Young adult novels (contemporary and otherwise) manage to fit a lot of different types of teenagers. Artsy types. Bookish types. Sporty types. Loner types. Popular types. Aggressive types. Passive types. Sometimes characters who are more than one at the same time.
I always appreciate the variety. I like finding novels with characters similar to students who don't seem to be represented so much in pop culture. A particular type stood out to me this week, though, and I realized I don't recall ever reading a character that quite matched up with it.
The whiners.
And please, my fellow YA authors, don't feel any need to change that.
I'm not talking about teens who get whiny now and then. That happens, both in fiction and in life. Part and parcel of being not-quite-kid, not-quite-adult. No, I'm talking about teens who do nothing. But. Complain.
All. Day. Long.
I can barely take it for an hour at a time with those students. If I had to read it in a book, that book would get put down and never picked up again.
And from a math teacher standpoint, let me just say that complaining that it's hard and you don't get it before I've even started explaining anything isn't conducive to learning. It doesn't endear the student to their more open-minded classmates, either.
If you know someone like this in real life, please find a way to rehabilitate them. When you find a successful method for doing so, drop me a line.
I could use the help.
Showing posts with label YA fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label YA fiction. Show all posts
Friday, December 14, 2012
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Slangifying Your Story
In the realm of YA writing in particular, slang of any kind is tricky, tricky business.
Slang and common expressions can make a teen voice feel more authentic. As someone who spends every workday listening to teenagers talk, I guarantee they're not pulling exclusively from an official dictionary.
Then again, slang is—by its nature—fleeting. A few bits and pieces work their way into the long-term vernacular, but most are solidly dated. Just think about "groovy," "bodacious," and "fresh." You just had certain decades flash through your mind, right? Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe that instant association is what you need.
More often, I'm thinking that's not a good thing.
Let's go back to my students for a minute. There are some who spout a near-constant stream of "totes obvi" and "YOLO." (The one who says YOLO the most keeps doing it out of context. I'm not sure he really gets it. Or he likes to be annoying.) And here's the thing about super of-the-moment phrases. It only takes about two minutes for the kids to sound like they're trying too hard.
And it's even easier for an author to sound the same way.
So how do you deal with it? Stick to the more long-standing forms of teen-talk? Use a strict rule like one super-trendy term per fifty pages? Only let a side character use them, make it their "thing"?
Honestly, I don't know. I'm curious what you've found works, either from a writing or reading perspective.
I tend to work around it by writing science fiction and making up my own slang. Mindy McGinnis thinks I'm good at it. Hopefully others will agree.
Slang and common expressions can make a teen voice feel more authentic. As someone who spends every workday listening to teenagers talk, I guarantee they're not pulling exclusively from an official dictionary.
Then again, slang is—by its nature—fleeting. A few bits and pieces work their way into the long-term vernacular, but most are solidly dated. Just think about "groovy," "bodacious," and "fresh." You just had certain decades flash through your mind, right? Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe that instant association is what you need.
More often, I'm thinking that's not a good thing.
Let's go back to my students for a minute. There are some who spout a near-constant stream of "totes obvi" and "YOLO." (The one who says YOLO the most keeps doing it out of context. I'm not sure he really gets it. Or he likes to be annoying.) And here's the thing about super of-the-moment phrases. It only takes about two minutes for the kids to sound like they're trying too hard.
And it's even easier for an author to sound the same way.
So how do you deal with it? Stick to the more long-standing forms of teen-talk? Use a strict rule like one super-trendy term per fifty pages? Only let a side character use them, make it their "thing"?
Honestly, I don't know. I'm curious what you've found works, either from a writing or reading perspective.
I tend to work around it by writing science fiction and making up my own slang. Mindy McGinnis thinks I'm good at it. Hopefully others will agree.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
The Real Teens of YA County
Hopefully this is preaching to the choir. A lot of YA writers are great about having textured, nuanced teen characters. Still, sometimes the cast is filled with an overabundance of "the regulars."
The jock. The cheerleader. The nerd. The nondescript average teen.
Wait, there's no such thing as that last one. Never in all my classrooms have I come across one of those. They show up in novels, though. Weird, that. It got me thinking about what I have seen. Here's a sampling of students I have taught or am teaching.
Students who weren't supposed to live past the night they were born.
Students whose parent is world-famous.
Students whose entire family is deaf (and sometimes that student is the most hearing among them).
Students who excel in a sport and qualify as a "geek" in another area (math, music, theater, ...).
Students with such a mix of half- and step-siblings, there are six or seven different last names in their household.
Students whose bodies could break all too easily.
Students with the most spectacular cases of ADHD.
Students who are in foster care because their parents are in jail.
Students who aren't supposed to have much of a life expectancy.
Students who are quiet for a reason ... and very NOT quiet when you get them going. (By the way, this group is never, EVER boring.)
I could go on if I let myself, but you get the idea.
Some of those I see in novels. Some not so much. (Of course, I'm not as super-wide-read in some genres of YA as I'd like to be.) Some only when it's the "issue" of the story. Maybe some things could be incidental to the plot. The MC's best friend is in a foster family, but that's not the point of the story.
Or maybe that's just me and my preferences. Maybe some people would read that and keep waiting and waiting for that fact to become relevant.
What do you think? Are there certain types of teens you'd like to see pop up more in YA literature?
The jock. The cheerleader. The nerd. The nondescript average teen.
Wait, there's no such thing as that last one. Never in all my classrooms have I come across one of those. They show up in novels, though. Weird, that. It got me thinking about what I have seen. Here's a sampling of students I have taught or am teaching.
Students who weren't supposed to live past the night they were born.
Students whose parent is world-famous.
Students whose entire family is deaf (and sometimes that student is the most hearing among them).
Students who excel in a sport and qualify as a "geek" in another area (math, music, theater, ...).
Students with such a mix of half- and step-siblings, there are six or seven different last names in their household.
Students whose bodies could break all too easily.
Students with the most spectacular cases of ADHD.
Students who are in foster care because their parents are in jail.
Students who aren't supposed to have much of a life expectancy.
Students who are quiet for a reason ... and very NOT quiet when you get them going. (By the way, this group is never, EVER boring.)
I could go on if I let myself, but you get the idea.
Some of those I see in novels. Some not so much. (Of course, I'm not as super-wide-read in some genres of YA as I'd like to be.) Some only when it's the "issue" of the story. Maybe some things could be incidental to the plot. The MC's best friend is in a foster family, but that's not the point of the story.
Or maybe that's just me and my preferences. Maybe some people would read that and keep waiting and waiting for that fact to become relevant.
What do you think? Are there certain types of teens you'd like to see pop up more in YA literature?
Monday, November 21, 2011
My YA Manifesto
I've been thinking about writing a post like this for months, ever since my From the Write Angle blog-mate J. Lea Lopez wrote her Erotica Writer's Manifesto. Finally, it's time.
Every once in a while, I run across someone who thinks writing Young Adult novels is easier than writing for grown-ups. That YA work isn't as complex, doesn't go as deep or dark, or is otherwise somehow "lesser" than its adult counterparts.
I've even heard it once or twice from other YA writers. They write YA because it's not as demanding—they don't think they could cut it as a writer for adults. Or they write YA because it's a stronger area in a struggling market.
I am an unabashed writer of young adult literature. I chose it before I knew anything about publishing markets, before I knew anything about novel-writing in general (other than my opinions as a reader). So, here's my own personal manifesto as a YA writer, the standards I'll hold myself to.
There should probably be a few more items in this list, so perhaps I'll add to it over time.
What do you think, YA writers? What do you strive for (or strive to avoid) when writing in our chosen category?
Every once in a while, I run across someone who thinks writing Young Adult novels is easier than writing for grown-ups. That YA work isn't as complex, doesn't go as deep or dark, or is otherwise somehow "lesser" than its adult counterparts.
I've even heard it once or twice from other YA writers. They write YA because it's not as demanding—they don't think they could cut it as a writer for adults. Or they write YA because it's a stronger area in a struggling market.
I am an unabashed writer of young adult literature. I chose it before I knew anything about publishing markets, before I knew anything about novel-writing in general (other than my opinions as a reader). So, here's my own personal manifesto as a YA writer, the standards I'll hold myself to.
- I will write YA only as long as I love it—reading it, writing it, talking about it.
- I will respect my readers. Young does not mean stupid.
- I will avoid Stupid MC Syndrome at all costs.
- I won't be afraid of vocabulary, but will also keep it authentic.
- I will write female characters with interesting quirks, strengths, and weaknesses.
- I will write male characters who are more than utter hotness. (This does not preclude potential hotness ... but yeah.)
- Combining the above, when characters fall for each other, it will be for reasons other than instinctive attraction or destiny.
- I will generally keep adult characters out of the way, but will not operate under the presumption that all grown-ups are stupid. Teens know that only some of us are stupid.
- I won't be afraid of complexity—complex situations for my characters, complex issues to tackle. Teens' lives are complex. They deal with it.
- I will hope my readers learn something from my novels.
- I will not dictate what that "something" they learn should be. I hope it varies from person to person.
- I will keep in mind that even teens who think they have no personality and aren't special show the truth in their actions. Even the quietest teen is interesting if you really watch.
There should probably be a few more items in this list, so perhaps I'll add to it over time.
What do you think, YA writers? What do you strive for (or strive to avoid) when writing in our chosen category?
Monday, July 11, 2011
Book-Nerds vs. Science-Geeks
A book-nerd is pretty straightforward—someone who loves books. They devour books, possibly spending more on them than they do on food. Generally, book-nerds are somewhat eclectic in their tastes, sampling everything from literary fiction to romance to horror to non-fiction. They worship the written word.
A science-geek (and for the sake of this post, I'm going to include math-geeks, even though they don't always coincide) is analytical, loves technology, and wants to know how everything around them works. They are often (but not always) big readers as well, possibly to the same extend as many book-nerds.
In fact, there is some overlap between the two groups. I know some science-geeks who are definitely book-nerds. What I want to talk about is another subset of the geeks—those who do read, but don't qualify as book-nerds.
These are people who read voraciously, but probably don't have much interest in Shakespeare, Dickens, or anything else considered classic. Probably not much in the field of literary fiction, either. Doesn't mean they don't appreciate literary qualities, but more often than not, they'll be reading (you guessed it) science fiction and fantasy.
What's important to these readers? For one thing, consistency in all aspects. Heaven help you if you commit a continuity error. For another, worlds and characters worth coming back to—thus the ubiquitous serial nature of the genres. They also want what every other reader wants—a good story with proper development.
It seems like the YA publishing industry is dominated by book-nerds. That's okay, and probably as it should be. After all, they need to make their living on books, so it's best if they love them, preferably in wide variety. But sometimes I wonder if even agents who rep the speculative fiction genres are part of the book-nerd/science-geek overlap and don't necessarily get the straight-up science-geek readers.
It's kind of like the film industry. Traditionally, a sci-fi or fantasy movie will only get respect for effects, makeup, costumes, and maybe music. Some people assume that the fans don't care about good screenwriting or acting as long as there are enough explosions. So the budget goes toward effects and explosions. Character development is glossed over. The end result might make money, but gets little respect.
There is a place for science-geeks in the world of literature, though. And I'm always excited when I find an excellent book that speaks to that part of me (rather than the book-nerd part ... I'm an overlapper in some respects). I'm always on the lookout for more. Books that use sci-fi or fantasy elements as more than window dressing, but still have a great story at the core.
Got any recommendations?
Friday, June 24, 2011
What Writing YA is Really Like
Oh, my. It's the summer of Let's Insult YA Authors, Readers, and Teenagers in General.
First, there was this now-infamous article in the Wall Street Journal. It could have had some valid points, but if so, they got obscured in sweeping generalizations. (BTW, I shop at Barnes & Noble all the time, I live in the YA section, and I find all kinds of books that aren't dark or about "vampires and suicide and self-mutilation." In fact, I regularly walk out with books that just about any parent would find appropriate for a 13-year-old.)
Then there was this rather odd article titled "Writing Young-Adult Fiction" by Katie Crouch and Grady Hendrix (co-authors of The Magnolia League). Their backgrounds are in literary fiction and journalism, respectively, and they got tagged to write their YA novel. The article seems like it should be about what it says—writing YA fiction. By the end, I wasn't sure what it was about, other than their book.
I began to feel like something strange was going on with this line:
Then they mention how odd it is that they're "being paid good money to be literary predators and come for people's children." Now I get the feeling they don't know many (any?) teenagers in real life, either.
Overall, it seems their experience of writing a YA novel was a lot of giggling and silliness and hurry-up-and-get-it-done-ness. Writing their own wish-fulfillment fantasy, the "high-school experience we never had."
Okay, that's their experience. Good for them.
I haven't gotten paid for my YA writing yet, but I think I've done enough now to speak to my own experience. Here's what YA writing is like for me.
I live in fear of letting my students down. My students range from 14 to 21, and they read almost exclusively YA (aside from what their English teachers assign them). They are my little microcosm of the YA market, from voracious to reluctant readers, straight-A students to strugglers, jocks to theater geeks—with a ton of overlap within and between categories.
I've had students literally slam a book down during silent reading time. They hate it when characters do stupid things just for the sake of the plot—and yes, they do notice. They hate feeling talked-down to. They loathe dialogue that feels like a trying-too-hard adult wrote it.
You know what they like? Some actually like a clever turn of phrase, a well-crafted description. One girl asked me to recommend a book that would help push her vocabulary and comprehension. (I recommended The Monstrumologist.) Some want to be writers themselves. They like characters that are complex and twist stereotypes. They like stories that feel real, even (or especially) when they involve fantastic elements.
So I work my butt off. I draft, revise, run it by readers (both students and adult YA readers/writers), and revise again. Whatever I can do to make it real. If you didn't figure it out already, I talk to teens (students, cousins, whatever) about books. I talk to them about life.
I talk to them like they're people ... because they are.
There's the key, I think. I've known some (well-meaning) teachers who talk to teens like they're still in elementary school. Teens aren't adults yet, but they also aren't children. I've found they'll usually live up to high expectations ... or down to low ones.
The best YA authors (and I'm certainly not placing myself among them) have high expectations for their readers. The read can be light or dark, funny or intense, about mermaids or cutting.
Just respect your readers. They're pretty smart cookies ... even the ones who don't like math class. ;-)
First, there was this now-infamous article in the Wall Street Journal. It could have had some valid points, but if so, they got obscured in sweeping generalizations. (BTW, I shop at Barnes & Noble all the time, I live in the YA section, and I find all kinds of books that aren't dark or about "vampires and suicide and self-mutilation." In fact, I regularly walk out with books that just about any parent would find appropriate for a 13-year-old.)
Then there was this rather odd article titled "Writing Young-Adult Fiction" by Katie Crouch and Grady Hendrix (co-authors of The Magnolia League). Their backgrounds are in literary fiction and journalism, respectively, and they got tagged to write their YA novel. The article seems like it should be about what it says—writing YA fiction. By the end, I wasn't sure what it was about, other than their book.
I began to feel like something strange was going on with this line:
It would be creepy if we included explicit sex scenes with glistening young skin and heaving young bosoms, but we keep it on the clean side. This isn't Twilight. No slutty werewolves here.Um, I've read Twilight—the whole series, in fact. As I recall, there's one off-page sex scene in the fourth book. So I began to suspect that these authors haven't read the books. If they haven't read those, do they know anything about the YA market, really?
Then they mention how odd it is that they're "being paid good money to be literary predators and come for people's children." Now I get the feeling they don't know many (any?) teenagers in real life, either.
Overall, it seems their experience of writing a YA novel was a lot of giggling and silliness and hurry-up-and-get-it-done-ness. Writing their own wish-fulfillment fantasy, the "high-school experience we never had."
Okay, that's their experience. Good for them.
I haven't gotten paid for my YA writing yet, but I think I've done enough now to speak to my own experience. Here's what YA writing is like for me.
I live in fear of letting my students down. My students range from 14 to 21, and they read almost exclusively YA (aside from what their English teachers assign them). They are my little microcosm of the YA market, from voracious to reluctant readers, straight-A students to strugglers, jocks to theater geeks—with a ton of overlap within and between categories.
I've had students literally slam a book down during silent reading time. They hate it when characters do stupid things just for the sake of the plot—and yes, they do notice. They hate feeling talked-down to. They loathe dialogue that feels like a trying-too-hard adult wrote it.
You know what they like? Some actually like a clever turn of phrase, a well-crafted description. One girl asked me to recommend a book that would help push her vocabulary and comprehension. (I recommended The Monstrumologist.) Some want to be writers themselves. They like characters that are complex and twist stereotypes. They like stories that feel real, even (or especially) when they involve fantastic elements.
So I work my butt off. I draft, revise, run it by readers (both students and adult YA readers/writers), and revise again. Whatever I can do to make it real. If you didn't figure it out already, I talk to teens (students, cousins, whatever) about books. I talk to them about life.
I talk to them like they're people ... because they are.
There's the key, I think. I've known some (well-meaning) teachers who talk to teens like they're still in elementary school. Teens aren't adults yet, but they also aren't children. I've found they'll usually live up to high expectations ... or down to low ones.
The best YA authors (and I'm certainly not placing myself among them) have high expectations for their readers. The read can be light or dark, funny or intense, about mermaids or cutting.
Just respect your readers. They're pretty smart cookies ... even the ones who don't like math class. ;-)
Monday, June 20, 2011
Short Story: The Hunger Pangs (Part Nine)
And now, the conclusion!
Part Nine: The Beginning of the End
A bunch of centaurs with spears charge towards Pita and me, forcing us out of the cave.
“This is the entrance to Narnia! Do you guys belong in Narnia? No!” a centaur rants at us.
The centaurs keep chasing us until we’re by the Cornastupia. Pita and I hide in the golden horn so the centaurs can’t get to us. However, Baito and Blove come towards the Cornastupia since they’re being chased by a pack of werewolves.
“Aaah! We’re being chased by Jacob’s pack of werewolves!” Baito screams.
Sure enough, Jacob and his werewolf pack from Twilight are after Baito and Blove, and they quickly overtake them.
“That’ll teach you to mess with Bella!” Jacob yells.
“But we didn’t mess with Bella, we just asked who she was!” Baito screeches. Baito and Blove are both pretty bloodied up and they look miserable. I take out my bow and arrows. I head over to the pack of wolves and shoot both Baito and Blove in the head.
“Hey, thanks for killing them for us!” Jacob says.
I nod, and soon the wolf pack goes away. Pita and I are the only contestants left. I don’t want to kill Pita. He just stopped being annoying.
“Katnip, I don’t want to kill you,” Pita admits.
“I don’t want to kill you.”
“There can only be one winner,” the voice in the sky says.
I walk over to a bush of berries. They’re nightlock berries, and they’ll kill you when they hit your stomach. I hand Pita a berry and keep one for myself, and we both swallow them.
We die. Take that, Crapitol!
* * * * *
Hope you enjoyed it. And finally: Eiffie's Rules of the Hunger Games.
Part Nine: The Beginning of the End
A bunch of centaurs with spears charge towards Pita and me, forcing us out of the cave.
“This is the entrance to Narnia! Do you guys belong in Narnia? No!” a centaur rants at us.
The centaurs keep chasing us until we’re by the Cornastupia. Pita and I hide in the golden horn so the centaurs can’t get to us. However, Baito and Blove come towards the Cornastupia since they’re being chased by a pack of werewolves.
“Aaah! We’re being chased by Jacob’s pack of werewolves!” Baito screams.
Sure enough, Jacob and his werewolf pack from Twilight are after Baito and Blove, and they quickly overtake them.
“That’ll teach you to mess with Bella!” Jacob yells.
“But we didn’t mess with Bella, we just asked who she was!” Baito screeches. Baito and Blove are both pretty bloodied up and they look miserable. I take out my bow and arrows. I head over to the pack of wolves and shoot both Baito and Blove in the head.
“Hey, thanks for killing them for us!” Jacob says.
I nod, and soon the wolf pack goes away. Pita and I are the only contestants left. I don’t want to kill Pita. He just stopped being annoying.
“Katnip, I don’t want to kill you,” Pita admits.
“I don’t want to kill you.”
“There can only be one winner,” the voice in the sky says.
I walk over to a bush of berries. They’re nightlock berries, and they’ll kill you when they hit your stomach. I hand Pita a berry and keep one for myself, and we both swallow them.
We die. Take that, Crapitol!
* * * * *
Hope you enjoyed it. And finally: Eiffie's Rules of the Hunger Games.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Short Story: The Hunger Pangs (Part Eight)
Do I really need to link to the other parts? Just click "The Hunger Pangs" down in the labels area. ;-)
This is the penultimate chapter! I love the end of this one. Enjoy!
Part Eight: The Hunger Pangs is a Lot Better than Narnia
Pita and I arrive at a cave that should hide us pretty well. I go in to see if it’s safe, and after walking for a few seconds, I arrive in a forest, and there’s a lantern there.
“Huh?” I say, puzzled. Then a little girl on a white horse trots in front of me and stops. “Uh, hi. Who are you and where am I?”
“I’m Lucy, and you’re in the magical land of Narnia,” she tells me.
“What?”
“Yeah, I know. This story sucks, I mean, we worship a lion named Aslan here! How stupid is that?”
“Okay, bye.” I take slow steps back, leaving Lucy and Narnia behind. I go back to Pita. “It’s safe if you don’t go too far.”
He shrugs. “Alright.”
“You know, Pita, you’re actually cute when you’re not singing those Justin Bieber songs,” I admit.
“Really, you think so?” he asks. “Glad to hear it. You know, I’ve actually liked you for a long time.” Pita crawls towards me.
“Okay, I don’t think you’re that cute.”
“I know, but we have to pretend to like each other for the audience.” He raises his eyebrows.
So we engage in this totally phony romance for the audience, and it’s a really boring story. So let’s skip to the part where we’re forced to get out of the cave and go towards the Cornastupia.
* * * * *
Next time, "The Hunger Pangs" concludes with Part Nine: The Beginning of the End.
This is the penultimate chapter! I love the end of this one. Enjoy!
Part Eight: The Hunger Pangs is a Lot Better than Narnia
Pita and I arrive at a cave that should hide us pretty well. I go in to see if it’s safe, and after walking for a few seconds, I arrive in a forest, and there’s a lantern there.
“Huh?” I say, puzzled. Then a little girl on a white horse trots in front of me and stops. “Uh, hi. Who are you and where am I?”
“I’m Lucy, and you’re in the magical land of Narnia,” she tells me.
“What?”
“Yeah, I know. This story sucks, I mean, we worship a lion named Aslan here! How stupid is that?”
“Okay, bye.” I take slow steps back, leaving Lucy and Narnia behind. I go back to Pita. “It’s safe if you don’t go too far.”
He shrugs. “Alright.”
“You know, Pita, you’re actually cute when you’re not singing those Justin Bieber songs,” I admit.
“Really, you think so?” he asks. “Glad to hear it. You know, I’ve actually liked you for a long time.” Pita crawls towards me.
“Okay, I don’t think you’re that cute.”
“I know, but we have to pretend to like each other for the audience.” He raises his eyebrows.
So we engage in this totally phony romance for the audience, and it’s a really boring story. So let’s skip to the part where we’re forced to get out of the cave and go towards the Cornastupia.
* * * * *
Next time, "The Hunger Pangs" concludes with Part Nine: The Beginning of the End.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Short Story: The Hunger Pangs (Part Seven)
We're almost to the exciting conclusion! Prior parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6.
Part Seven: Beaver Fever
I lost my ally so I just walk in the forest, awaiting any other dangers. My one ear is still deaf, so I make sure to be extra careful. Then I arrive at a stream, where I take a nice long drink and fill my Barbie water bottle.
“Baby, baby, baby ...”
I hear Pita. I look around the stream, and sure enough, I see Pita lying on top of a dam surrounded by beavers.
“Pita!” I shout. He stops singing.
“Katnip!” he says gleefully. “Come meet my beaver friends. They love my singing.”
I walk over to him and he doesn’t look good. He has a cut in his leg from the batarang and it’s oozing pus. Red lines spread out from it. He must have a blood infection. The beavers huddle around him, keeping him warm.
“Pita, you need medicine.”
“I know, I’m having these singing outbrea—I need somebody to loooove!” Pita sings.
I feel his forehead, and it’s dangerously hot. Then, I feel Pita’s lips on mine. Eeeww! I squeal in my head. I play along, though. Maybe we can get sympathy from the audience.
“There’s gonna be one less lonely girl, one less lonely girl,” he sings once he breaks away.
“Pita, it seems you have Bieber Fever,” I say. I look at the beavers. “Or beaver fever.” I hear a voice in the sky.
“Attention, tributes,” the voice says. “By the Cornastupia, there are backpacks with your district’s name on it, containing something you need.”
I’m already racing for the Cornastupia. Once I arrive, I see Baito running for the backpacks along with the huge guy from District 11. I grab Pita’s bag and I run for it, but the guy from District 11, Plush, is in front of me. He slams my head with his Tonka truck. I ignore the blinding pain and spring for the forest. I hear Plush scream until he falls silent. Plush is dead.
I see the stream ahead of me, and I hand the pack to Pita. I plunge my head beneath the freezing water to numb my injury. I grab a beaver and put it to my head. The beaver doesn’t protest.
Pita takes out a CD player and an AC/DC CD. He inserts the disc into the player and puts the headphones over his ears. The red lines emanating from his cut dissipate, and soon the cut is just a scar.
“Pita?” I check to make sure he’s okay.
“I’m alright.”
“Are you sure? You won’t sing Justin Bieber anymore?”
“Nope,” he tells me. “’Cause I am TNT, watch me explode!” he sings. Oh lord, now it’s AC/DC. At least it’s not as annoying as Justin Bieber. “I’m joking, Katnip.”
I sigh in relief. “Oh good!”
“Today’s announcement is brought to you by Oxi Clean!” the voice in the sky says. I look up, and there’s a projection of Billy Mays smiling next to a bucket of Oxi Clean. “Right now, the only tributes left are the District 2 contestants, Baito and Blove, and the District 12 contestants, Pita and Katnip. May the odds be ever in your favor!” Then, there’s a slideshow of the dead.
I turn to Pita. “Let’s run.”
* * * * *
Stay tuned for Part Eight: The Hunger Pangs is a Lot Better than Narnia.
Part Seven: Beaver Fever
I lost my ally so I just walk in the forest, awaiting any other dangers. My one ear is still deaf, so I make sure to be extra careful. Then I arrive at a stream, where I take a nice long drink and fill my Barbie water bottle.
“Baby, baby, baby ...”
I hear Pita. I look around the stream, and sure enough, I see Pita lying on top of a dam surrounded by beavers.
“Pita!” I shout. He stops singing.
“Katnip!” he says gleefully. “Come meet my beaver friends. They love my singing.”
I walk over to him and he doesn’t look good. He has a cut in his leg from the batarang and it’s oozing pus. Red lines spread out from it. He must have a blood infection. The beavers huddle around him, keeping him warm.
“Pita, you need medicine.”
“I know, I’m having these singing outbrea—I need somebody to loooove!” Pita sings.
I feel his forehead, and it’s dangerously hot. Then, I feel Pita’s lips on mine. Eeeww! I squeal in my head. I play along, though. Maybe we can get sympathy from the audience.
“There’s gonna be one less lonely girl, one less lonely girl,” he sings once he breaks away.
“Pita, it seems you have Bieber Fever,” I say. I look at the beavers. “Or beaver fever.” I hear a voice in the sky.
“Attention, tributes,” the voice says. “By the Cornastupia, there are backpacks with your district’s name on it, containing something you need.”
I’m already racing for the Cornastupia. Once I arrive, I see Baito running for the backpacks along with the huge guy from District 11. I grab Pita’s bag and I run for it, but the guy from District 11, Plush, is in front of me. He slams my head with his Tonka truck. I ignore the blinding pain and spring for the forest. I hear Plush scream until he falls silent. Plush is dead.
I see the stream ahead of me, and I hand the pack to Pita. I plunge my head beneath the freezing water to numb my injury. I grab a beaver and put it to my head. The beaver doesn’t protest.
Pita takes out a CD player and an AC/DC CD. He inserts the disc into the player and puts the headphones over his ears. The red lines emanating from his cut dissipate, and soon the cut is just a scar.
“Pita?” I check to make sure he’s okay.
“I’m alright.”
“Are you sure? You won’t sing Justin Bieber anymore?”
“Nope,” he tells me. “’Cause I am TNT, watch me explode!” he sings. Oh lord, now it’s AC/DC. At least it’s not as annoying as Justin Bieber. “I’m joking, Katnip.”
I sigh in relief. “Oh good!”
“Today’s announcement is brought to you by Oxi Clean!” the voice in the sky says. I look up, and there’s a projection of Billy Mays smiling next to a bucket of Oxi Clean. “Right now, the only tributes left are the District 2 contestants, Baito and Blove, and the District 12 contestants, Pita and Katnip. May the odds be ever in your favor!” Then, there’s a slideshow of the dead.
I turn to Pita. “Let’s run.”
* * * * *
Stay tuned for Part Eight: The Hunger Pangs is a Lot Better than Narnia.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Potential Pitfalls: Writing Blind (v1.0)
Like all great potential pitfalls, this one is tricky because it involves a balancing act.
First, my inspiration for this post.
Exhibit 1: Riley Redgate's post on writing what you know (or not)
Exhibit 2: Allison Winn Scotch's post on whether writers must be readers
These got me thinking about something I've come across, and a trap I hope I've steered well clear of—writing a novel with no knowledge of the genre/category.
Yes, I've seen writers attempting a fantasy without ever reading any. Others writing for teens without reading a single book from the YA shelves.
I'm sure if you look, you can find a handful of examples where an author did their own thing without any real knowledge of what came before, and yet was wildly successful. Perhaps I'll do another Potential Pitfalls post on acting like exceptions are the rule. More often, the writer's lack of reader-knowledge is neon-sign obvious.
How so? A common sign in YA is teen characters that feel like they were written by an adult. The voice is off, the actions don't fit—either coming across as a stiff adult in a teen's body, or falling deep into stereotype. Sometimes it's harder to put my finger on, but I have this instinctive feeling that the writer (a) has little-to-no meaningful contact with teens, and (b) hasn't read a YA novel published within the last five years (or even ten).
But like I said, it's a balancing act, because there's another pitfall right across from this one: Unintentional Rip-Off. Oh, and there's one in front of it, too: Authorial Laryngitis (Loss of Voice).
I know some writers that don't read fiction while they're drafting a novel (but may read non-fiction during that time). That's a strategy that makes sense to me. Some of us are susceptible to having another writer's voice seep into ours if we're reading and drafting at the same time.
I guess the bottom line is, know the conventions and requirements of your genre, but find your own voice and story. You know what they say, if it were easy ...
Any opinions on reading within your genre? I didn't discuss reading other genres, but there are benefits there as well. Thoughts?
First, my inspiration for this post.
Exhibit 1: Riley Redgate's post on writing what you know (or not)
Exhibit 2: Allison Winn Scotch's post on whether writers must be readers
These got me thinking about something I've come across, and a trap I hope I've steered well clear of—writing a novel with no knowledge of the genre/category.
Yes, I've seen writers attempting a fantasy without ever reading any. Others writing for teens without reading a single book from the YA shelves.
I'm sure if you look, you can find a handful of examples where an author did their own thing without any real knowledge of what came before, and yet was wildly successful. Perhaps I'll do another Potential Pitfalls post on acting like exceptions are the rule. More often, the writer's lack of reader-knowledge is neon-sign obvious.
How so? A common sign in YA is teen characters that feel like they were written by an adult. The voice is off, the actions don't fit—either coming across as a stiff adult in a teen's body, or falling deep into stereotype. Sometimes it's harder to put my finger on, but I have this instinctive feeling that the writer (a) has little-to-no meaningful contact with teens, and (b) hasn't read a YA novel published within the last five years (or even ten).
But like I said, it's a balancing act, because there's another pitfall right across from this one: Unintentional Rip-Off. Oh, and there's one in front of it, too: Authorial Laryngitis (Loss of Voice).
I know some writers that don't read fiction while they're drafting a novel (but may read non-fiction during that time). That's a strategy that makes sense to me. Some of us are susceptible to having another writer's voice seep into ours if we're reading and drafting at the same time.
I guess the bottom line is, know the conventions and requirements of your genre, but find your own voice and story. You know what they say, if it were easy ...
Any opinions on reading within your genre? I didn't discuss reading other genres, but there are benefits there as well. Thoughts?
Monday, June 13, 2011
Short Story: The Hunger Pangs (Part Six)
The catch-up links: One, Two, Three, Four, and Five.
And now, we get some action and drama. Enjoy!
Part Six: Unlikely Allies
I wake up to a sharp sting on my cheek.
“Ow,” I murmur, rubbing my face.
“It’s about time you woke up, Dogbreath!” I hear a squeaky voice say. I turn around and find Rue.
“Rue? Why didn’t you kill me?” I ask. The little, dark-skinned girl glares at me.
“I could if you want me to!” she threatens. I shrink away from her.
“No, I’m good.”
“Okay. Well, I was thinking we could be allies,” she proposes.
“Allies?” I rub my head, which hurts like hell. “Why would you want to be allies with me?”
“Easy, you’re good at shooting that thing.” She gestures toward the bow and arrow. “And I am good with plant identification since I’m from District 11. We would make a good team.”
“Well, alright,” I agree. We shake hands.
“Now, let’s move, Toilet Licker!” Rue commands.
I grab my bow and arrows. “Uh, I have a question.”
“Well, out with it!”
“How many people died at the Cornastupia yesterday? And keep your voice down!” I whisper to her.
“Half, so twelve are left. Actually, now there are eleven since the Cracker Jackers killed stupid Glitter,” Rue tells me. “But I have a plan.”
“What’s your plan?”
“Let’s blow up the Careers’ stuff!”
“Why? The stuff they have is stupid.”
“True, but they’ll find a use for it, and it’s fun blowing stuff up!” Rue squeals, almost jittering with excitement.
“Also true,” I admit. “How will we blow it up?”
“The Careers had a guy from District Three activate land mines from the arena entrances and put them around their supplies. There are some Teletubby figurines hanging off a crate of apples. Just shoot the crate with your weapon and make the figures fall. Then, it’ll go boom!”
“Alright, I like it,” I say.
“Great, I will stay here with the stuff while you go do that. Sound good?”
“Yeah.”
“Then go do it, dum-dum!” Rue screams at me.
So I do. I march over to the Careers’ camp by the lake, and I spot their stuff. I will allow myself only three arrows to make the Teletubbies fall. I shoot the first arrow. It just makes them shake. I shoot the second arrow. They inch closer to the edge. I shoot the third arrow and they finally fall, making the stockpile explode. I’m thrown back and land next to a charred Barney doll. I listen for footsteps. I hear some in one ear, but the other ear is deaf.
I get up and run for Rue. I arrive at the spot where Rue is supposed to be and see her battling a guy in a Batman suit. It must be Marvel, the guy from District 1. Who else would wear a superhero costume?
“Katnip! Help!” Rue yells.
“Cat naps yelp?” I ask, confused.
“No, help!”
“No kelp?”
“No! He—”
Marvel kills Rue with a Batarang, and he throws one at me. I bend over. Marvel takes out another one.
“I’m coming for you!”
I hear singing. Pita! He gets the Batarang that was aimed at me and he throws it at Marvel, who falls to the ground dead. Pita runs away, limping while singing.
“I’ll never let you go!”
Wow, Pita saved me. I turn to look at him again, but he’s gone. I go over to Rue’s body and kick it.
“Sorry you died, dogbreath,” I say mournfully.
* * * * *
Next time, Part Seven: Beaver Fever.
And now, we get some action and drama. Enjoy!
Part Six: Unlikely Allies
I wake up to a sharp sting on my cheek.
“Ow,” I murmur, rubbing my face.
“It’s about time you woke up, Dogbreath!” I hear a squeaky voice say. I turn around and find Rue.
“Rue? Why didn’t you kill me?” I ask. The little, dark-skinned girl glares at me.
“I could if you want me to!” she threatens. I shrink away from her.
“No, I’m good.”
“Okay. Well, I was thinking we could be allies,” she proposes.
“Allies?” I rub my head, which hurts like hell. “Why would you want to be allies with me?”
“Easy, you’re good at shooting that thing.” She gestures toward the bow and arrow. “And I am good with plant identification since I’m from District 11. We would make a good team.”
“Well, alright,” I agree. We shake hands.
“Now, let’s move, Toilet Licker!” Rue commands.
I grab my bow and arrows. “Uh, I have a question.”
“Well, out with it!”
“How many people died at the Cornastupia yesterday? And keep your voice down!” I whisper to her.
“Half, so twelve are left. Actually, now there are eleven since the Cracker Jackers killed stupid Glitter,” Rue tells me. “But I have a plan.”
“What’s your plan?”
“Let’s blow up the Careers’ stuff!”
“Why? The stuff they have is stupid.”
“True, but they’ll find a use for it, and it’s fun blowing stuff up!” Rue squeals, almost jittering with excitement.
“Also true,” I admit. “How will we blow it up?”
“The Careers had a guy from District Three activate land mines from the arena entrances and put them around their supplies. There are some Teletubby figurines hanging off a crate of apples. Just shoot the crate with your weapon and make the figures fall. Then, it’ll go boom!”
“Alright, I like it,” I say.
“Great, I will stay here with the stuff while you go do that. Sound good?”
“Yeah.”
“Then go do it, dum-dum!” Rue screams at me.
So I do. I march over to the Careers’ camp by the lake, and I spot their stuff. I will allow myself only three arrows to make the Teletubbies fall. I shoot the first arrow. It just makes them shake. I shoot the second arrow. They inch closer to the edge. I shoot the third arrow and they finally fall, making the stockpile explode. I’m thrown back and land next to a charred Barney doll. I listen for footsteps. I hear some in one ear, but the other ear is deaf.
I get up and run for Rue. I arrive at the spot where Rue is supposed to be and see her battling a guy in a Batman suit. It must be Marvel, the guy from District 1. Who else would wear a superhero costume?
“Katnip! Help!” Rue yells.
“Cat naps yelp?” I ask, confused.
“No, help!”
“No kelp?”
“No! He—”
Marvel kills Rue with a Batarang, and he throws one at me. I bend over. Marvel takes out another one.
“I’m coming for you!”
I hear singing. Pita! He gets the Batarang that was aimed at me and he throws it at Marvel, who falls to the ground dead. Pita runs away, limping while singing.
“I’ll never let you go!”
Wow, Pita saved me. I turn to look at him again, but he’s gone. I go over to Rue’s body and kick it.
“Sorry you died, dogbreath,” I say mournfully.
* * * * *
Next time, Part Seven: Beaver Fever.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Short Story: The Hunger Pangs (Part Five)
For those just tuning in: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, and Part Four.
I have to say, I adore the final line of this part. It's just so ... well, you'll see.
Part Five: Cracker Jackers
I climb a tall tree and hide my eyesore of a backpack. Soon, the voices take shape, and I see who they are—Careers, from the wealthier districts. Careers spend their whole lives training for the Hunger Pangs. They think it’s an honor to be chosen. Usually, the winner is one of the Careers. These Careers seem to have made a pact to work together until everyone but them is dead, and then they’ll go against each other.
“What did you get from the Cornastupia?” a guy whose name I think is Baito asks.
“I got this lousy bow and arrow set,” a girl named Glitter answers. I know it’s an odd name; her parents are celebrities.
I want her bow and arrow set, but I’m not sure how to get it. I see movement in the tree next to me. My head quickly turns in the direction of the movement. It’s a girl named Rue from District 11. Man, she’s an angry girl! She tells everybody they’ll rue the day, but no one ever did anything to her.
Rue points to something above me, and I see what it is. A nest of Cracker Jackers. The Crapitol makes these strange animals sometimes, like the Hamburjay and the Cracker Jackers. the Cracker Jackers are shaped like crackers, but they pack quite a sting. They make you feel terrible and hallucinate if you get stung by one.
“Thank you,” I mouth to her. I break off a stick from the tree, but the Careers never notice. I shove the Cracker Jacker nest so it falls on them. Baito and a few other Careers scatter, but Glitter isn’t so lucky. The Cracker Jackers are on her immediately. Hmm, they must hate Bradgelina, her celebrity parents.
I race down the tree and pry the bow and arrow set from her dying hands. Then, I run for it.
I notice I’m surrounded by butterflies. I dance with them, and they start to land on my arms, tickling me. I start giggling. Then, one lands on my nose. I cry out. The butterflies look like Donald Trump!
“Aaaaah!” I scream. Then butterflies cover me, tickling me so I collapse in a fit of laughter and screaming. Then I drown; I drown in a sea of butterflies.
* * * * *
Next up, Part Six: Unlikely Allies.
I have to say, I adore the final line of this part. It's just so ... well, you'll see.
Part Five: Cracker Jackers
I climb a tall tree and hide my eyesore of a backpack. Soon, the voices take shape, and I see who they are—Careers, from the wealthier districts. Careers spend their whole lives training for the Hunger Pangs. They think it’s an honor to be chosen. Usually, the winner is one of the Careers. These Careers seem to have made a pact to work together until everyone but them is dead, and then they’ll go against each other.
“What did you get from the Cornastupia?” a guy whose name I think is Baito asks.
“I got this lousy bow and arrow set,” a girl named Glitter answers. I know it’s an odd name; her parents are celebrities.
I want her bow and arrow set, but I’m not sure how to get it. I see movement in the tree next to me. My head quickly turns in the direction of the movement. It’s a girl named Rue from District 11. Man, she’s an angry girl! She tells everybody they’ll rue the day, but no one ever did anything to her.
Rue points to something above me, and I see what it is. A nest of Cracker Jackers. The Crapitol makes these strange animals sometimes, like the Hamburjay and the Cracker Jackers. the Cracker Jackers are shaped like crackers, but they pack quite a sting. They make you feel terrible and hallucinate if you get stung by one.
“Thank you,” I mouth to her. I break off a stick from the tree, but the Careers never notice. I shove the Cracker Jacker nest so it falls on them. Baito and a few other Careers scatter, but Glitter isn’t so lucky. The Cracker Jackers are on her immediately. Hmm, they must hate Bradgelina, her celebrity parents.
I race down the tree and pry the bow and arrow set from her dying hands. Then, I run for it.
I notice I’m surrounded by butterflies. I dance with them, and they start to land on my arms, tickling me. I start giggling. Then, one lands on my nose. I cry out. The butterflies look like Donald Trump!
“Aaaaah!” I scream. Then butterflies cover me, tickling me so I collapse in a fit of laughter and screaming. Then I drown; I drown in a sea of butterflies.
* * * * *
Next up, Part Six: Unlikely Allies.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Short Story: The Hunger Pangs (Part Four)
If you're late to the game(s), get caught up: Part One, Part Two, and Part Three.
Part Four: The Hunger Pangs Begin
The next morning, we are taken to the arena of the Hunger Pangs. I wave goodbye to the Crapitol and sit back in my seat. I’m being sent to my death, and worse, I’m being sent to my death with Pita Hellark. He’s humming the tune “Overboard,” so I plug my ears. After a while, the windows of the plane go black. We’re almost to the arena.
“Pita, you better pray,” I advise him.
Pita closes his eyes. “I close my eyes, and I can see a better day. I close my eyes and pray,” he sings quietly.
“Shut up!” I tell him. Miraculously, he does.
The plane lands, and we are put in tubes that take us to the arena, which is a forest similar to the one in District 12. I look at my outfit which consists of a green shirt that matches my skin color, simple pants, a thin jacket that reflects heat, and my Hamburjay pin. Haysnitch gave Pita and me some advice before we were sent here. I run his words in my mind again.
“Don’t get anything from the Cornastupia. Just run and try not to die,” Haysnitch told me earlier. The Cornastupia is filled with stupid, useless things such a matchbox cars, Windex, or pressed flowers. The list goes on. Sometimes, though, you can find a use for them.
I look at the arena. There’s a lake to the right, and the rest is just woods. Most of the contestants will obviously go to the lake because of the water, so I will want to head into the forest. I observe the items at the Cornastupia. There’s a backpack a few feet from me and a kid set of bows and arrows a bit farther. I don’t care what Haysnitch says. I’m going to get something, and then I will run for my life.
Then something like an elk’s mating call sounds. That must be the bell. Oh dear, I just lost a few seconds figuring that out, so I start moving. I sprint for the backpack, but I feel something hit me. A contestant behind me is pounding a stuffed animal that looks like Big Bird on me. I have to run faster. Death by Big Bird would be terrible!
I grab the backpack and sprint for the forest, but I slam into this huge, olive-skinned boy. He has a Tonka truck hoisted high. I duck before the toy can slam into my head. Then I run as far away from the Cornastupia as I can. When I feel too tired to keep running, I stop and check out my backpack.
“It’s hot pink with Barbie and Ken on it, eww,” I complain. I open it and find a Barbie water bottle, Barbie sleeping bag, Barbie camp chair, and Barbie flashlight. Oh, there’s also a Barbie tent. I think, overall, I probably got a good deal. Normally, few things in the Cornastupia are for camping. I continue hiking until I suddenly hear voices behind me.
* * * * *
Come back for Part Five: Cracker Jackers!
Part Four: The Hunger Pangs Begin
The next morning, we are taken to the arena of the Hunger Pangs. I wave goodbye to the Crapitol and sit back in my seat. I’m being sent to my death, and worse, I’m being sent to my death with Pita Hellark. He’s humming the tune “Overboard,” so I plug my ears. After a while, the windows of the plane go black. We’re almost to the arena.
“Pita, you better pray,” I advise him.
Pita closes his eyes. “I close my eyes, and I can see a better day. I close my eyes and pray,” he sings quietly.
“Shut up!” I tell him. Miraculously, he does.
The plane lands, and we are put in tubes that take us to the arena, which is a forest similar to the one in District 12. I look at my outfit which consists of a green shirt that matches my skin color, simple pants, a thin jacket that reflects heat, and my Hamburjay pin. Haysnitch gave Pita and me some advice before we were sent here. I run his words in my mind again.
“Don’t get anything from the Cornastupia. Just run and try not to die,” Haysnitch told me earlier. The Cornastupia is filled with stupid, useless things such a matchbox cars, Windex, or pressed flowers. The list goes on. Sometimes, though, you can find a use for them.
I look at the arena. There’s a lake to the right, and the rest is just woods. Most of the contestants will obviously go to the lake because of the water, so I will want to head into the forest. I observe the items at the Cornastupia. There’s a backpack a few feet from me and a kid set of bows and arrows a bit farther. I don’t care what Haysnitch says. I’m going to get something, and then I will run for my life.
Then something like an elk’s mating call sounds. That must be the bell. Oh dear, I just lost a few seconds figuring that out, so I start moving. I sprint for the backpack, but I feel something hit me. A contestant behind me is pounding a stuffed animal that looks like Big Bird on me. I have to run faster. Death by Big Bird would be terrible!
I grab the backpack and sprint for the forest, but I slam into this huge, olive-skinned boy. He has a Tonka truck hoisted high. I duck before the toy can slam into my head. Then I run as far away from the Cornastupia as I can. When I feel too tired to keep running, I stop and check out my backpack.
“It’s hot pink with Barbie and Ken on it, eww,” I complain. I open it and find a Barbie water bottle, Barbie sleeping bag, Barbie camp chair, and Barbie flashlight. Oh, there’s also a Barbie tent. I think, overall, I probably got a good deal. Normally, few things in the Cornastupia are for camping. I continue hiking until I suddenly hear voices behind me.
* * * * *
Come back for Part Five: Cracker Jackers!
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Short Story: The Hunger Pangs (Part Three)
I'm back with another part of the parody by a student. Make sure you read Part One and Part Two first. Enjoy!
Part Three: William Tell
In the morning, Pita and I meet our mentor, Haysnitch Aberskunky. He is the only living District 12 victor. When we meet, he’s drunk and smells like a skunk.
“Yo! Aberskunky! What do we do for training?” I ask.
“Uhhhh. Don’t show off,” Haysnitch slurs. “Nobody should know your talents.”
“Okay, so I’ll go light on the archery, and you...” I look at Pita. “Don’t irritate anyone.” Pita nods. I guess he finally figured out that his singing sucks.
Pita and I march off to training, where some tributes are already practicing with the weapons. They scare me, so I drag Pita over to the plant identification training station.
“Helloooo! My name is Billy Mays! Would you like to see my ad for Oxi Clean?” the trainer inquires.
“Uh, unless Oxi Clean is a plant, no thanks,” I tell him.
“But Oxi Clean can make your green skin nice and white again.”
“No, thanks.”
“Awww...Okay, I’ll teach you some plant identification skills.”
Pita and I have to listen to his annoying voice for a full hour before moving on to the next station. We just move from station to station, awaiting our private sessions with the Gamemakers, which will be scored on a scale of 0 to 12. 0 is really bad and 12 is awesome. Of course, District 12 is last so I enter a room full of drunk and bored Gamemakers. I start shooting arrows at the target shaped like a hot dog, hitting the center every time.
“Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggity dog,” a gamemaker sings. I turn around and see he’s singing with an apple on his head.
“If I were you, I’d pay attention!” I scold him. I shoot an arrow at the apple on his head, but instead, I hit his Adam’s apple. Eh, close enough. The gamemaker chokes on his own blood and dies.
“Hey!” another gamemaker calls to me. “Good job! We hated that guy!” I smirk and go out of the room. Pita goes in next and is out of there shortly.
“Eenie meenie miney moe, catch a bad girl by her toe. If-if-if she holla let her go!” Pita sings. “I heard you were a bad girl!”
I think of how I shot the gamemaker’s Adam’s apple with my arrow. “Yeah, I had a William Tell moment.”
We wait for our scores, and I get an 11. Yeah! I rock! Pita gets an 8 and I’m surprised. “What did you do to get an 8?”
“I sang. They told me if I stopped singing, they would give me an 8!” Pita answers.
I can only shake my head.
* * * * *
Up next ... Part Four: The Hunger Pangs Begin
Part Three: William Tell
In the morning, Pita and I meet our mentor, Haysnitch Aberskunky. He is the only living District 12 victor. When we meet, he’s drunk and smells like a skunk.
“Yo! Aberskunky! What do we do for training?” I ask.
“Uhhhh. Don’t show off,” Haysnitch slurs. “Nobody should know your talents.”
“Okay, so I’ll go light on the archery, and you...” I look at Pita. “Don’t irritate anyone.” Pita nods. I guess he finally figured out that his singing sucks.
Pita and I march off to training, where some tributes are already practicing with the weapons. They scare me, so I drag Pita over to the plant identification training station.
“Helloooo! My name is Billy Mays! Would you like to see my ad for Oxi Clean?” the trainer inquires.
“Uh, unless Oxi Clean is a plant, no thanks,” I tell him.
“But Oxi Clean can make your green skin nice and white again.”
“No, thanks.”
“Awww...Okay, I’ll teach you some plant identification skills.”
Pita and I have to listen to his annoying voice for a full hour before moving on to the next station. We just move from station to station, awaiting our private sessions with the Gamemakers, which will be scored on a scale of 0 to 12. 0 is really bad and 12 is awesome. Of course, District 12 is last so I enter a room full of drunk and bored Gamemakers. I start shooting arrows at the target shaped like a hot dog, hitting the center every time.
“Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggity dog,” a gamemaker sings. I turn around and see he’s singing with an apple on his head.
“If I were you, I’d pay attention!” I scold him. I shoot an arrow at the apple on his head, but instead, I hit his Adam’s apple. Eh, close enough. The gamemaker chokes on his own blood and dies.
“Hey!” another gamemaker calls to me. “Good job! We hated that guy!” I smirk and go out of the room. Pita goes in next and is out of there shortly.
“Eenie meenie miney moe, catch a bad girl by her toe. If-if-if she holla let her go!” Pita sings. “I heard you were a bad girl!”
I think of how I shot the gamemaker’s Adam’s apple with my arrow. “Yeah, I had a William Tell moment.”
We wait for our scores, and I get an 11. Yeah! I rock! Pita gets an 8 and I’m surprised. “What did you do to get an 8?”
“I sang. They told me if I stopped singing, they would give me an 8!” Pita answers.
I can only shake my head.
* * * * *
Up next ... Part Four: The Hunger Pangs Begin
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Short Story: The Hunger Pangs (Part Two)
For those who missed it last time, read Part One of this parody written by a student.
And now ...
Part Two: Oooh! Burn!
I’m whisked off to the Crapitol with Pita (a.k.a. Justin). I wear a Hamburjay pin that the mayor’s daughter, Padge, gave me as a token. Right now, we are getting prepared for the fashion show part of the Hunger Pangs. It’s a preliminary event where we have a chance to garner support from the audience. So we must dress to impress. District 12’s stylist, Cinnamon, along with his three assistants, Larry, Moe, and Curly, come in.
“Hello, we are your stylists, and I assume you two are my contestants?” Cinnamon asks.
Pita croons, “And I’ma be your one guy, you—”
“If you say I’m going to be your number one girl, you’re dead meat,” I warn Pita. “But yes, Cinnamon, we’re your contestants.”
“Great! So, I was thinking. District 12 is all about coal, right?” Pita and I nod. “So, I was going to set you two on fire!”
“We can’t go nowhere but up from here!” Pita sings. I roll my eyes.
“That’s what I was thinking, too!” Cinnamon exclaims. “What about you, Katnip? Do you approve?”
“Why not?” I give in to his plan. Pita resumes singing his Justin Bieber songs.
“He even looks like Justin Bieber!” Cinnamon notices. I agree; Pita does look like Justin with his mop-top but he has blue eyes and Justin has brown. If he wasn’t so annoying, I might actually like him.
The fashion show is later that night. Pita has a black suit and I a black dress. Both doused in gasoline. Cinnamon assured us the flames wouldn’t hurt us when he lights us on fire. I look at the other contestants’ outfits. District 4 has kiddie pools circling their waists. District 3 has matching Herbie costumes. The District 2 contestants look like two rubies; even the guy is wearing red lipstick. District 11’s contestants having matching apple tree costumes. Pita and I will totally kill these people. Each district marches on the stage, and finally, District 12 is called. We are always last. Cinnamon strikes a match and sets us on fire.
“Pita, do you feel hot?”
“You’re the coolest girl I know!” Pita belts out.
“I don’t feel really cool now.” Sweat beads on my forehead. People cheer for us as we float onstage. “Okay, now it hurts,” I exclaim. “Ow! Ow! Ow!” Pita is screaming as well. I search for a source of water and head straight for District 4’s costumes. I jump at their waists into one of their kiddie pools. Ahhh. I feel so much better.
“Thank you,” I say to the shocked girl from District 4. Pita is still on the stage flapping his arms like he has wings. “Pita, you dolt! Come over here!”
“I’m coming for you!” Pita sings/screams. He jumps into the other contestant’s pool.
“Oooh! Burn!” the girl says, but then the audience starts clapping. Pita and I get out and bow. I’m going to kill Cinnamon for this. What if those Crapitol idiots actually figure out it wasn’t an act? Pita and I would be so dead. The good news is that we had extra layers under our costumes so we didn’t get burned badly; it just felt like a sunburn.
* * * * *
Next time ... Part Three: William Tell.
And now ...
Part Two: Oooh! Burn!
I’m whisked off to the Crapitol with Pita (a.k.a. Justin). I wear a Hamburjay pin that the mayor’s daughter, Padge, gave me as a token. Right now, we are getting prepared for the fashion show part of the Hunger Pangs. It’s a preliminary event where we have a chance to garner support from the audience. So we must dress to impress. District 12’s stylist, Cinnamon, along with his three assistants, Larry, Moe, and Curly, come in.
“Hello, we are your stylists, and I assume you two are my contestants?” Cinnamon asks.
Pita croons, “And I’ma be your one guy, you—”
“If you say I’m going to be your number one girl, you’re dead meat,” I warn Pita. “But yes, Cinnamon, we’re your contestants.”
“Great! So, I was thinking. District 12 is all about coal, right?” Pita and I nod. “So, I was going to set you two on fire!”
“We can’t go nowhere but up from here!” Pita sings. I roll my eyes.
“That’s what I was thinking, too!” Cinnamon exclaims. “What about you, Katnip? Do you approve?”
“Why not?” I give in to his plan. Pita resumes singing his Justin Bieber songs.
“He even looks like Justin Bieber!” Cinnamon notices. I agree; Pita does look like Justin with his mop-top but he has blue eyes and Justin has brown. If he wasn’t so annoying, I might actually like him.
***
The fashion show is later that night. Pita has a black suit and I a black dress. Both doused in gasoline. Cinnamon assured us the flames wouldn’t hurt us when he lights us on fire. I look at the other contestants’ outfits. District 4 has kiddie pools circling their waists. District 3 has matching Herbie costumes. The District 2 contestants look like two rubies; even the guy is wearing red lipstick. District 11’s contestants having matching apple tree costumes. Pita and I will totally kill these people. Each district marches on the stage, and finally, District 12 is called. We are always last. Cinnamon strikes a match and sets us on fire.
“Pita, do you feel hot?”
“You’re the coolest girl I know!” Pita belts out.
“I don’t feel really cool now.” Sweat beads on my forehead. People cheer for us as we float onstage. “Okay, now it hurts,” I exclaim. “Ow! Ow! Ow!” Pita is screaming as well. I search for a source of water and head straight for District 4’s costumes. I jump at their waists into one of their kiddie pools. Ahhh. I feel so much better.
“Thank you,” I say to the shocked girl from District 4. Pita is still on the stage flapping his arms like he has wings. “Pita, you dolt! Come over here!”
“I’m coming for you!” Pita sings/screams. He jumps into the other contestant’s pool.
“Oooh! Burn!” the girl says, but then the audience starts clapping. Pita and I get out and bow. I’m going to kill Cinnamon for this. What if those Crapitol idiots actually figure out it wasn’t an act? Pita and I would be so dead. The good news is that we had extra layers under our costumes so we didn’t get burned badly; it just felt like a sunburn.
* * * * *
Next time ... Part Three: William Tell.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Short Story: The Hunger Pangs (Part One)
And now for something a little different.
The busy stress of the last week of school was lightened when a student let me read a story she'd written—a send-up of The Hunger Games. I had to fight to keep myself from laughing aloud several times, since students were working on final exams.
She's given me permission to post it here and share the joy. I'll post each part separately over the next week or so.
(Remember, this is by a teenage student. Any nasty comments will suffer instant death.)
And so, I give to you...
Part One: Wicked Bieber
Today is the day of the Reaping, and my sister, Nessarose, just had a nightmare. She hates the day of the Reaping.
“Katnip! I just had the same nightmare of when the Hamburgers are chasing me!” Nessarose screeches.
“For the last time, Nessa, they are called Hamburjays, not hamburgers!” I correct her. Sheesh, she can be so stupid sometimes, but I love her dearly. She starts rolling her wheelchair towards me.
“Whatever!” She rams me with her wheelchair, but I just shoot an arrow at her foot. “Ow!”
“Shut up!” I snap at her.
“Children!” my mother interrupts. “I swear, you two are the loudest pair in District 12! Katnip, did you go hunting with Gale?” She struggles against her straightjacket, but she can’t take it off. The doctors have told her to wear it ever since my dad died in a coal mine accident.
“Yes, Mother. I got a whole squirrel and two strawberries for the family. Gale took the deer and the bucket of blackberries,” I answer. Gale Rawthorne is my best friend who I go hunting with all the time. He is eighteen and two years older than I am.
“Wonderful! Now, let’ go to the Reaping.” So we head out the door, not bothering to dress up for it. I have my long, brown hair in a loose braid, and my sister has hers in a braid, too. We are both dressed in our blue school uniforms and mother in her straightjacket. We get to the square where they announce the contestants for the annual Hunger Pangs, a contest where a boy and girl from each of the twelve districts in the continent of Painem fight to the death until there is only one person left, who is the winner. The winner gets riches while the rest of the continent is left to their hunger pangs. Food is scarce on this continent, and almost everybody is poor except for the people who live in the Crapitol, where the government is.
“Happy Hunger Pangs!” Eiffie Trinket screeches from underneath her grim reaper costume. “And may the odds be ever in your favor! Ladies first.” She steps toward the Bingo wheel and pulls out a numbered ball. Kids from the age of 12 to 18 are required to compete in the Hunger Pangs, and each kid basically fills out BINGO and a free space as they get older. Twelve-year-olds just get a free space, and eighteen-year-olds get a full BINGO and a free space. I’m 16, so I have a free space and BIN. Nessa only has a free space since she’s 12. My friend Gale, though, is 18 so he has acquired a full BINGO and a free space.
“Free space 42,” Eiffie announces. A man gives her a piece of paper with a name. “Nessarose Evergreen.”
“What?!” I cry out. Nesa starts pushing her wheelchair towards the stage.
“Take her place, Katnip, you have a better chance than Nessa,” my mother frantically whispers in my ear. Nice to know my mom loves me.
“Wait!” I scream. “I’ll take Nessarose’s place.”
“Yes!” Nessa squeals. Well, don’t try to stop me, Nessa, I think.
“Why, yes, you’re her sister Elphaba, right?” Eiffie solicits. My skin is an evergreen color, and people still confuse me with Elphaba since my sister’s name is Nessarose.
“No, I am not from that damn play ‘Wicked!’ My name is Katnip Evergreen,” I inform her. “And no, I do not defy gravity!” They always ask that.
“Oh. Sorry! Next, our male contestant is I-56.” A man comes over to give her a paper. “Pita Hellark!” I know that kid from school; god, I hate his singing. I prepare for an onslaught of Justin Bieber songs.
“Baby, baby, baby, ooooooooooh! Thought you’d always be mine!” Pita sings.
Yep, the Hunger Pangs have begun.
* * * * *
Stay tuned for Part Two: Oooh! Burn!
The busy stress of the last week of school was lightened when a student let me read a story she'd written—a send-up of The Hunger Games. I had to fight to keep myself from laughing aloud several times, since students were working on final exams.
She's given me permission to post it here and share the joy. I'll post each part separately over the next week or so.
(Remember, this is by a teenage student. Any nasty comments will suffer instant death.)
And so, I give to you...
The Hunger Pangs
by PAF
Part One: Wicked Bieber
Today is the day of the Reaping, and my sister, Nessarose, just had a nightmare. She hates the day of the Reaping.
“Katnip! I just had the same nightmare of when the Hamburgers are chasing me!” Nessarose screeches.
“For the last time, Nessa, they are called Hamburjays, not hamburgers!” I correct her. Sheesh, she can be so stupid sometimes, but I love her dearly. She starts rolling her wheelchair towards me.
“Whatever!” She rams me with her wheelchair, but I just shoot an arrow at her foot. “Ow!”
“Shut up!” I snap at her.
“Children!” my mother interrupts. “I swear, you two are the loudest pair in District 12! Katnip, did you go hunting with Gale?” She struggles against her straightjacket, but she can’t take it off. The doctors have told her to wear it ever since my dad died in a coal mine accident.
“Yes, Mother. I got a whole squirrel and two strawberries for the family. Gale took the deer and the bucket of blackberries,” I answer. Gale Rawthorne is my best friend who I go hunting with all the time. He is eighteen and two years older than I am.
“Wonderful! Now, let’ go to the Reaping.” So we head out the door, not bothering to dress up for it. I have my long, brown hair in a loose braid, and my sister has hers in a braid, too. We are both dressed in our blue school uniforms and mother in her straightjacket. We get to the square where they announce the contestants for the annual Hunger Pangs, a contest where a boy and girl from each of the twelve districts in the continent of Painem fight to the death until there is only one person left, who is the winner. The winner gets riches while the rest of the continent is left to their hunger pangs. Food is scarce on this continent, and almost everybody is poor except for the people who live in the Crapitol, where the government is.
“Happy Hunger Pangs!” Eiffie Trinket screeches from underneath her grim reaper costume. “And may the odds be ever in your favor! Ladies first.” She steps toward the Bingo wheel and pulls out a numbered ball. Kids from the age of 12 to 18 are required to compete in the Hunger Pangs, and each kid basically fills out BINGO and a free space as they get older. Twelve-year-olds just get a free space, and eighteen-year-olds get a full BINGO and a free space. I’m 16, so I have a free space and BIN. Nessa only has a free space since she’s 12. My friend Gale, though, is 18 so he has acquired a full BINGO and a free space.
“Free space 42,” Eiffie announces. A man gives her a piece of paper with a name. “Nessarose Evergreen.”
“What?!” I cry out. Nesa starts pushing her wheelchair towards the stage.
“Take her place, Katnip, you have a better chance than Nessa,” my mother frantically whispers in my ear. Nice to know my mom loves me.
“Wait!” I scream. “I’ll take Nessarose’s place.”
“Yes!” Nessa squeals. Well, don’t try to stop me, Nessa, I think.
“Why, yes, you’re her sister Elphaba, right?” Eiffie solicits. My skin is an evergreen color, and people still confuse me with Elphaba since my sister’s name is Nessarose.
“No, I am not from that damn play ‘Wicked!’ My name is Katnip Evergreen,” I inform her. “And no, I do not defy gravity!” They always ask that.
“Oh. Sorry! Next, our male contestant is I-56.” A man comes over to give her a paper. “Pita Hellark!” I know that kid from school; god, I hate his singing. I prepare for an onslaught of Justin Bieber songs.
“Baby, baby, baby, ooooooooooh! Thought you’d always be mine!” Pita sings.
Yep, the Hunger Pangs have begun.
* * * * *
Stay tuned for Part Two: Oooh! Burn!
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