alternate ending of Fate

• William travels to the Chinese restaurant, only to find that the restaurant no longer exists 
• William visits every store on the block hoping to gain reason as to why the restaurant disappeared. He discovers that no other worker or store owner on the block has heard of this restaurant or it's disappearance 
• The next day, William decides to start fresh and resume his daily routine. He heads to work for the first time since Rose's "death" and is shocked to see Rose herself sitting at the receptionist desk 
• William feels like he is slowly losing his sanity 
• He calls Lucy hoping to gain reassurance, but he then discovers that Lucy's car accident never happened  
• Lucy suggests William visit a therapist
• After continuous vists with a therapist, William concludes that the events in past few weeks have only occurred in his mind  

description of upcoming short story

Fate explores the life of a middle aged man named William when an unexplainable trail of bad luck begins following him. Soon after William recognizes the pattern of his misfortunes, he sets out on a journey to discover the source of his luck. Along this journey, he encounters death, tragedy, and above all, mystery. The reader is left to decide whether this trail of bad luck is a product of karma, or is it simply his fate?

monologue referring to painting of girl

I'm sitting here, motionless. I glance around the room wondering when my father will return. He left me in this room, he says it's a "test of my will power". I haven't behaved well lately, on my sisters birthday I took a bite of her cake before she did, on Christmas I opened my presents too early, and last night I ate dessert before dinner. I stare at this little gift sitting on the floor, wrapped so intricately. I think about all the various possibilities. What does this little box contain? I hold my hands tight together, intertwining my fingers, trying to hold myself back. I squirm around in the chair, and imagine that chains are holding me down and constricting my every move. I hear footsteps in the hallway, coming closer and closer. Suddenly, my father peeks through the door. He sees me struggling to pass this test of will power, and a smile crosses his face. He utters two words: "I'm proud." He then turns around and closes the door behind him.

prospectus

My short story is about a middle aged man named William, who has followed a strict daily routine his entire life. Immediately into the story, when William picks up dinner from a Chinese restaurant, he feels a strange, unexplainable sensation. Soon after this experience, William recognizes a pattern of unusual / unfortunate events that follow him. He is left to determine what has brought on this bad luck, all within a timely manner, because each day that follows entails an increasing amount of danger to him and those around him.

The main character is William, and eventually we meet his sister Lucy.

The central conflict is William trying to find the root of his misfortunes and what do to about them before his own life is put into danger.

My short story doesn't have any specified chapters, but the reader will get a sense of how fast time is moving through the language I've used.

Outline:

• Begins with a brief description of his daily routine
• Quickly into the story, William endures a strange experience while picking up his food
• After this experience, multiple unfortunate events follow him 
• William looks to his sister for comfort/advice/support
• The day after William confides in his sister, she gets into a tragic car accident and is left paralyzed 
• William decides to travel back to the root of this bad luck (where it all started), the Chinese restaurant 
• After visiting the Chinese restaurant, the hostess tells William that in order to rid himself of bad luck, he must become a Monk, for it is his destiny 
• Reluctant because he is afraid of change, William hesitantly accepts his fate and travels to become a certified Monk 

thoughts on spoken word

I'm unfamiliar to the concept of spoken word, but after seeing a glimpse of the video regarding the Louder than a Bomb competition, I am interested in learning more. Creating my own Spoken word poem appears as quite a challenge, but I am still open to discovering what this form of poetry truly is. Within the upcoming semester, screenplay writing intrigues me the most. I would love to meet with Dr. Totland again and revisit the play I've written.

self-reflection

Over this past semester, I've learned to truly embrace my love of writing. The quiet, relaxed environment of the class instantly sooths me, which enhances my creativity and refreshes my mind. After working on several poems, a screenplay, a monologue, and a memoir, I've become familiar with many techniques and styles of writing. I've written many poems over the years, mainly because poetry has been heavily implemented in all of my English classes since elementary school. However, this class has given me a different outlook on poetry, and allows much more freedom of expression than any poem I've written in English class. After reading poems from the poetry book in class, I began to recognize the many different styles of poetry and prose. I've taken formats from those poems and experimented with them in order to discover what's most appealing to me. After rereading my works from this semester, I've found that repetition is a commonly used technique of mine, not just within poetry. While writing my memoir, I used repetition to engage the reader and draw a full circle from the beginning to the end of the piece, which I've personally always found intriguing to read.

The memoir assignment was interesting to me, because I'd never written one or even knew how to write one. After helpful instruction and guidance from Ms. Scheulteiss, writing a memoir didn't seem nearly as difficult as I thought it was. Once I narrowed in on my subject, words flowed effortlessly onto the page, as if it was natural. Overall I've developed an appreciation for memoirs, and I hope to continue writing them. I also enjoyed the screenplay writing process. Screenplay writing has allowed me to translate my thoughts onto paper, completing the made-up scenario that once existed in my head. So far, writing a monologue has been the most difficult for me. I found it hard to translate a character's thoughts into complete dialogue. It also took some time to decide where I would insert the monologue, and who the speaker was. Ultimately, I believe that my monologue turned out well, considering it wasn't an easy task for me. Looking into the upcoming months, as the college application process begins, I'd really like to master my essay writing and language skills. I know that this class has the power to help me accomplish that. Within the upcoming semester, I would love to continue writing either screenplays, memoirs, short stories, or even start something new. I think that I have strong writing potential, and so far this year I've been able to focus on what aspects of writing I love the most.

memoir

Every day, for 11 years, I woke up in the same room, surrounded by the same white-washed furniture, within the same traditional cape-cod style house. A routine had developed. I woke up. I gazed around my room absorbing the warmth that filled it. I crawled out of my bed and tucked away the princess-like canopy that hung over it. I stepped onto the cold hardwood floors, awakening my body from the cloud-like covers I had spent the last 9 hours in. I walked into my bathroom and quickly positioned myself onto the warm, plush bath mats that devoured my feet. I brushed my teeth and combed my hair as I squinted from the light that poured through the uncovered window. I slipped on my outfit for the day, always simple, always comfortable. About to face the cold hardwood again as I prepared to venture into my kitchen, I put on soft socks that felt heavenly around my toes. I wandered into my kitchen to find my honey nut cheerios already poured, milk and everything. I ate quickly to the sound of my mom's iPod playing soft music. I placed the empty bowl into the sink, walked back into my room to grab my backpack, and we were off to school. That was a standard day for 11 years, until it all changed. Moving day.
To me, my house wasn't just a house. Surrounded by an enchanting garden and a flowing stream, it was a miniature castle. My mother and I spent hours in the garden, picking lemons and oranges off the trees, tending to the freshly grown flowers, and admiring the endless sunshine. We hosted parties, ranging from birthday to holiday. My family often gathered in the living room, and watched movies ranging from comedy to suspense. Over the years, the walls of our home became enriched with laughter, happiness, and excitement.
But the economy was in a fast decline, and my parents knew they didn't want to stay in our house forever. Hoping for the best, expecting the worse, my parents broke the news to me and my older sister that our childhood house would not be our lifelong house. Immediately I was excited. However, my sister, a few years older, knew what moving meant. She knew that my parents wanted to cut back on our lavish lifestyle, and she was content with that. But she wasn't content with the thought that no more memories would be made within the walls of our home. She wasn't content with the thought that she might not even see our home again. She wasn't content with the thought that my parents were so accepting of the change that lay ahead of us.
As the days went on, the amount of boxes grew. There were times when I'd sit in my quaint little room and all of a sudden a group of unfamiliar faces would peer into it. They analyzed the size, the lighting, the furniture layout. This was my private space that was built especially for me, and now it was invaded by strangers that wanted to purchase it. I didn't particularly like this idea, but I soon became used to it. The concept of moving didn't seem realistic to me until we abruptly received an offer. My parents talked it through and couldn't pass up the opportunity. They accepted the offer.
The day finally came. Boxes filled every inch of my house. I woke up to the sound of heavy footsteps and loud voices. I heard the dragging of boxes against the hardwood floors. I noticed the rapid opening and closing of doors. As I opened my eyes for the last time, my quaint little room was no longer my own. There was no warmth left to admire. There was no familiar white-washed furniture surrounding me. It had all been wiped clean, leaving a stark, empty home with blank walls and blank memories. It was then when I realized that the beautiful, enchanting house my parents built and that I grew up in, wasn't my house anymore.