roads at sixty kilometres an hour. A teacher I once had told me that when we’re young, even if we consciously accept the possibility of death, subconsciously, we think we’re invincible. Funny how words like that stick with you through the years, waiting for you to be ready to accept them.
Tonight, I’m driving back home to my parents’ house for the Christmas holidays. I finished work earlier this evening, and a two-week holiday stretches gloriously ahead of me. It’s dark out already, and as the car speeds along the motorway, I realise I’ve got this stretch of road all to my own, no lights visible in front or behind me. I hear myself let out an audible sigh of contentment, and feel my mind begin to drift into that calm, meditative state that only comes from this type of quiet night-time driving, when all the usual stimuli of the outside world are removed.
I find myself thinking about the year gone by. I’ve tried not to do that this year – up until a few years ago, I would work myself up into something resembling an anxiety attack at the end of each December, setting intense and completely unrealistic goals for myself, coming into strict effect at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve. Go vegan. Become fluent in French. Become fluent in Spanish. Get absolutely shredded. Give up sugar. Get a book published. I’d spend the last few days of the year watching motivational videos on YouTube, getting worked up into a frenzy - berating myself for not having achieved enough that year, and promising myself that this year was my year, the year when I’d show the world what I was really capable of.
It’s kind of funny, looking back at the state I used to work myself into, but it’s funny with a tinge of sadness. That was me, that person who thought they weren’t doing enough, achieving enough, being enough. I put so much pressure on myself to achieve things that I didn’t even want, and then beat myself up when I didn’t follow through. Don’t get me wrong – I’m still an ambitious, goal-driven person. I just chase things I actually want now, and set goals that depend only on me to achieve them, and don’t require lucky breaks from the universe.
Get jacked. Why? I’ve seen what getting stage-competition ripped involves, and it’s not a lifestyle I envy. What I actually want is to be fast, athletic, powerful, agile. I want to be able to sprint faster than the guy next to me, turn my hand to any sport, smash out burpees when I’m 50. Train hard and enjoy food. Bodybuilding means long, tedious hours in the gym, lifting weights in one plane of motion, adding muscle to your frame so that you become less mobile, less able to sprint and jump and twist and turn, less athletic. Getting jacked means weighing every gram of food, obsessing over your macros, constantly worrying about food. Why the hell would I put myself through that?
Get a book published. Okay, that’s something I actually do want to achieve, but I can’t rely on fate or chance to give me a lucky break. I can’t control whether someone wants to publish something I write, even if I do sit down and write something worthwhile. JK Rowling got turned down seventeen times before Harry Potter was published. Getting a book on the shelf is an aspiration, not a goal. It’s out of your control.
1. Write a book.
2. Go back to piano lessons and take an exam.
3. Exercise and eat in a way you enjoy and can do consistently.
These were my goals this year – difficult, but completely in my power. And I’ve done them all. That brings a smile to my face, as a car’s headlights appear in my rear-view mirror and draw steadily closer in the other lane. I’d forgotten what goals I set at the beginning of the year, had left them drift to the back of the mind as the second half of the year bled into the cold winter months. But I remember them clearly now, remember lying in bed one night last year, forcing myself to narrow my many ambitions to three concise, identifiable goals.
Four. Not three. I set four goals last year. The fourth flashes across my mind, and I close my eyes and exhale deeply, trying to expel the heavy weight that has sunk suddenly into the pit of my stomach. It isn’t a goal, not really. But it is something that I thought would have happened by now, and the sudden realisation that it hasn’t casts a shadow over the happiness I felt just a moment ago.
I glance at the radio beside the car dashboard. December 23rd. I start counting days in my head. Eight days. Eight days to achieve that last goal, to tick it off the list and banish it from my thoughts before the new year. Will it be enough?
***
I wake early the next morning, my body unaware that I’m now on holidays, and don’t need to get out of bed at 7.30am in the freezing cold of the converted attic room of my parent’s house. I crawl reluctantly out of bed and creep down the stairs, trying not to wake the rest of the house, and flick the heating on from the switch in the coat press.
I step outside, shivering against the cold, and pull the sliding door closed behind me. The night is just beginning to fade into morning, the first few cracks of light splintering through the darkness. Melodic, throaty birdsong drifts down from the trees, the only sound audible in the stillness of the morning. Our road sits atop a hill overlooking the village, and I watch as a solitary car makes its way past the local school and heads towards the town.
I follow its journey, letting my eyes come to rest on a house just past the school, a winding driveway leading up to a long, stretched-out building with French windows and three cars parked outside. Rachel’s house. I keep my eyes fixed on the structure, trying to put a word on the feeling stirring around inside me. Sadness? Regret? Disappointment? None of them fit quite right, and I turn more words over in my mind, wondering how the sight of her house can still have such an effect on me, a year and a half after our break-up. I haven’t been inside since the day she ended things in her living room, looking anywhere but at me, as I tried desperately to hold back tears, and her parents hovered in the kitchen, fully aware of what was happening next door.
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. We’d been seeing each other for the best part of a year, but things had been going downhill for at least three at that stage. There was no big fallout, no tears or accusations or angry messages. Our relationship had just sort of petered out, had run its course and come to a conclusion, like a trail of water tapering to an end, with no energy left to propel itself forward.
Before the break-up, I thought I had wanted nothing more than to be free – I had just finished college, and was busy preparing for interviews for my first real job. Rachel, a year younger than me, was facing into her final year of law, and would be taking up a semi-permanent residence in the college library for the next year. I had considered ending things myself, loads of times, had almost said the words twice – once in her house, as we sat silently side by side watching a movie; and once after a drunken night out with her friends, where she had accused me of flirting with her best friend, and spent the rest of the night trying it on with any guy she could find.
Maybe it was the rejection that had stung me, the fact that Rachel was the one who finally plucked up the courage to put into words what both of us were thinking, and end things between us. It might have been the fact that two weeks later, there was a new boyfriend on the scene, a rugby player twice my size. Or maybe it was just because I hadn’t had a girlfriend since, and I was dwelling on Rachel because I was lonely. Whatever the reason, I had some work to do. One more goal to achieve before the year was out.
Back upstairs, the heating just starting to edge the chill from the room, I find my diary, tucked away in the suitcase still lying at the foot of the bed. I find a pen and thumb through the pages, coming to rest at the next blank page. I think for a moment, then write down the thing that’s been weighing on my mind since it entered, unbidden, into my head last night.
Eight days. One goal.
Get the hell over Rachel.
First things first. I pull out my phone and start flicking through social media apps. Unfollow. Unfriend. Remove as friend - are you sure? Yes. I don’t even allow myself to look through photos one more time. I know from past experience that that’s a road I don’t want to go down.
Rachel successfully moved from my digital life, I open up Tinder and check my profile. It doesn’t take me long to realise why my phone hasn’t been pinging matches at me since I joined up a few months back. The one photo I’ve uploaded is blurry, and shows me standing outside a McDonald’s, pulling a stupid face and sticking two thumbs up at the camera. Hardly enough to grab the attention of a passing female. My bio is empty - not a single quote or sentence, not even a stupid pick-up line. I prop myself up against the pillows on my bed, and start making my digital self a little more attractive. Then I realise that the matches I’ll be shown here, in my parent’s house, will be locals - girls I went to school with, girls who are friends with Rachel – possibly even Rachel herself. I groan inwardly and close the app, deciding Tinder can wait for another few days.
How do you get over someone you broke up with a year ago? I can’t think of anything, so in typical millennial fashion, I pull out my phone and Google it. The suggestions aren’t particularly helpful. Journal about it. Talk to someone you can trust. See a therapist. I groan and toss the phone aside, feeling suddenly pathetic.
The only way I’m going to get over Rachel is if I stop trying. It’s like falling asleep – it’s not going to happen if I’m lying there thinking, ‘I want to go asleep. I’m trying to fall asleep. I need to occupy my mind with something else.
My head is starting to hurt, so I decide to get some fresh air and take a walk around the village. I throw on an old coat, and head down the driveway and towards the village. Skirting around my old primary school, I find myself thinking back to being ten years old again, cycling down the hill to school every morning, running to the shop after school to stuff my face with sweets. I smile inwardly at the nostalgia, and remind myself that twenty-six is a bit young for a mid-life crisis.
I take the long way around to the main road, passing around the back of the sports pitches that are joined on to the school. I’m looking out at the dew-laden grass, remembering the feeling of underage games - the adrenaline rush before the match, the exhilaration of fighting for every ball, the elation or crushing disappointment after the game. I’m so busy reminiscing on times past that I almost walk into a girl coming the other direction, who has her head buried in her phone and hasn’t noticed me either.
‘Sorry!’ Our elbows bump against each other, and both of us jump in surprise. I raise my eyes to see who I’ve walked into, and feel my heart tip sideways in my chest.
Rachel.
She’s just as surprised as I am, and for a moment we just stand there, gaping at each other. I have to fight back the sudden urge to giggle.
‘James. Hi. How are you?’ Rachel manages at last, recovering first. She’s wrapped up against the cold weather, bundled into a huge red coat, a hat pulled down over her eyes, hands stuffed into woollen gloves, a scarf pulled up over her mouth. Her eyes are about the only part of her that’s visible – bright-green, kind, inviting. Just how I remembered them. Memories wash over me like waves crashing down onto the shore.
‘I’m good. Just home for the holidays. How are you?’
‘Good, good. You got a job teaching then?’
‘Yeah, I got pretty lucky. It’s my second year there but I already have a permanent job. ‘Are you still doing law?’ I realise that for all the time I’ve spent thinking about her these past few months, I know nothing about what she’s been up to.
Rachel gives a small smile, familiar creases appearing around her eyes. ‘Sort of.’
I frown. ‘What do you mean?’
She hesitates, just for a moment, then gestures to her oversized jacket.
‘I finished my degree. But I won’t be looking for a job for another while. I’m pregnant.’
I can’t help it – my mouth literally drops open in surprise. ‘Pregnant? Wow. I…’ My brain is spinning so fast I think I’m going to have to sit down. ‘Congratulations,’ I finish, weakly, wondering if this can really be happening.
‘Thanks.’ Rachel is watching my face carefully, observing my reaction. There’s a look in her eyes I haven’t quite seen before, and my mind begins turning words over once more, trying to place it. It settles on one. Nostalgia. Rachel’s looking at me the same way I was looking at our old school just a few minutes ago. I understand why – being pregnant must have dragged her into the real, adult world far sooner than she expected. Seeing me is like looking through a window into simpler, more innocent times. I must seem like nothing more than a distant memory to her now, a childhood crush.
We stand there awkwardly for another few minutes, making simple chit-chat, asking about parents and friends. Eventually, Rachel says she better get back or her parents will be worrying about her, patting her stomach with another small smile. On closer inspection, I see that she is showing a little, even under the big jacket. Not that I ever would have guessed if she hadn’t told me.
Back in my room, I sink into the chair beside my desk and exhale deeply. Of all the possibilities I had anticipated, I have to admit that this was not one of them. I wonder for a moment who the father is (for one heart-stopping moment, I think if it could be me, then do some simple math and realise that’s impossible), then I realise that I don’t really care.
Seeing Rachel has made her somehow real again. In my mind, I had created a sort of perfect avatar, remembering only the best parts, exaggerated and reimagined into a girl that had never existed. Meeting the real Rachel again made me realise that I don’t miss her, not in the way I thought I did. I missed the idea of her.
I hope Rachel’s happy – I know I’d be freaking out if I was in her situation, but she seemed pretty composed talking to me. I know she always wanted kids – though assumedly not this young, just as her career and adult life were taking off. I hope whoever the father is going to stick around to help, but – dare I say it? As selfish as it might sound, I’m glad it’s not me.
I fish the diary out from under my bed, and turn to the note I scribbled just last night, in blue pen across the top of the page.
Get the hell over Rachel.
I draw the pen through the five words, marvelling at how easy that was in the end.
Check.
Voorbeeld: Mystery short story
Et tu?
The lights had been dimmed in the auditorium, and this was Melissa’s favourite time. Okay, perhaps auditorium was too grand a word for the little box room tucked into the middle of the exhibition, but with only the light from the projector she imagined it was her great stage. Then she could pretend she was presenting her stunning PhD thesis, rather than re-reading the script the museum provided. Sure the job was fun, but it hardly had the grandeur she’d been aiming for when she went into academia. As soon as that started paying properly, she’d drop the museum summer job.
For now, however…
“Afternoon, everyone!” she called with forced cheer as the voices died down with the spotlights. First thing in the morning this was the greatest job ever; by four thirty she wanted nothing more than to stop smiling and have a drink. “Now then, has everyone here heard of… the Romans?”
Melissa would always, until the day she died, have a special place in her heart for the adults that went along with kids' shows. There was always that one smart-arse sod who’d shout back ‘who?’, but it was so much easier to carry on when at least one grown-up in the room said ‘Yes!’ and encouraged the children to speak up as well.
This afternoon there were three of them, already legends after putting up with a day out, and as she tried to make eye contact with them all Melissa spotted the man at the back.
He must’ve entered just as the lights dimmed. If he’d been there earlier she’d definitely have noticed him. At first she thought he was one of the re-enactors, skiving off work, but there was something about him… His cloak wasn’t right for one. It didn’t match the ones the wardrobe department supplied. But he’s wearing a cloak. What, has he turned up in fancy dress?
Either way, he wasn’t one of the adults who’d spoken – either for or against her question – so for now she could ignore him.
“Well in that case,” she asked the crowd, leaning over to look into the faces along the front row, “can anyone tell me what the Romans did for us? Why should we learn about them now? It’s been so long!”
“Cos they had fights and they killed people by throwin’ ‘em to the lions and everyone cheered,” one very enthusiastic kid in the middle said. That got a round of applause from the rest of the kids, as that sort of topic usually did.
“Ah, you mean the gladiator matches?” Totally off-script, but if that’s what they are interested in. “Yes, very good, my young friend. But we don’t have gladiators these days? So why are the Romans still relevant?”
A pair of adults at the back – young, childless, far more interested in each other than the exhibition – were busy giggling to themselves, and Melissa could practically hear the quotes from the front. If only the head of public engagement had actually had any public engagement in the last thirty years. Thankfully someone else was in charge of the visual displays, otherwise the whole museum would be dry, dusty and completely out of touch.
For some reason Melissa felt her eyes drawn back to the strange man at the back of the room. Unlike all the others adults, whose eyes had glossed over or whose phones had come out, he was still paying attention. He looked as though he was actually learning, which was a damn sight more than the kids were doing.
Who the hell doesn’t know about the Romans? Oh, maybe he’s from abroad. I wonder how much Roman history is taught in other countries? That was a question for later, and Melissa had to drag her attention back to the room before the children lost all interest.
“Well now, did you know that two of the months are named after Romans?” That got raised eyebrows from the man in the corner, and it was almost enough to get Melissa to lose her train of thought. A handful of the kids were also impressed, and Melissa directed her next words at them. “That’s right. August was named for a man called Augustus, so who do you think July was named after…?”
Even at that tender age they’d heard the name, and a kid in the middle of the room duly yelled the answer.
“Julius Caesar!”
Melissa had learnt, two summers ago when she first started at the museum, that invoking that name caused every child in a room to start talking at once. Some of them were making sure that everyone knew that they’d heard of him as well, others were talking about some part he’d had in a cartoon, and one or two even mention the Gauls. There was no point trying to get through to them at this stage, so Melissa just stood at the front and smiled, doing her part to encourage all of them to ‘share the knowledge they’d learnt’, as was the mission statement of the museum. They probably weren’t meant to do it all at once, but it saved time.
As she had nothing to do right then, Melissa turned to the man at the back again. If his eager watching before had been off-putting, it was nothing compared to the anguish on his face now. The closest look to it that Melissa had ever seen in a museum was on the director’s face, when a child had crashed into one of the displays. It actually looked as though the man was about to cry.
Do I see if he’s alright? But what the hell would I say? ‘Sorry I mentioned Caesar’? It can hardly be too soon, for pity’s sake!
At a loss for ideas Melissa launched into her presentation, staying overly focused on the children as she did, despite the fact that she could feel the man in the corner watching her. Most of the talk was about Caesar; hardly original, but a famous name with lots of gory battles to his credit was the best way to hook children who’d had too much sugar or too much exercise. None of the subject matter was high brow, not like the many academic papers that she dreamed of giving, but it was a good, basic grounding in Roman history.
And of course, it ended with the gruesome murder of Julius Caesar on the senate house floor.
That part was always a crowd favourite, and sure enough a couple of budding thespians acted out the scene between the benches. The productions were cut short by an announcement over the tannoy.
“Attention, ladies and gentlemen, this is your five minute warning. The museum will be closing in fifteen minutes. Thank you.”
Melissa nodded at the adults in the room, dismissing them and their kids from her class. Truth be told she was done, and the sooner the place cleared out the better. It would still be ages before she could go home, but at least then she could stop smiling. Her cheeks were killing her.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, sir?” As Melissa turned her face fell, only for the briefest of seconds. It was that man, the strange one lurking by himself at the back. Up close he looked even more out of place, with a haircut that was just a little off. And he was definitely wearing a cloak, although he was doing his best to make it look normal. As he stared at the screen behind her, Melissa’s eyes dropped to his feet. She’d expected fluffy slippers or stilettos to complement the chaos going on with the rest of him, but he actually had sensible sandals on. Not the worst choice for midsummer, although always optimistic for Britain.
“I was just wondering… why?”
“Why what?” Jesus, how out of it is this guy? It’s called a presentation, for education. Please tell me I don’t need to go that basic.
“Why do you remember that? Of everything that he did in his life, why do you only remember those things?”
“What?” The weight of his voice, the seriousness of his frown and the sadness in his eyes made Melissa’s blood run cold. Of all the things she’d expected, a heavy philosophical debate wasn’t one of them. She wasn’t sure she was paid enough for this. No help was coming though, and if she could just hold him off for a while he’d have to leave when the museum closed. “Well… um… I mean… this isn’t everything we remember about them. This is just for the children, a little introductory piece. The idea is they get engaged with the subject and go on to learn lots of other stuff.”
“You remember more about them then?”
What is that accent? It had a certain abruptness to it, but it wasn’t German. Some regional accent perhaps? “Of course. Um-” As was always the way, as had happened in every PhD interview she’d ever had, Melissa’s mind went blank. ‘Romans killed people’ was all her brain could think of there and then. “Alesia! We’ve got battle records for Alesia, and-”
“That’s for him,” the man said. “What about the others?”
“Others?” Melissa turned and followed his gaze. The last slide for her presentation was still up, with the artist’s portrayal of the assassination of Caesar. “You mean the conspirators?”
“Is that all they’re known as? What about their lives, their histories, their legacies?”
“For most of them, being one of the assassins of Caesar was their legacy.”
“But they brought down a tyrant. Why aren’t they remembered as heroes?”
“Well… it’s hard for us to take a side either way. It was a long time ago.”
“But all the children knew them as villains. They were siding with Caesar.”
“Caesar left one hell of a reputation. He’s a great person to aspire to, and he was an extraordinary individual. I guess it’s just easy to make him a hero.” Because that’s how history works, she wanted to say. Because it’s written by the winners, and Octavian was the last man standing. If the conspirators had taken Rome, maybe it would be a different story. But one man against the senate, betrayed by his closest friends? Everyone loves an under-dog.
But there was still that sadness in the man’s eyes, and as she watched a tear actually ran down his face. Melissa tried to follow his gaze, thinking it odd that he’d cry for the death of Caesar when he’d been asking why he was remembered. The man wasn’t looking at the fallen dictator in the image though; he was looking at the faces of the murderers, circling their dying prey.
“They were good men,” the man said at last. “Loyal men. They knew what the Republic was.”
“Sir…”
“They deserved better than this. He was supposed to be forgotten, not idolised. They were good men.”
Still muttering to himself, the stranger walked away. Though he’d only looked to be in his forties, he now walked with the heavy, weary tread of someone much older. Someone tired and spent. Someone in mourning. He disappeared around the door of the presentation room.
In the void left after the man’s departure, Melissa shivered. It was only now that she realised how much colder the world had felt near the man, and the strange smell that had accompanied him. Everything about that man had been strange, and Melissa was quite prepared to sit in that box for as long as it took to make sure he was well and truly gone.
“Melissa? You still here?” The loud, gruff voice made her jump after the stranger’s weird melody, but she smiled at the familiarity.
“Here, Nick.”
“Come on, what’re you waiting for?” Nick the security guard leant round the doorway and tapped his watch.
“I was waiting for the last one to leave.”
“They’ve been gone five minutes. And you haven’t even gotten the projector off yet!”
“No, one of them just left. Didn’t you see him? Quite a short man, dressed really weirdly.” As she described him Melissa snuck up to the door and peered out into the exhibition. There were a few other booths, but the path to the front door was clear. The man would still be visible, walking towards the exit.
Except he wasn’t. It was just like Nick had said. Everyone else had gone. The cleaners already had the mops out, and they watched like hawks to get started as soon as the public were gone.
“Haven’t seen anyone,” Nick said. “You sure you didn’t just lose track of time?”
“No, I swear. He was just here.” I can still hear his voice. I can still smell that old, musty reek. I can still feel the chill around him. “Whatever. I won’t be a minute, just get this packed up.”
“Righto.”
Despite the relief when he’d appeared minutes earlier, Melissa was glad that Nick left again. That way he couldn’t see her hands shaking as she tidied up. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t convince herself that the meeting with the man hadn’t happened. It had been real, as real as the benches, as real as the museum.
At last she went to turn the projector off, but before she flipped the switch her gaze was drawn to the figures in the image. The conspirators, most of their names lost to time. Many of those whose name had survived were only known for the assassination of Caesar.
Who had they been? What had they dreamed? What had they achieved?
“I’m sorry,” was all she could say, before she cut the power and the image went dark.
Voorbeeld: Fantasy short story
Hunted
Rain hammered the slatted wooden roof, making the most terrible racket. The well-sewn thatch seemed to keep out most of the downpour, although some drips crept into the dark corners of the hut.
Outside, through the doorless timber frame, rain could be seen splattering against the muddy ground in the patches of moonlight that broke through the thick clouds above. An ever-growing pool of water lay just beyond the building’s threshold, inching closer moment by moment. Crates and barrels were stacked high against the walls, with little room for anything else, or anyone. In what space there was, hid Driev; crouched down and rooted to the spot. He dare not move, he dare not make a sound. Despite the rain lashing down outside, he feared that any noise or movement would alert his hunters. The beasts were vicious and highly-skilled predators. If he was caught, he’d be torn apart and feasted upon. Their thick coats protected them from the harsh weather, and their carnivorous mindset meant that, despite the conditions, Driev knew they’d still be out there, in the forest, seeking him out. The vast wilderness that spread out all around him seemed to be almost swarming with them. His only hope was to sneak through and make it to the mountains, where they wouldn’t chase him.
He should move, he should go now under the cover of darkness and rain, the hunters had weak eyes after all. But he was terrified. Up in this little hut, atop a lone hill, he was vulnerable, and he knew it, but what if got lost out in the forest? What if he was seen? He could feel the fear rising within him, and desperately tried to bring his senses down to a calmer state. A blind panic was the last thing he needed. The hunters were smart, so he had to be smarter. Creeping forward, the soaking wet ground sloping beneath him, Driev peered out into the night. Visibility was dire, he could only see the ground encompassing the peak of the hilltop and a few branches of trees that were perched on its slopes. But if he couldn’t see, then neither could they. Clinging as close as he could to the wall, he snuck around the doorframe and out into the night.
Immediately, he was battered by the cold, brutal rain. He was already drenched, having been fleeing through the forest for much of the night, but it made the lashing of water no less pleasant. He dove off, down the slopes and into the woods. So dark was it that most of his movement was lead by touch alone. He reached out to feel for tree trunks, moving carefully as not to collide with bushes or low-lying shrubbery, nor crunch twigs or nuts laying on the forest floor. Driev carried on through the wilderness, slowly, as the unrelenting downpour showed no sign of reprieve. He could feel a weakness building, he was desperate to rest. He’d been hunted since dusk, and with dawn only a few hours away, had been moving non-stop for far too long. The gnawing feeling of hunger didn’t make things easier. But he had to ignore the hunger, ignore the weakness. Fight his urge to falter and trick it into thinking he was strong. He didn’t have the energy to waste on such trivialities as worry. Every move through this pitch black forest could be taking him closer to his hunters. The predators could be around any corner, any tree trunk, waiting to strike. His eyes were darting in all directions, seeking out any tiny piece of light he could find.
The darkness felt so close, so tight.
There was a constant feeling that something was behind him. About to reach and grab, pulling him down into the abyss. Occasionally he would give in to the paranoia, only to spin around to more darkness. He wanted to just run. To sprint and hide. But to give into the feeling would just make more noise; an easier target. In this nightmare, with all his senses on edge, he had to fight that feeling of adrenaline, to avoid his instinct to tear through the trees and escape as fast as possible. The occasional patch of dim moonlight breaking its way through both trees and cloud felt like sanctuary. He could at least escape the total darkness, and gain what he felt was some sort of control. Any sound — a rustle of leaves, a heavy drop of water hitting a leaf the wrong way — would cause him to jump, move forward faster or catch his breath. Driev wanted nothing more than to be out and away from here; to feel safe again. Safety though, was a long way off. Dawn would bring new challenges. Yes, he would be able to see better, and keep a lookout for his hunters instead of hoping they weren’t mere steps away, but they’d also be able to see him better. He’d have to move much more carefully through the trees. He couldn’t just make slow and steady progress like he was now. Not that he’d be able to move much faster, even if he wanted.
The cold of the night was wrapping around his core, making his movements sluggish. As time went by, and nothing leapt out of the darkness to finish him off, Driev started to feel hopeful. He might make it out after all. Then, up ahead, he saw something. The only thing he could possibly see in all this darkness: light. It wasn’t moonlight though, nor the sun creeping its way over the horizon. The light was small, flickered and clung close to the ground. A fire. At this point, anything could be there. Driev had no idea who started the fire, or if they were still there. He approached, ducking between the trees, careful not to be caught in the light of the fire.
Soon, he came to the edge of the forest, reaching a clearing. Surrounded by the wilderness was what appeared to be a burial site. Wrought-iron fence, some 10 feet high, topped with jagged spikes, encased a small selection of dirt graves, marked by stone tablets and the occasional assortment of — now drowned — flowers. A large pair of gates, chained shut but ajar, were set along the fences’ edge closest to Driev’s hiding spot. Within the burial site stood four wooden poles, half as high as the fence, topped with a large sheet tied to each one of them at the corner. Beneath the shelter was the fire, burning away, protected from the onslaught of rain. And, beside that, Driev could make out the shape of a lone hunter. The beast, keeping warm by the fireside, appeared to be fast asleep. Laying down, covered in its thick coat, it was hard to make out their size and shape, but Driev could tell it was a hunter. Dug into the ground beside it was a hand-craft metallic weapon; its two razor-sharp edges shimmering in the light of the fire. The tell-tale sign of a hunter. Rearing up on his hind legs, gripping the soggy bark of the tree in front of him with his sharp, scaled claws, Driev tried to get a better look at the vicious predator now sleeping so peacefully by the fire. They appeared to be male, adult, with a face covered in dark patches of fur. It was rare for a Lokar to get a good look at one of these hunters for so long. Most contact involved either death or fleeing from it. Slowly padding down, silently, onto all fours, Driev faced a choice. He could slip on by and into the mountains beyond, their dry, rocky peaks now becoming visible as dawn fast approached, or he could take advantage of this opportunity.
A sleeping hunter, right before him.
He could become the hunter, he had the potential to save many Lokar from a fate he nearly met that night. It was not in the nature of his kind to be violent, but it was not often you found a vulnerable predator such as this. A sharp wind whipped around the trees, rattling the chains of the gate. It startled the sleeping creature, but it soon fell back into their deep stupor. For Driev, this was the decider. If those large, metal chains didn’t wake the beast, his gentle webbed footsteps wouldn’t either. Skulking out from the trees, he edged his way forward, step by step, keeping low to the ground. His body, slippery from the torrential rain that continued its assault on the wilderness, he carefully dragged the gate open as far as the chains would allow before sliding his slender form between the gap.
He was in a cage now. Trapped with his fiercest predator. Softly, he approached the crackling fire until he hung over his prey. Gazing at the weapon momentarily, a weapon he’d seen cut down many a Lokar in the past, he considered trying to lift it, but thought better of it. He did not know how to wield it, nor if he could even lift its presumably mighty weight. Beside the beast, Driev looked small, it was longer than him by around two feet. A grunt from the creature had him stumble backwards with a jolt of fear. He couldn’t wait, he had to do it now. The cold air was slowing his body down. He wouldn’t be able to escape or fight back if they woke. Back up beside the hunter, he gripped his claws tightly together, so the points of his talons created a sharp trio of what he hoped would be a fearsome weapon. If he could crush the shell of the toughest beetle, surely this would work?
As quickly as he could, Driev raised up on his back legs, claw high, then slammed down towards the ground, driving his talons into the beast’s exposed neck. With a squirt of blood and a desperate attempt to inhale through its now carved up throat, the hunter lurched up. In a flight of terror, it tried helplessly to breathe through the hole in his neck, as Driev withdrew quickly, slinking back out the burial site before the creature could react to him. He watched, from behind the gate, as the hunter grasped at his wound, blood coating his hands and chest, trying to drag in deep, dry breaths to no effect. Within moments, it crumpled into a heap, still and lifeless.
Elated by a sense of accomplishment, Driev once again made for the mountains beyond the forest, making quicker progress in the light of dawn; his new-found confidence allowing him to move more recklessly than he perhaps should. The fish had just slain the shark, and he couldn’t wait to let the others know. It was unheard of, for a monster such as the hunter to be struck down by one of his kind. In their history, he’d never heard of anything like it. But then, he thought, the hunters were ruthless and relentless, now.
Had he just shown them the Lokar were something to be feared and left alone, or a threat that needed to be taken care of? Fear unlike anything he’d ever experienced, not even while being hunted down in the dead of night for his own meat, gripped him. Would the beasts see that it was their own acts that led to such violence, or would they see it as an act of war? New and previously unseen aggression. The prospect of their wrath was without equal. Their weapons, tools, intellect and numbers made them an impossible foe to match. As Driev finally reached the safety of the warm mountains and sanctuary he had craved all night, his heart was heavier than ever. Should he tell the others? And if so, should he be bragging of his conquest, or warning them of impending catastrophe?
Perspectief
Definition
A perspective is also referred to as "point of view". When writing the author writes from a certain point of view and thus perspective. The perspective serves as a lens through which the reader observes the characters, events and happenings.
Types of perspectives
First person perspective
Writing from the perspective of the author or main character. Here the main characters tells their own story and uses first person pronouns (such as "I" and "We"). The reader sees everything through the main character's eyes.
PS: The Romance short story example is in first person perspective.
Second person perspective
This perspective is not very common and here the author uses second personal pronoun: "you" and "your".
Example:
Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (By Annie Dillard)
“You are a sculptor. You climb a great ladder; you pour grease all over a growing longleaf pine. Next, you build a hollow cylinder like a cofferdam around the entire pine, and grease its inside walls. You climb your ladder and spend the next week pouring wet plaster into the cofferdam… Now open the walls of the dam, split the plaster, saw down the tree, remove it, discard, and your intricate sculpture is ready: this is the shape of part of the air.”
Third person perspective
This is a very common narration perspective. Here the author uses "he", "she", "it" and "they". The reader can read about events but not the thoughts and feelings of the character.
The third person perspective also has three different types:
Third person objective: The narrator (storyteller) narrates the facts or details to the readers.
Third person omniscient: The narrator reports the facts and thoughts of the characters.
Third person limited: The narrator reports the facts and thoughts of one character.
PS: The Mystery and Fantasy short story example are written in third person limited.
Beschrijvingen
Descriptions are very important. It makes the story come to life for the readers. The most important descriptions for the readers are the character descriptions and the story setting. Keep in mind you can easily use idioms to improve your descriptions!
Personages
You can describe your characters in many ways. One common way is to describe their physical appearance. Are they tall? What color hair do they have? What are they wearing? Another way to describe a character is their characteristics. Who are they as a person? Are they nice? Are they dumb? Do they lie a lot?
Here are some adjectives you can use to describe a person:
Tips:
-You don't always have to describe what the characters are wearing, only if it's important to the story.
-Try to make simple adjectives more descriptive (for example: "Her hair was as golden as the sun raining down upon her." instead of just "She's blonde.")
-Try to not only say positive things about your character. Nobody is perfect :p
Omgeving
The story setting is where and when the action takes place. Describing the setting helps the reader to imagine the setting the character is in. It paints a clearer picture for the reader. It can also create a mood. For example, "It was a dark and stormy night..." gives you the feeling that something scary or creepy is going to happen. Other than the weather you can also describe the time period. For example if you're writing about a character in the prehistoric era we would envision nature everywhere instead of buildings. Other than that you can also describe a location. Like maybe this story takes place in the US.
Tips:
- Maybe use things you sense. Describe what the character sees, hears, smells, touches, and tastes.
- Don't make it too difficult.
Tips
Here are some tips:
- Before you get started on writing take some time to think of ideas. Who are your characters? Where does the story take place? When does it take place? So start with some basic descriptions.
- Now write down the main actions in the story. What is the main problem? And will it have a resolution (open ending or closed ending)?
- What perspective will you write in?
- Let the words flow and follow the three act structure. Don't focus too much on being perfect. If you need inspiration just search online.
- Remember when someone is talking use "".
- Get feedback from others.
- Rewrite it till you're happy.
