Razor's Fifth Level Three Assignment

[Razor7826]

(This is the photo assignment, for which I had to choose a picture from artmam as inspiration. It is an old soviet propaganda poster equivalent to the US/UK's 'Loose lips sink ships', as far as I can tell.)


http://plakat.artmam.com/-4-1----.htm

DO NOT GOSSIP

Damn youngsters, don't know how good they have it.

Ilyana Bosovich monitored the street below through her green wool curtains hearing every obnoxious word and grunt of her neighbors. Her eyes darted back and forth from person to person, never lingering for more than a second, making a quick mental note of who was saying what. The street below her apartment was her business- a business that allowed her to live above her pensioners' means.

A grunt of frustration escaped her throat and she turned towards her kitchen. She hobbled across the orange shag carpet as her three cats, Alfredo, Kruschev, and Nana, rubbed against her exposed and wrinkled calves. Her small TV blarred a foreign language soap opera with enough volume to wake her neighbors, but her hearing aid had run out of batteries.

As she slowly made her way the seven meters from window to kitchen, she bumped into her coffee table, knocking a stack of seven year-old magazines to the floor. She swore to herself.

Damn coffee table, you'll be used for firewood next winter, I think.

Ilyana reached beneath her kitchen sink and lifted a bag of contraband cat food. She carried it to her cats' food bowl, opened the bag, and poured out the contents. Only crumbs fell, but it was enough for the three starving cats to fight over.

Ilyana sighed. "I am sorry, my kitties. Your mother have meeting in twelve minutes. She bring back food for all." She bent down and scratched behind Nana's big white ears. The cat let out a soft purr. Ilyana smiled, then slowly stood back up, her knees straining to lift her wiry body.

The widow Bosovich took her red shawl off of the coat rack and wrapped it around her head. She knew if she caught ill from the cold, her cats would be left alone to starve. Ilyana swore to herself that would never come to pass, and she clutched her shawl tighter before leaving her apartment.

It was colder outside than Ilyana had anticipated. The cold bit into her hands and she cursed that rationing that had made obtaining a new pair of gloves nearly impossible. She hurried as fast as she could towards the apothecary two blocks over, all the while casting scornful glares at her younger neighbors. She loathed to hear them conversing about state affairs.

Do not gossip, you stupid children, she thought to herself. What is that American expression? Ah yes, 'The loose lips sink the ships.' She smiled as she trudged through the light snow. She remembered the early days of the party rule- of food shortages, power outages, and social cleansing. Compared to that dark decade, life under party rule was a heaven.

Officially, it was a pet-free utopia. Dogs and cats were considered an upper class frivolity that were a waste of resources. Ilyana's pets would remain illegal until the party was headed by a pet lover; until then, they would remain blacklisted.

Fortunately, nobody seemed to care. As long as she cared for them on her own time and money, the police would not bother her. Obtaining those scarce resources was no longer difficult, thanks to Ilyana Bosovich's side job.

The Department of Information paid citizens well for spying on their neighbors. Thanks to the low burden of proof they required, Ilyana found them to be a reliable source of extra income. enough such that keeping pets was possible.

However, Kruschev had recently grown fat over the last few months and now consumed more than each of the other cats combined. If Ilyana was to keep her only friends, she would have to up the number of 'traitors' she found in her community.

Her contact, a nameless bearded man in a thick brown coat and wool hat, stood at the street corner and took a drag of his cigarette. To anyone that paid attention, the man's job with the government was obvious- cigarettes were remarkably difficult to obtain. Even a small supply was a sign of wealth and power.

Ilyana continued as if to walk past the man, but stopped just in front of him. Without making eye contact, she muttered the names of the young workers that were being too noisy beneath her window.

Hehe, that will teach those stupid children to talk where they should not.

The party agent handed Ilyana a wad of bills. "Once again, the government thanks you for reporting those who make espionage easy for our enemies. Do you think you will have more for us next week?" he asked.

She continued to stare straight ahead and muttered, "maybe, maybe," then turned the corner and headed for her supplier's apartment.

The man that sold Ilyana her cat food was an elderly man who had owned a pet store before the revolution. While he no longer kept pets for himself, he strongly supported the hobbies of others and never failed to sell Ilyana the food her cats needed.

There was no need to hide the bag of cat food; few of her neighbors cooperated with the government. She carried the food back to her apartment, unlocked her front door, and entered, happy to be back in the warmth of her home. The cats followed her and meowed. She opened the bag and crouched to pour the food into their bowl until her actions were interrupted by the shadow of an intruder.

Ilyana slowly turned to her side and recognized the intruder as a young man from her street. She slowly stood up, her legs creaking, and asked, "What are you doing in my apartment?"

The man stared back with complete and utter hatred for the woman that destroyed his family. "I don't know what you told them, but they took my sister because of you." He pulled a small pistol from his coat pocket and pointed it at his enemy's chest.

She recalled who he was talking about. His sister was one of the annoying little whores that Ilyana had ratted on the week prior. Like everyone else she reported, the woman disappeared the following night.

Ilyana looked her assailant in the eye and lied, "I have no idea what you are talking about. Get the hell out of my apartment before I scream." She motioned with her boney hands to shoo him away, but he did not budge.

She never got the chance to scream for help.

Peter Petrovich pulled the trigger twice, landing both bullets in Ilyana's chest. She stumbled backwards against the wall with a thud and slid to the ground, pinning Nana's tail underneath her thigh.

She looked her killer in the eye and tried to speak, but only coughed up blood. Her killer left the scene, knowing nobody would report the hated woman's murder for many hours.

Ilyana closed her eyes while her cat tried to free itself. Her shouts for help came out as whispers, her perforated lungs unable to fulfill their job. Alfredo and Kruschev mewed, knowing that something was wrong. They stared at their master with befuddled concern.

Never did Ilyana Bosovich stop to think of her children or friends, all of whom abandoned her years ago, nor did she think of the countless men and women condemned on her unprovoked accusations. In her last moments, Ilyana's thoughts looped towards no unique or productive ends, a fitting end to the life of a traitorous and contemptible old lady.

Damn youngsters...

[Razor7826]

I've spent a few days editing this, but there are still a few things I didn't know how to (or if I should) address.

1) I like the starting section inside Ilyana's apartment substantially more than the later sections. Trying to describe her lifestyle via her apartment's decor was fun.

2) This is supposed to be in third-person omniscient, but I'm having a hard time finding a list of concrete rules for the different POVs. I can say what each of the characters are thinking (and I describe what Peter is thinking, briefly), but does that preclude the use of italicized thoughts? Are those only used in Third-Person limited?

[Mad Lews]

2) This is supposed to be in third-person omniscient, but I'm having a hard time finding a list of concrete rules for the different POVs. I can say what each of the characters are thinking (and I describe what Peter is thinking, briefly), but does that preclude the use of italicized thoughts? Are those only used in Third-Person limited?

The joy and popularity of 3rd party omniscient is that the narrator is indeed all knowing and can say what all characters think, feel, and do. The problem is it leaves little to the readers imagination. It tends to be a little didactic if you aren't careful. Some readers will feel like they are being talked down to. third person limited (third person objective?) would be limited to the observable. and is the preferred method of reporters.I suspect the use of italicized thoughts is a way to bridge the fuzzy ground between the two. As a writer you need to decide if you can pull that off. In the end your readers and critiques are the final judges of how well you did it.

Mad Lews

[Razor7826]

The more I write, the less of a fan I become of Third Party Omniscient. It feels strange to focus on one character for 90% of the chapter while making only a few remarks to portray OOC knowledge. If I want to get inside another character's head, I just do alternating Third Party Objective, switching focal characters at chapter or section breaks.

I don't have nearly the whimsy required to pull of Third Party Omniscient.

[Nikita]

The more I write, the less of a fan I become of Third Party Omniscient. It feels strange to focus on one character for 90% of the chapter while making only a few remarks to portray OOC knowledge. If I want to get inside another character's head, I just do alternating Third Party Objective, switching focal characters at chapter or section breaks.

I don't have nearly the whimsy required to pull of Third Party Omniscient.

Why don't you try using dialogue as a technique?

It's times like these when going back to reference materials is useful.

[Razor7826]

None of the references I've looked at state that italicized thoughts are forbidden in Third Person Omniscient, but my impression is that italicized lines would probably be more correct as

'"Yadda Yadda Yadda", she thought to herself.'

However, the parity of the starting a finishing lines would be lost in such a format, so I'd have to restructure the beginning and end.

I probably could have used more Third Person details sprinkled throughout the story. There are a few, but not enough for an assignment that is meant to demonstrate Third Person Omniscient.

[Ruby]

Hi Razor,

There is much to like about this story. The character of the old woman comes forth quite clearly. From start to finish, she is who she is.

The images are clear and justice is served. Very nice.

About the POV:

Her thoughts in italics could easily be done in quotes, or made as statements.

This story, isn't a good one for the Omnipresent Narrator POV. It's cleary about our leading lady and it's her POV that should be covered throughout. Getting into the other character's heads distracts the reader and so, if you were to do a re-write, I say, don't worry about the assignment, write this tale as it should be told.

It's a learning experience and like a piece of clothing, if the style doesn't work for you, then you don't have to wear (use) it. What's funny, is you are very good at Omni POV when not trying. Your first attempt at the fantasy with the Queen was clearly Omni POV. ;-)

When she does speak, in broken English, it's a bit jarring. Surely she wouldn't be speaking English to herself, nor does she need to speak poorly. While it adds to the flavor of the piece, I could take it either way.

I don't like to see dialog buried in actions. This is hard on readers of onscreen layouts and e-books. So, I would like you to work on your layout/formatting as you progress.

I've spent a few days editing this, but there are still a few things I didn't know how to (or if I should) address.

It shows. This is a very nice piece. And it reminds me of the old comic books (graphic novels for the younguns) where the bad guy or gal gets what's coming to them.

1) I like the starting section inside Ilyana's apartment substantially more than the later sections. Trying to describe her lifestyle via her apartment's decor was fun.

It was well done.

2) This is supposed to be in third-person omniscient, but I'm having a hard time finding a list of concrete rules for the different POVs. I can say what each of the characters are thinking (and I describe what Peter is thinking, briefly), but does that preclude the use of italicized thoughts? Are those only used in Third-Person limited?

Again, for this story, third-person omniscient cleary doesn't work as well as it would for another tale.

Using italicized thoughts? There's no hard or fast rules to follow, as long as you are consistent and your readers can determine whom is thinking. Often though, dialog or quotation marks around the quotes can solve the problem.

Sample edits:

By the way what is - doing in the text? Is it a ";" or a "."?
The symbol shows up like an m dash missing a partner.

DO NOT GOSSIP

"Damn youngsters, don't know how good they have it," said Ilyana Bosovich to herself as she monitored the street below through her green wool curtains. She heard every obnoxious word and grunt of her neighbors. Her eyes darted back and forth from person to person, never lingering for more than a second, making a quick mental note of who was saying what. The street below her apartment was her business- a business that allowed her to live above her pensioners' means.

A grunt of frustration escaped her throat and she turned towards her kitchen. She hobbled across the orange shag carpet as her three cats, Alfredo, Kruschev, and Nana, rubbed against her exposed and wrinkled calves. Her small TV blarred a foreign language soap opera with enough volume to wake her neighbors, but her hearing aid had run out of batteries.

As she slowly made her way the seven meters from window to kitchen, she bumped into her coffee table, knocking a stack of seven year-old magazines to the floor. She swore to herself.

"Damn coffee table, I thinknyou'll be used for firewood next winter."

Ilyana reached beneath her kitchen sink and lifted a bag of contraband cat food. She carried it to her cats' food bowl, opened the bag, and poured out the contents. Only crumbs fell, but it was enough for the three starving cats to fight over. Ilyana sighed.

"I am sorry, my kitties. Your mother have meeting in twelve minutes. She bring back food for all."

She bent down and scratched behind Nana's big white ears. The cat let out a soft purr. Ilyana smiled, then slowly stood back up, her knees straining to lift her wiry body.

The widow Bosovich took her red shawl off of the coat rack and wrapped it around her head. She knew if she caught ill from the cold, her cats would be left alone to starve. Ilyana swore to herself that would never come to pass, and she clutched her shawl tighter before leaving her apartment.

It was colder outside than Ilyana had anticipated. The cold bit into her hands and she cursed that rationing that had made obtaining a new pair of gloves nearly impossible. She hurried as fast as she could towards the apothecary two blocks over, all the while casting scornful glares at her younger neighbors. She loathed to hear them conversing about state affairs.

"Do not gossip, you stupid children," she thought to herself. "What is that American expression? Ah yes, The loose lips sink the ships."

She smiled as she trudged through the light snow. She remembered the early days of the party rule- of food shortages, power outages, and social cleansing. Compared to that dark decade, life under party rule was a heaven.

Officially, it was a pet-free utopia. Dogs and cats were considered an upper class frivolity that were a waste of resources. Ilyana's pets would remain illegal until the party was headed by a pet lover; until then, they would remain blacklisted.

Fortunately, nobody seemed to care. As long as she cared for them on her own time and money, the police would not bother her. Obtaining those scarce resources was no longer difficult, thanks to Ilyana Bosovich's side job.

The Department of Information paid citizens well for spying on their neighbors. Thanks to the low burden of proof they required, Ilyana found them to be a reliable source of extra income. enough such that keeping pets was possible.

However, Kruschev had recently grown fat over the last few months and now consumed more than each of the other cats combined. If Ilyana was to keep her only friends, she would have to up the number of 'traitors' she found in her community.

Her contact, a nameless bearded man in a thick brown coat and wool hat, stood at the street corner and took a drag of his cigarette. To anyone that paid attention, the man's job with the government was obvious- cigarettes were remarkably difficult to obtain. Even a small supply was a sign of wealth and power.

Ilyana continued as if to walk past the man, but stopped just in front of him. Without making eye contact, she muttered the names of the young workers that were being too noisy beneath her window. That will teach those stupid children to talk where they should not.

The party agent handed Ilyana a wad of bills. "Once again, the government thanks you for reporting those who make espionage easy for our enemies. Do you think you will have more for us next week?" he asked.

She continued to stare straight ahead and muttered, "maybe, maybe," then turned the corner and headed for her supplier's apartment.

The man that sold Ilyana her cat food was an elderly man who had owned a pet store before the revolution. While he no longer kept pets for himself, he strongly supported the hobbies of others and never failed to sell Ilyana the food her cats needed.

There was no need to hide the bag of cat food. Few of her neighbors cooperated with the government. She carried the food back to her apartment, unlocked her front door, and entered, happy to be back in the warmth of her home. The cats followed her and meowed. She opened the bag and crouched to pour the food into their bowl until her actions were interrupted by the shadow of an intruder.

Ilyana slowly turned to her side and recognized the intruder as a young man from her street. She slowly stood up, her legs creaking, and asked, "What are you doing in my apartment?"

The man stared back at her. (Add description - is his clothing neat, messy? His hair?) Ilynana gaged the look of complete and utter hatred on his young face. (What does she see? Let's see it through her eyes.)

"I don't know what you told them, but they took my sister because of you. You destroyed my family!"

He pulled a small pistol from his coat pocket and pointed it at his enemy's chest.

She recalled who he was talking about. His sister was one of the annoying little whores that Ilyana had ratted on the week prior. Like everyone else she reported, the woman disappeared the following night.

Ilyana looked her assailant in the eye and lied, "I have no idea what you are talking about. Get the hell out of my apartment before I scream."

She motioned with her boney hands to shoo him away, but he did not budge. She never got the chance to scream for help.

Peter Petrovich pulled the trigger twice, landing both bullets in Ilyana's chest. She stumbled backwards against the wall with a thud and slid to the ground, pinning Nana's tail underneath her thigh.

She looked her killer in the eye and tried to speak, but only coughed up blood. Her killer left the scene, knowing nobody would report the hated woman's murder for many hours.

Ilyana closed her eyes while her cat tried to free itself. Her shouts for help came out as whispers, her perforated lungs unable to fulfill their job. Alfredo and Kruschev mewed, knowing that something was wrong. They stared at their master with befuddled concern.

Never did Ilyana Bosovich stop to think of her children or friends, all of whom abandoned her years ago, nor did she think of the countless men and women condemned on her unprovoked accusations. In her last moments, Ilyana's thoughts looped towards no unique or productive ends, a fitting end to the life of a traitorous and contemptible old lady.

"Damn youngsters..."


Copyright 2007 Razor All rights reserved.

You can update this or leave it alone.

Keep up the great work,

Ruby