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W203 Third Assignment

Unless I need the points, I have decided not to do the first assignment. Maybe I'll ask about that tomorrow. Here is this week's assignment.

Find a painting or photograph that you have not seen before that shows a group of people (searching online is a good idea or maybe you have an old photo of ancestors). Print the picture or make a copy to hand in with this assignment. Now, imagine the relationship among the group. Assume the role of one of the pictured figures and write a dramatic monologue from that character’s point of view. What does this character understand that no one else does? Who is this character and what does he/she want? How does he/she relate to the group?


I was the one in the middle. Always in the middle. Now? I’m not sure I know who I am now. I’m not so sure I know who I was then. I was just enjoying the ride.

The doctors were never certain how I turned out this way. A “genetic miracle” they called me. My father never used that term. He referred to me by several names, “Blue Bastard” being his favorite. He blamed my mother mostly. Sometimes God, but God is an abstract concept and you can’t hit an abstract concept. He’d come home late smelling of Gordon's and whores; the belt already in his hands. I could never escape the screams of my mother and the “How could you fuck a Smurf?!”s from my father. She said he loved her, that he loved me too, but love's hard to discern waking up under a coat of your daddy's paint thinner.

My mother died when I was fourteen. Dr. Weber told me her heart just gave out during the night. I guess it caught up with the rest of her.

Drugs became a refuge after that; long sleeves my coat of armor. I was high when my father found out. All I remember is waking up in the hospital a bloodied mess, my Fibula fractured in five places. I sneaked up to the roof one day during my rehabilitation. You only needed one leg to jump. I breathed deep and took a final look over the side of the building only to see a quiet, bald blue head passing by on the sidewalk below. The sun shone off of his skull and I almost fell from shock.

As quickly as I could, I got to the elevator, hit G, and hobbled outside. There, down no more than two blocks, he stood waiting for a bus. His name was Forest and he was just as amazed to see me and I was to see him. I thanked him for saving my life.

Much to my surprise, he knew of another like us and I was introduced to Wayne shortly thereafter. The two traveled the country as percussion musicians, but had seen their once great ticket sales diminish in the last few months. They taught me the art of pipe banging, zither strumming, and dog stroking. Before I had completely mastered each of the zany instruments, we hit the road as a trio. Ticket sales went through the roof and for the first time in my life, I was happy.

I found the acceptance I had longed for since I was a boy. Not only from my new friends, but from the crowds I performed for. It didn’t matter that my skin was blue, they just wanted to be entertained. Once, after a show in Jacksonville, a small boy with dyed blue hair came up and asked me for an autograph. I bent down on one knee and he hugged me as hard as he could. “Why are you crying?” he asked as I put his arms around him. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer. How could he possibly have understood that I was 20 years old and it was the first time I had ever hugged another human being.

As the fame grew, the egos followed suit. Wayne accused Forest of dying his head bluer in an effort to draw the attention of the audience. Forest would berate Wayne for always being on the right side, something about Wayne needing to be seen first as we went out on stage. I was happy to be in the middle. I was happy to belong.

Even through the veil of powder, smoke, and women I saw the split coming. After-party fistfights became more common. We had to cancel a show in Boston after Forest broke Wayne’s nose with a Heineken bottle. Even I tired of their shades. Cerulean to my left, cobalt to my right. There was no escape. With each gulp I wondered to where the happiness had vanished.

Wayne and I didn’t think much of it when Forest missed the flight to Cleveland. Sure as hell wasn’t the first time he’d done it. As we walked to baggage claim I got a call from an unidentified number. It was the hotel manager from whichever city it was we just left. I prepared the usual “I’m sorry the mirror is broken” speech when he said something I wasn’t ready for. “I’m sorry to inform you of this, but your roommate, uh...Forest, has hung himself.”

Needless to say we stopped touring after that. The last time I saw Wayne was at the funeral. It was a wonderful ceremony really. The silk lining the casket was as blue as Forest and bouquets of Cornflowers filled the room. As I looked down upon Forest, I couldn’t understand why he'd done it. I guess he just grew tired of being blue all the time.

i can't believe my teacher didn't like this story. i really did and found it hilarious in its absurdity. i guess we just have different senses of humor. :( this worries me.

this was so hilarious and so damn depressing at the same time i am seriously sitting here not knowing how to react at all. honestly, i am completely blank.

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