see edited version here
Today I have another writing sample. Now this I wrote one day when I went out to Starbucks for a drink over my writing. It is an assignment from Writing Magic: Creating Stories That Fly by Gail Carson Levine. I believe I’ll put it here for you.
Use the point of view of a young puppy or kitten who somehow, miraculously, is able to think in English. The puppy or kitten is new to seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, and touching. He doesn’t know what anything is, what anything means. He’s in the same room you’re in right now. His mother and his littermates can be there, too, if you like. Describe what his eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and paws tell him. Does he understand everything, or does he misunderstand some things? After you’ve described his first moments, imagine what happens next. Turn it into a story. Remember to put in sensory information as you go along.
So that’s what I did. Picture a young newborn brown puppy. And you’ve got it. Read it below.
The air smells warm. Dark, and warmly brown, if scent can have a color. Richly sweet.
I stumble along on my four new paws. My pads sense the hard gray ground. It’s smooth like the stones at the beach. Speaking of the beach and the outdoors, some of the tables are merely stumps of wood from an old tree. Others are evenly round and thin, sat on more rock-like material. A too-cold machine buzz-hums above on the low black sky. My nose detects more smells in the wind it blows. I shiver and skitter along.
Many two-legged animals with long fur on their heads sit on the soft tables next to the big ones. Besides the large wall where most of the greed-clad two-legs work, the smells come mostly from here. Something drops from a person’s mouth. It hits the cold floor. I lick it with my pink tongue. It’s sweet and creamy; not like water or my usual brown pellets. It’s warm though, as much as the chilled floors will allow.
I turn my nose up. The low sky has many suns, but they’re small, more like puny stars. They’re not much bigger than me. Rectangular tubes act as the clouds in the big sky, except that these ones are black, and they cary the cold wind the machine uses instead of rain.
I run to the far side of the closed in area and leap up onto a cushioned seat next to my owner. He leans back from his scribbling and gives me a pat, then plops me on his warm lap. He strokes my brown pelt as I examine his work. Tiny black markings cover a lined white sheet; it smells of dust. I sneeze, then lick the paper. It tastes bad; like a must piece of wood.
I leap back down, slip, then listen from the floor. The animals bark, purr, and growl loudly to one another in a way I can’t understand. A staticy voice moves moves around the air from dotted circles on the brown, sometimes wood walls. More machines hum too, with the people’s slurping as the backdrop.
I turn my nose back to the high wall. There dozens of tall seats stand, only a few more quiet animals on them. They’re doing work like my owner. There seems no way in to the other side of the wall, at least from the bottom. I look for openings.
Suddenly I am lifted from behind. I yelp, then turn to see who’s holding me. It’s my owner again. He lifts me up high so I can see over the wood-topped counter.
Inside are the green-lad workers. They buzz around like worker bees in a hive, or is it the moving devices they use that buzz? From a few scarce ingredients of liquid and powder, they create steaming, freezing, or iced works of art. But what are their purposes?
My owner sits down and places me on the counter. The workers don’t seem happy about it, but my master gives them a red piece of paper and they’re fine. I lick the counter. It’s grainy and tastes like the drop I had before. The smell is strong. One of the masterpieces comes this one chilly, made more so in the cold environment. Master takes a sip, then brings it to my snout. I place my small paws upon its edges as he takes the top off. The smell is dull, but I an taste the drink on my tongue already. I stick my nose in and inhale the creamy, icy mixture.
“Funny,” my owner says, he the only two-legged animal I understand. Such is our bond. “I think I’ll call you Frappuccino.”
I wag my tail back and forth, withdrawing my face from the soft drink. I lick my nose and go back down to the counter, watching the workers. One smiles at me, then gives me a pat.
How can I be in heaven if I was only just born?
There it is, ladies and gentlemen! I hope you understood everything, such as the AC and Starbucks workers. Sorry it isn’t the best, though, but I had a lot of fun writing it!
Well, thanks for reading.