Working the Pulp

Foreword: this is one from the vault, I wrote it about 18 years ago for a short fiction class. Was a fun retrospective to give a polish up to.

Page one

Another Monday night had come around and the classroom waits patiently to be filled again. The fluorescent lights gently shined over the various items ornamenting the room. Tables, chairs, carpet, walls. Partially closed, the pink blinds help to restrict the view to the outside world.

There is a quick click before the door was opened. A tall shiny-headed man enters and acted as a farmer waving his sheep into the paddock. They hurriedly sit in their typical arrangement, baaing profusely.

Once the last person has entered, the tall man took his long strides to the front of the room and says, “Hello everybody. Could we all take out our copy ‘Working the Pulp’ to give feedback.” His English accent was quiet.

There is silence for a moment before a mouse like voice broke it.

“Um, I noticed that there were a few slips in the tense at the start of the piece,” commented Anne, quite shy as always. "I also marked a paragraph that had had too many 'hads'.

“Oh, oh yes. And further on you had a whole paragraph were each sentence had different tenses. You really can’t afford to have little slip-ups like that.” Maggie was a bitch. "And and unusual fragment and missing punctuation and

Commotion catches hold of the classroom these comments are received. I am an agitated soul sitting quietly in the back row, trying to shield myself from the brightness of the spotlight.

“I thought it was rather out of character how the main character killed his class for no reason, they were only trying to help. I didn’t see any reason behind it. And does thunder and lighning really crash against the window? Wouldn’t the window break?” Maggie the bitch was at it agaim. “And there are a few typo’s. A true writer must pay attention to detail, some parts may have other meanings!”

“Yeah, well you shouldn’t start a sentence with a coordinative conjunction,” I whispered, but only so Fiona could hear. She nudged me with her lebow and giggled.

Page two

I couldn’t believe the comments I had been getting, maybe if I had done a bit more proofreading and had not gone to the pub I might have had something more worthwhile to hand in. I had had too many late nights and had not had time through the day to have had any writing done.

“Why would you say that,Maggie?” asked Mike, our teacher. “What reason do you feel he’d need.”

“Alright then, Mike. Ah ha. And I found at least five misuses of coordinative conjunctions. But they were in dialogue, does it matter.”

“Do you have any examples?”

“Most of my sentences.”

“Yeah, I’d let that slide as I feel it’s part of the character, don’t you?”

“Maybe we need some insight into the characters mind?” Anne asked, more looking for affirmation than any kind of constructiveness.

“Well there is always the first page showing his separation from the rest of the class. That could be a hint.”

A woman walks through the door and all give a quick look as she group and sits. She opens her bag to take out an A4 sized note pad and a few pieces of loose paper.

“But the thing is that I don’t really care. There was no empathy built up for the character.” Anne was trying hard to prove herself right while the rest of the class chewed on their pencils.

“Is there supposed to be? Is that what the writer wants?” Mike again threw some rhetorical questions to Anne.

A storm begins to brew in the darkness outside. A swooshing sound comes off car tyres as they drive over wet bitumen. A group of young students hurry past the window, in order to avoid as much rain as possible.

“I found that I often lost track of who said what. Should insert some speech tags so we can keep track.”

Page three

“Who said that?” Mike looked around but no one admitted to the comment.

“I think that speech tags would slow the dialogue down. I thought the dialogue was snappy and hooked you in.”

“You found it snappy? If anything I would’ve said stuttered. It jumped from one character to the next.”

“Well we are all entitled to our own opinions.”

“A woman walks through the door and all give a quick look as she group and sits’. Doesn’t make sense, um, I’ve italicised it so it can be looked at,” I decided to add.

“Please, could you keep quiet while we workshop your piece?” Mike asked me.

“Sorry.” I replied.

“Shh, alright. Other comments?”

“At the top of the page two you missed a question mark. Actually a couple were missed, I marked them for you."

“You need to take a bit more care with your work…”

"Did what I wrote make sense, what does it matter?" I defended while Mike glared to silence me, again.

“This is the difference between an amateur and a professional writer…”

Now disengaged with their comments, I reach into my bag.

“Who’s the shy one, me or Anne. These characters confused me…”

“You have talent but…"

Thunder and lightning crash and flash against the window. The lights go out and an uneasiness carries through the air.

I withdraw a revolver, flick off the safety and…

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang…

I shot dead my teacher and five students. Fiona and I were the only ones left alive.

“Can I comment,” Fiona asked with a line of blood across her face.

Page four

“For a teacher, don’t you think Mike asked a few too many questions? And also, with the plot, I think it could be expanded a lot more. I could see the beginning with the setting the scene, and the tension built in the middle. But it was really let down by my lack of acknowledgement of the climax at the…
…end.

Afterword: I had very mixed reactions on this piece in the class, though the red corrections on the hard copies did typically stop about halfway through the second page. I hope you all enjoyed :)