Exercise 4

Prompt: Write two versions of a story of a woman looking back on the past. In one, have it be in past tense, third person limited. In the second, have it be first person with shifting tense

VERSION ONE

The old widow Blanchen watched the kids play in the street through her sitting room window. They were tossing around a battered kickball, sometimes bouncing it, sometimes throwing it high, high, high into the air and then running around, arms spread wide. When it came back down she was out there with them, giggling in her frock, her thickly braided plaits swinging by her ears. It was a hot summer then, she remembered, and John Sharp was showing off his tattoo by the Wilkens’ house. The boys tried to form a posse around him, him being such a swell kid and all, and the girls asked to touch his shoulder and asked if it hurt. Little Grace Blanchen wasn’t one of them, of course, for her mama had told her to stay away from rambunctious boys like Sharp. And so she stayed in her yard with Sally White and Mary Lou and peeped at his through the corners of her eyes, wondering if that tattoo really had hurt and what it felt like. The sun was hot, and Blanchen turned away from the window, falling back to her knitting. She wasn’t supposed to be knitting, not with her arthritis, but it had become such a habit. She wondered vaguely where she would put this new afghan, for all the bedrooms in the empty house had already been exhausted. The sound of childish laughter wafted through the window and she was back in the yard, swinging under the oak tree in her favorite little skirt that fit just perfectly above her knees, fiddling with her little gold necklace and watching the road. She remembered how suddenly she had sat up, fluffed her hair, straightened her blouse when she saw him coming up the side path. He pulled his sleeves down over his faded tattoo, for mama of course would not approve, and then reached out his other hand towards her. They walked together like that for a while, watching as the children ran back to their homes for supper, the setting sun casting beautiful shadows all over the pavement. The light dimmed in her window and the sounds of summer wandered away. But the widow kept on knitting through the moonlight, humming an old tune and smiling through the tears on her cheek.

 

VERSION TWO

The kids were playing in the street outside my window, and I watched them fondly. They were tossing around a battered old kickball, bouncing it, throwing it up into the air and running after it with widespread arms. It falls back and I laugh with the others in my new frock, the wind making my braids swing back and forth. It is a hot summer and John Sharp is there, showing off his new tattoo by the Wilkens’ house. The other boys are crowding around him, trying to form a posse now that Sharp’s so swell. There are girls there too, asking if they can touch it and asking if it hurt. I, of course, am not with them, because mama tells me to stay away from rambunctious boys like Sharp. So I sit in my yard with Sally White and Mary Lou, and I watch him through the corners of my eyes, wondering if that tattoo really did hurt, wondering what it really did feel like. The sun was hot, and I turned away from the window, falling back to my knitting. I wasn’t supposed to be knitting, not with my arthritis, but it had become too much of a habit. I wondered where I was going to put this new afghan; all the rooms were already full of them. The sound of childish laughter wafted through the window and I am back in the yard, swinging under the oak tree in my favorite little skirt that fits just perfectly above my knees, fiddling with my gold necklace, and watching the road. I sit up suddenly, fluff my hair, straighten my blouse, seeing him come up the side path. He pulls his sleeves over his faded tattoo, (because mama, of course, does not approve), and reaches out his other hand towards me. We walk together like so for a while and watch the children run back to their homes for supper, while the setting sun casts beautiful shadows all over the pavement. The light dimmed in my window and the sounds of summer wandered away. But I kept knitting anyhow through the moonlight, slowly humming an old favorite tune of mine. I felt the tears swell up on my cheeks but couldn’t help smiling through the salty stream.