Person, Place, and Thing

Here's how it's gonna go. I tell you the background, show you the piece, and you comment. Easy, right? Let's try.

For class, the Professor gives us a kind of prompt or exercise and we write for 45 minutes on that prompt or on our own thing. This particular prompt required us to write a monologue based on a person and an inanimate object. We wrote a description of a person and then we got up from our seats and went to someone else's computer to give them a description of a place and repeated the process for a thing. When we were writing each description, we couldn't see the other two aspects of the setting so if I'm describing a place for the person to my right, I can't see what person they created for themselves. Interesting, no?

  

Person: Tall, lanky male with blond hair and very pale skin. Dark circles under his eyes to the point where he looks like a walking dead man. Wears all black, tight fitting clothes and a necklace with a guitar pick on it.

Place: The place in a green garden, it is spring time and the flowers are just beginning to bud and bloom. It is mid morning and the dew has mostly evaporated, but the smell of damp is still present. You find yourself in the middle next to a weeping willow and a small steel bench decorated with roses.

Thing: A worn old box of matches. Not the big boxes you can buy at the store but a small yellow one. Only a small number of wooden matches remain inside and the aged box makes you wonder if they’ll even strike. Some grains of sand have gotten inside the box telling a story of where it might have come from. The name of the brand is worn off.

Lawrence:

I’ve always tried to imagine what it would be like to be stranded on a desert island with only one flimsy box of matches. I picture the sun gleaming off my skin, burning it to a crisp and scrambling to find shelter or food or anything that might keep me alive. It’s always been in the back of my mind; one of my biggest fears really. I never thought it would happen…well, I suppose it hasn’t. I’m not exactly stranded on a desert island. Stranded with a box of matches…in a secret garden. I can’t even be sure the matches inside work. I never saw this one coming. I’ve never prepared myself for something like this. I am literally trapped in this garden with nothing but the clothes on my back and a small box of matches. The box has a little sand in it, as if I’m being taunted by some unseen force; as if someone is saying to me “Desert Island, Lawrence? You thought you would get off that easy? We’ll, here’s some sand just to remind you how good you could have had it.” I think it’s the box of matches speaking to me. It must be the one taunting me. It has a voice and a spirit. No name. The name is so faint, not even an eagle could see it. There are matches inside. Do you think they’ll strike? You might say to yourself, “Now this Lawrence fellow has got it all wrong! I’d take a beautiful garden over an island any day.” But you would be wrong. Did you see that movie castaway? Tom Hanks makes it out of there okay after many years. An unending supply of fish, a giant rock to live in, gallons and gallons of water. What do I have? I have about 6 tiny fish, a bench under a tree, a pool of stagnant water, a lot of deer feed…and this box of matches. It whispers to me sometimes. “Lawrence,” it says “Lawrence, where will you go? What will you do?” It mocks me. I hate it…but the matches? They look so old. Do you think they’ll strike? I can’t stay here for much longer. I can’t live in this flower green place for eternity. I need to know if the matches will strike. The trees are murmuring to me. The grass is speaking. The fish scoff at me. How long have I been here? I wish that box would stop talking. I can’t even hear myself think!...The matches. They’re silent. They don’t say a word. It’s as if, through the silence, they’re telling me something. And now I understand. But will they strike? I can feel hunger and exhaustion creeping up on me. Have you ever been to a garden at night? It’s a scary place folks. I don’t think I’ll make it another night here. I can’t. I have no one but this box of matches.

*Lawrence sits in silence for a few moments before opening the box. He takes out a match and tries to light it, but it breaks in his hand. He tries again once more with the same outcome. He carefully takes out the third and final match, stares at it thoughtfully, and brings it to the side of the box. There is no sound except the match striking against the box, followed by the soft sound of flame. Lawrence’s eyes widen and he takes a deep breath*

Lawrence: 

Burn it to the ground.

*He throws the match into the grass and the entire garden goes up in flames.*

I'm not quite sure why this turned out so morbid. When you're a writer, though, you're just the medium whereby inspiration flows onto paper. You have to just keep your fingers going and the characters sort of lead themselves in the direction they want to go. 

So.

What do you think? Obviously it isn't a masterpiece because it took me all of 45 minutes to write, but the idea here is to improve my writing style and flow. Eek.