Kafkaesque Creative Writing Period 5
Dear students,
Again, thank you for all of your hard work! Last week we wrote creative, Kafkaesque shorter stories and shared those stories with a small writing group. I hope you have had a chance to make revisions to your story (so that it is more Kafkaesque). By the way, I would like to thank my group for providing valuable suggestions for how to improve my creative writing.
1. Please proofread your shorter story prior to publishing in the ‘comment’ section of this post. Be sure to provide your user name (as I previously approved it); otherwise this website will think you are a different user.
2. Upload your shorter story. Due Monday at the start of class.
3. Provide positive comments about your classmates’ stories, specifically citing examples of Kafka’s style in their writing. Due Monday at the end of class.
Kind Regards,
Mr. Coey
The other side of my soul begins to fade as I walk in every way. Faces I pass everyday in quick passing motions. I have to think to myself if I’d rather finish strolling to the end of the path. If the path ends, it’ll be the only way to escape from the sights. I reach out seeking for someone to help a fellow stranger, but only a sarcastic chuckle is what I receive. If someone helps it is always rare. But for now the only help that exists is if I just finish walking down the path which is almost higher than the clouds.
The Heartbreak Kidd
Born from hell, a spawn in a game not such for the safety of man-kind. He lurks through the sorrow of tears and bleeding hearts, known as Jedikiah- the Heartbreak Kidd. Time is fragile in his world he hurries to seize all life from the shadows, the despair within all ruins of Transylvania are held captive in his blood thirsty teeth. Jaws clenching, blood spurting, hope crushed easily like dirt rocks. Faith has granted him the one destiny he deserves….The destroyer of sin with a nerve ready to unleash wrath by feasting on souls who despise anything, who has no true love in its heart.
There’s a war coming, the Trinity has decided to support man-kind, while the devil cheers for Jedikiah . Fear is the power. Death is the outcome. In this war there will be the Fallen against the Risen, Jedikiah is on neither one side, he fights alone for himself waiting to face a worthy opponent. The supernatural has gone far enough invading man-kinds innocence. Jedikiah blames the devil for giving him so much work, so much life wasted, innocence and will degraded upon another human till Earth is full of supernatural forces. In the dark lie werewolves, witches, goblins and goons facing their wrath and meet your doom. No more life, no sense of love, born in this world for no good reason. He will soon get tired of so many humans being born to face a cruel fate, so he will strive to have all perished, face his doom.
I woke up to the sound of trees striking my window, the ceiling fan groaning, and my alarm clock screaming in my ears alerting me to awaken. I relentlessly pushed aside my blanket and forced myself to prepare for school. As I opened my door my feet reached for the freezing tiles, but my feet felt nothing. Before I recognized the hollowness beneath my feet, gravity was already pulling me down. A scream escaped my mouth as I fell, yet I was silenced from the shock that everything was frozen. Each icy wind scraped against my delicate skin as if a knife was giving me thousands of paper cuts. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to continue falling. Suddenly the icy wind stopped and I opened my eyes in the search for darkness, but the only shadows I found were the trees beside my window. My heart punched against my chest and I quickly got out of my bed. I opened the door, satisfied to find the tiles where they belonged. I decided to see if my parents were fine and when I walked into their room I found nothing. My parents weren’t there. No one was home. I walked outside to find all the cars gone and that darkness surrounded every angle of the world in front of my eyes. Where had everyone gone? I questioned. My heart raced, but then I made up my mind that they were certainly fooling me, so I decided to ignore them. I decided to take a shower. I turned on the hot water and closed my eyes allowing the hot water to give me relief. I opened my eyes and didn’t see the clear liquid spurting out; instead I saw the boiling hot blood spilling out of the socket. The thick blood covered my hands, my body, and my face. I stared into the mirror and saw my eyes filling up with this chunky blood, as if someone’s body was cut into a thousand tiny pieces and was mixed in. I shut my eyes attempting to wipe it off of my face, but when I failed I opened my eyes and I did not find myself in the shower, but in my bed. I felt my hands and I sighed in relief knowing there was no blood. I glanced at the time and I was late! I went into the kitchen and turned on the stove for coffee. Leaving it there to warm, I decided to get ready for school. As I dressed, I discovered a cut on my finger and suddenly I saw an orange light at the edges of my door and I began sweating. I opened my door, to find that my entire house was on fire. I stood there closing my eyes knowing that I was stuck, nothing could save me now. I opened my eyes to see where the fire had reached, but yet again I found myself in my bed. Was I awake?
I like your ambiguous ending and how you ended it with a question because it makes us think about what actually happened. It relates to Kafka’s stories because his endings are ambiguous and do not have a clear answer. I liked reading your story and how it included several details like how you described how the air felt on your skin when you were falling. It had great imagery!
I don’t remember telling him how my death happens. I remember when he told me that the feelings and the emotions started to crawl back up in my thoughts and in my mind. I couldn’t face it by myself. The feelings delay and there I lay on the ground. He watched the water drift over my body. He couldn’t tell if I suicide or if I was paralyzed with fear. The only thing he knew was that death was right there in a blink of an eye. The powerful emotion of terror that overcame me was there, but yet it was gone. I wasn’t afraid when I saw my body, but when he saw my face it hit him, he started to reminisce back, wondering when did it all happened. I started to wonder and journey off to a place unknown. My death was a remaining mystery.
It was a Monday morning in the very end of winter. Hollywood Livingston, a young scholar, was roaming in his own room on the very corner end of the long row of small dark yet colorful square. He had just finished his homework that he was supposed to do last night but instead he finishes the nights before homework. A cycle that seems to be much more like hula-hoop instead of rather much a jump rope causing him to stay updated much like the weather app on his IPhone that refreshes and updates every single day. Life is difficult but there seems to be this upside down “U” at the end of the tunnel with many colors along it from yellow, orange, green to red, blue, and lastly to white. It’s time to go; he grabs his keys to go storm to prison before it’s too late which he was indeed looking at the clock on his wrist. He happens to end up paying the time for doing the “crime”.
I remember this blue lake where I would swim around, blending into the millions of other faces. I floated around from one shore to the other, chatting with my friends and family. This Crystal Lake was my home and I have lived here for as long as I remember. But then the humans came and slowly taken us away from our home. We are forced into a tiny ugly bottle and sent away. We have ended up becoming old and torn. And we are freed from our cells only to be drunk by the humans. Slowly we enter their bodies and become waste. Our once majestic self is now reduced to a substance that is flushed down the drains. And so we descend the sewers where the waste of the world collects. Slowly we rejuvenate. We slowly return to our former glory. The toxins in us are removed. We become pure again as we evaporate into the clouds. There we become the majestic storm and we float in the sky towards our lake. We have returned to our home only to see this cycle start over again.
Thickness of the night fog covers the jungle leaving everything behind dark and gloomy. Winds blow. Birds chirp. It seems as if the world is coming to an end. The man spoke, “Tonight is the night where I provide my deepest spirit along with my gracious prayers.” Side by side we move together along simultaneously. Leaving behind no trace… As the whistle sounds. The horns blare. From that point on it’s a all for one event…
VERY nice, its very simple, this small story can have so many meanings to it. I like it ! I feel its very kafkaesque and that’s what makes it good !
Excellent use of the mysterious mood. I also like the cooperation of Kafkaesque especially shown in the ending of the short story.
Man I love your story, it’s very good ! To me it feels very kafkaesque like and it gives me a sort of ambiguous feeling. Love it !
I really like this story because its so strange and weird, having a similar style to Kafka’s short stories 🙂
I sit in class waiting for the bell to ring. A minute goes by and I think about the next subject I shall go to, chemestry. Then just before i could let myself drift into a daydream state the bell rings. I get up out of my seat and start heading to my next class. As I walk through the hallways i notice the sea of students flood the halls quickly walking in a slow pace. People just bump pass me as if i was not there but i walk on. Then as I continue to walk the bumps turn into quick shoves and step on the back of my heels, tripping me causing me to fall hard onto the floor. I make an attempt to stand but people just keep on tredding through. I begin to crawl knowing I shall not be late to class. The bruises start to throb and my nose begins to bleed as more people walk over me not even giving me a quick glace. I crawl up the stairs but i hear the bell ring indicating i am late to class.
Under stress and coming to the realization that his extended essay was due tomorrow, the boy frantically looked at the criteria again. The criteria that needed to be on his essay. His heart drops into the pit of his stomach as he faces reality and realizes he won’t be able to write the essay in under 24 hours. He comes to the conclusion that he has to plagiarize his essay. And so he does, submitting his essay that comprised of the work from a previous student’s extended essay. He wants to look so good and turn it in even if it his plagiarized, so that it doesn’t make him look like an incompetent IB student; because after all, he’s the valedictorian for his graduating class. He was hoping that his teacher wouldn’t check for plagiarizing and hoping that essay was good enough to maintain his valedictorian status. The day has come to turn in his essay. He walks into class nervous, anxious, and shaking. His teacher notices and asks him what’s wrong with him. He says nothing and takes his seat, still shaking nervously even as he sits. The next day arrives and he receives his graded essay. His teacher gave his essay an A. The boy was surprised and became even more nervous… realizing that he has just received an A for plagiarized work. He walks home nerve wrecked and shaking, asking himself if he really just received an A for work that wasn’t even his. His parents arrive home from work, wondering why their son hasn’t come out for dinner. They barge into his room and are in a state of disbelief. They’re son’s motionless body crimson from his blood and mangled. All of the windows are open. They see that there are bloody footprints leading everywhere in room. They notice their son’s hands still clutching onto the essay, and on that essay was the letter F written with his blood.
i sit in this desk as i fall asleep. i hear the sounds of a monster. the lecture makes my ears bleed. i awake to the feeling of my desk. knives that arises through my sleep. blades forcing to my rear end as i bleed. the bell is a relief to hear untill i walk outside. a hindi civilian shoots me in the back and i bleed over the floor. i see devildogs here to pick up my remains as i pass to the next tragedy.
I end up collapsing, trying to get up but it seems that the world is against me. I close my eyes he’ll find me… I don’t feel fear, however he’s just to cruel that I don’t I end up collapsing trying to get up but it seems that the world is against me. I want him to see me vulnerable because he’ll stack his pointy stake in my body. I fool myself to get up and there he is, looking at me dreadfully with clenching teeth that scrutinize me. He makes his first movement that I can barely feel the warm blood touring every part of my body, the deep holes he makes stick out my blood; it looks like suitable juice coming out. My hands feel the burning of my bones breaking at the rhythm of his hands. Why do I feel this way? Or why do I ironically idealism to believe in what can be but that it cannot because that’s just reality. So I end up collapsing and it just doesn’t make sense to me so I end up collapsing again; yet, he pretends to be strong role model but these just sounds so fake that he and I wait in the same place of falsehoods.
There was a girl, a little girl, with blue eyes, golden blonde hair, her skin, a pale white color with small orange dotted freckles. The little girl loved to play with her toys and she played with them everyday…by herself…in her room… but she wasn’t alone. There, in her small room lay a gigantic mirror that reflected the opposite world. The mirror stared at her, it didn’t bother her. But one day, one early morning, when the little girl got up to play in front of the mirror, her reflection copied her every move, and then it stopped. The little girl noticed her reflection and realized that rather than moving, it was standing there. It stood watching her. The little girl stopped playing and stared into the other world. The other girl, with dark brown eyes, long frizzle black hair, her skin, a very white purple pale color, coated with a slime of gooey rot looking washed skin, stared back and whispered “…I need you…” and the little girl who stood looking at her reflection vanished, forever…
This story is really mysterious and scary the way you described the girl in the mirror. I like how you didn’t clearly state whether the girl joined the other girl in the mirror or how she disappeared, which gives it an ambiguous ending like how Kafka includes ambiguous endings as well.
She lived in a surreal world, she hardly knew
when she was dreaming and when she wasn’t
but about one thing she was sure, her husband
was trying to kiill her, it must be for that pretty
young thing , he got himself a secretary.
He wanted her out of the way,
after all what had she managed to give him so far besides medical bills and headaches.in the next room , her
husband was talking to her doctor over the phone” I just
cannot understand why she’s not getting any better
I’ve been giving her medicines regularly’’. He said.
Meanwhile, she got out of bed took
the medicines he had neatly placed in
the table next to a glass of water and flushed them down the toilet.
I sat on the edge of an abandoned beach awaiting the arrival of the water. Soothingly the water finally reached my knees, as it came down it left behind pain –the pain of thorns being stabbed in my skin –the pain of needle injection a disease –the pain of getting blood drawn out –i was being devoured by leeches! Nobody in sight only the face of the radiant sun slowly cooling my pain as it went down. The water had drew me in.
I stand like a skyscraper, tall and proud, the color of sky blue. With my mouth wide open for the soft feel of skin, I tap myself against the cold, hard ground, listening, waiting, watching through the crack that lead’s through my owner’s bedroom. On the verge of falling asleep, I hear a sound. A sound! Still as can be, standing straight, up on my toes, trying hard not to breathe, I eagerly wait. Then she comes but not alone-It looks just like me. She picks me up and throws me away. So I simply cry, embrace the darkness and let her go.
i highly like your story because it has a rhythm and it keeps me thinking what is going to happen
man this is exactly something that would be in Kafka book. This story reminded me of the bridge, great work
I really like how you have created an ambiguous story, exactly how Kakfa leaves readers in awe. When I was done reading this story, my mind was unable to understand what was happening and why and that is what makes it Kafkaesque. The way you are sensitive to the sound when you become still, on your toes. and trying not to breathe, I was able to clearly visualize your body language. Great job!
I really like how you have created an ambiguous story, exactly how Kakfa leaves readers in awe. When I was done reading this story, my mind was unable to understand what was happening and why and that is what makes it Kafkaesque. The way you are sensitive to the sound when you become still, on your toes, and trying not to breathe, I was able to clearly visualize your body language. Great job!
I glared at the woman before me, staring with such intensity until my eyebrows dug so deep into my blue eyes. I rose my fists at the woman, enraged at nothing, and threatened her with such furious words. I did not know what was it about this woman, but I kept my fists clenched so tightly and then aimlessly threw words, cursing at the woman. But these words too pierced my heart, and “for what reason and why” I asked. I glanced at the woman before me with guilt lingering inside of me. Why did I not like that woman? I tried to like that woman, I did! I reached out my fingers and touched that woman’s fingertips. She politely smiled back and so I decided to finally, officially greet this woman with a compliment. But the more I fed her compliments, the more I realized how big this woman’s confidence grew. Then I saw it! The spark of cockiness in that woman’s eye! Oh how dare that woman think she is so great, I thought. I was filled with such irritation and hatred, and now I think I know why I hated this woman so much. This woman, always staring over her shoulder to me, with that smirk on her face. I could she the ugly in and on her, so why does she think she is so great. Five, four, three, two I counted down. One. I swung with such power until the woman finally vanished with the shattering glass.
I always wonder, “why doesn’t anyone lives in this house?” As I began to walk towards the house yard, a stranger calls and I turn around, the stranger says “are you sure you want to go in?…i mean no one ever comes back” But I ignored the stranger and kept walking towards the house while the stranger again calls on saying, “I’am coming with you too” As the stranger and I enter the house, the stanger tells me to wait up at the door way because the stranger wanted to get flash light. It was extremely dark inside but when the stranger step out the house, the door close behind the strangers exist. Not being able to wait, i began to walk towards the inner of the house, feeling the walls as my guides to a switch board. Yet instead of a switch board i felt a face, yes a human face, it was alife, it was breathing. I pulled myself back and the face open its eyes, which began to make me feel weak. I closed my eyes and pushed myself out of the eye sight and landed on the floor, finding an sharp object on the floor. I opened my eye, and again it was dark feeling relieve. But then suddenly the light appeared making me weaker, but i gathered strength to poke one of the face eye. The light disappeared but it wasn’t over yet. It was rather the face, me, or us.
I really liked the way you ended your creative writing with a powerful sentence at the end. It leaves a lingering feeling of danger to come. It foreshadows a happening that we must assume, as it is not directly tell us what happens in the end. Great!
wow , what a creative use of Kafkaesque. the tragic ending suits the story extremely well. By the way next time bring a flash light, had me scared. but great job!
I really liked how you said, “The light disappeared but it wasn’t over yet. ” It keeps me wondering if the mystery still continues about the house or maybe if the mysterious face is the reason why no one ever returns out.
Hm… Your story got me thinking for a while. Haha. I like how your story is so vague and mysterious. Especially, the part “but then suddenly the light appeared making me weaker,” because in most stories that I’ve read before, light seems to symbolize happiness, but in your story, it made the character weaker. Your story is a type of story I want to know what is going to happen next!
I really like the part in the short story stating “I closed my eyes and pushed myself out of the eye sight and landed on the floor, finding an sharp object on the floor” expressing that you gained enough courage to push yourself out which is brave for a lonely person.
“As a child I would dream of becoming famous basketball player, you know, because they are so rich and who doesn’t want to be rich”, says the man Shackled to the ground. “Well, we all have those types of unrealistic dreams growing up but then, life hits, right?” says the woman out side of the cell. ”I always wanted to be a chef and taste foods for all around the world. Hey would you mind if I can have your pinky, after these rats are done nibbling on it. What am I saying, I don’t need your permission”, giggled the women. The man kept still next to his own feces as if he was in his final stages of life. “If you like I can make a soup for you before you die. I learned it in France but I will need your rotten left foot, its ideal for the perfect flavor of this recipe” the women ended. A few minutes later the man passed away.
I like the way you started with a clam conversation and revealing the situation. Which was terrifying towards the end as the man was dying and the woman was still wanting to cook the man soap of his own meat. This was a Kafkaesque story as it followed the pattern of Kafka’s way of writing. From a view of positive future towards revealing the truth of horrified.
Your creative writing is very kafkaesque! You established a dominant character as well as weak one which gets overpowered which is similar to Kafka’s writing style. How you do not directly explain the man’s death also relates back to Kafka’s style. Great!
Yuki Mayeda waited patiently in seat 103 in the immigration office. Rows of seats sat in front of her and behind her. Above her on the plain white wall was a giant clock, ticking every second away with a loud, sharp snapping noise. Every five minutes, a new name was called. “Elias Ernö,” called a lady at 4:05. At once, every person stood up, moving to the next seat.
Yuki Mayeda waited patiently in seat 104 in the immigration office. Rows of seats sat in front of her and behind her. She was excited, so close to the end. She had waited so long. She tried to chew at her fingernails, a bad habit of hers, only to encounter bone. “Óscar Espinosa,” called a lady at 4:00. At once, every person stood up, moving to the next seat.
Yuki Mayeda waited patiently in seat 105 in the immigration office. Above her rang the giant clock, screaming each second with its shrill voice. “Anastasiya Ivanov,” called a lady at 3:55. At once, every person stood up, moving to the next seat.
Very kafkaesque with the fatalistic character and a perfect example of storytelling with showing instead of telling!
I woke up to the sound of trees striking my window, the ceiling fan groaning, and my alarm clock screaming in my ears alerting me to awaken. I relentlessly pushed aside my blanket and forced myself to prepare for school. As I opened my door my feet reached for the freezing tiles, but my feet felt nothing. Before I recognized the hollowness beneath my feet, gravity was already pulling me down. A scream escaped my mouth as I fell, yet I was silenced from the shock that everything was frozen. Each icy wind scraped against my delicate skin as if a knife was giving me thousands of paper cuts. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to continue falling. Suddenly the icy wind stopped and I opened my eyes in the search for darkness, but the only shadows I found were the trees beside my window. My heart punched against my chest and I quickly got out of my bed. I opened the door, satisfied to find the tiles where they belonged. I decided to see if my parents were fine and when I walked into their room I found nothing. My parents weren’t there. No one was home. I walked outside to find all the cars gone and that darkness surrounded every angle of the world in front of my eyes. Where had everyone gone? I questioned. My heart raced, but then I made up my mind that they were certainly fooling me, so I decided to ignore them. I decided to take a shower. I turned on the hot water and closed my eyes allowing the hot water to give me relief. I opened my eyes and didn’t see the clear liquid spurting out; instead I saw the boiling hot blood spilling out of the socket. The thick blood covered my hands, my body, and my face. I stared into the mirror and saw my eyes filling up with this chunky blood, as if someone’s body was cut into a thousand tiny pieces and was mixed in. I shut my eyes attempting to wipe it off of my face, but when I failed I opened my eyes and I did not find myself in the shower, but in my bed. I felt my hands and I sighed in relief knowing there was no blood. I glanced at the time and I was late! I went into the kitchen and turned on the stove for coffee. Leaving it there to warm, I decided to get ready for school. As I dressed, I discovered a cut on my finger and suddenly I saw an orange light at the edges of my door and I began sweating. I opened my door, to find that my entire house was on fire. I stood there closing my eyes knowing that I was stuck, nothing could save me now. I opened my eyes to see where the fire had reached, but yet again I found myself in my bed. Was I awake?
The little boy was playing on his family farm out in the field. He kicked his favorite ball into the dark forest, where a mysterious shadow lies. He then went into the forest to look for his ball, couldn’t find it and went further deeper in the forest, before he knew it dark was coming upon him and in short time the forest became pitch black. As the forest got darker and the deeper he went into the forest the more the shadow casted over him. Hours past and the boy’s mother couldn’t find him 2 months a hiker came across a young boy deceased body in the same forest he saw the apparition of the same little boy staring at him. Later the hiker walked out the forest bouncing a ball. As he was driving home a shadow casted over him and neither the boy or hiker was seen again.
I see her everywhere. At school, at home, when u turn left, and turn right. She somehow always appears. At night when I close my eyes it is the only time that I think that I’ll have peace, but no. Even when I close my eyes she manages to appear in the darkness. Her face is covered with blood that is dripping down her torn clothes, slowly accumulating a puddle of deep red blood at her feet. Her skin is full of purple and black bruises. Her arms are covered with long, deep cuts that have black dried blood. Was she in an accident? How did she die? Those shouldn’t be the questions that I should be thinking about. The real question I should focus on is, how am I going to get her out of my head? I can’t take this anymore, it’s driving me crazy. I run out of the house and onto the streets. I look back and there she is appearing out of thin air. I turn around to face the street again, and the last thing I see are flashing lights. At least she won’t haunt me anymore and I’ll be able to experience peace again, well, that’s what I hope anyway.
*I
This was a Kafkaesque story, as it began with the way you felt and how to went to the path of peace. Also using the word ‘I’ reflected the way Kafka writes his storied of word choice. And I actually felt the terrifying moment of seeing the blood and the face of a person everywhere I look which actually terrified me.
I think your story is sort of like an inception, when you asked “Was she in an accident?” and then ended the story with whoever “I” is getting in an accident. It leads to the question, is this “I” also the girl that he/she is thinking about. I think it’s Kafkaesque that there’s no clear cut ending where the reader knows what happened, but rather a sort of cliffhanger. It’s a good story!
When I was reading your story I was able to follow your every movement as the ambiguous aggressor is haunting every moment of your life. It is clearly shown that you are unable to escape from this terrifying women that you have described as bloody and in some ways representing the characteristics of death. I am not completely sure if you had a goal of creating the aggressor as a symbol of death. However I like how you have created a connection between her/ death and your death at the end. I appreciate your ending as you see the flashing lights, which could possibly be the light of heaven or even a car. Like Kafka, you also have given into the aggressor. Great job!
Great short story! I appreciate how you do not directly state that the dead girl is you, that makes your story much more Kafkaesque, which demonstrates that you understand his writing greatly. Great!
Your story gave me goosebumps! I like the way you included questions in your story. It’s like you were proving a point of the character “I.” But that’s also how you created your story to be vague, because at the beginning of the story, I was wondering who is that scary girl/ghost. And at the end, it still leaves us clueless about what really did happened to that girl/ghost.
I always imagined my father finally killing me one day. After all, I had done something terrible, maybe just terrible enough for death to finally become my new father. I envision my father grabbing the sharpest object nearest to him, if he walks in now, then he will probably break the mirror into shards and grab the sharpest piece. He will then probably use it to slice through my arms slowly, delicately. Slowly, but deep enough so that I can feel the jagged edge of the sharded glass tickling my already fragile bones as rancid blood pours out like a warm ocean, dripping down my arms as if crimson tears were inevitably escaping my thin pale flesh. I hear my father walking around the corner, my heart pounds like an old drum, now he is coming towards me, I feel my blood rush through my veins, the thick hot liquid evoking my senses to come alive. He just looks at me, and walks away coldly. He finally did it.
Karina, your story was very cruel yet it was tense. I was able to imagine as I keep reading your kafka’s story. Great job, Karina. But, there was a part where I got confused. Why would your father grab a sharp object then smash a mirror for another sharp object when he already has one. So yeah, that’s what I was confused on but other than that its a nice short story.
Very good! As I read this I feel scared just as similarly as the character is feeling. It reminds me of how Kafka writes his stories: the way the character is affected indirectly. For example how you mentioned at the end “He finally did it”, it is not meant that the father actually killed the character but the father kills the character when the ignoring occurred. It relates very well to the Kafkaesque writing style.
Omg. So gruesome! This is deep! I really like how you create the mood for your short story. Also, I find your story to be interesting, because of the “sharpest object” and the “sharpest piece” which I connect to “The Bridge,” because the bridge was curious and hurt when it was getting stepped on… Then it got break down into pieces. This is somewhat confusing, but that’s okay! It fits to be a Kafka’s story! Great job!
The impending danger that’s present in your story is very Kafkaesque. Like many of his stories, there isn’t a clear ending or resolution, but rather this “tortured” feeling that doesn’t diminish, and even grows stronger by the end of the story. There’s also a “authoritative” figure, or the father, and a weaker, submissive character, whoever this “I” is, that reflects the aspects of Kafka’s stories. I enjoyed your story and the haunting, cold feeling that’s left at the end!
I like how you used descriptive language when describing the piece of glass cutting your arm, it reminded me of Kafka’s style how he describes the way the victim is getting hurt. I could actually feel my arm getting cut as well, it gave me that chilling feeling.
I remember this blue lake where I would swim around, blending into the millions of other faces. I floated around from one shore to the other, chatting with my friends and family. This Crystal Lake was my home and I have lived here for as long as I remember. But then the humans came and slowly taken us away from our home. We are forced into a tiny ugly bottle and sent away. We have ended up becoming old and torn. And we are freed from our cells only to be drunk by the humans. Slowly we enter their bodies and become waste. Our once majestic self is now reduced to a substance that is flushed down the drains. And so we descend the sewers where the waste of the world collects. Slowly we rejuvenate. We slowly return to our former glory. The toxins in us are removed. We become pure again as we evaporate into the clouds. There we become the majestic storm and we float in the sky towards our lake. We have returned to our home only to see this cycle start over again.
That one day the darkness returns, quietness lingers upon me and emotions hit me. My whole heart bruised up and my whole body filled with emptiness and pain. I feel like my whole body system died, but I can still feel the sorrow. I thought back to the times when those evil creatures stride over me. Broken to pieces there I am. They pace without even noticing or bothering putting the pieces back. I realized, even if they did, I would never be the same again like how I used to be, because no matter what, the scars will always display. That voice whispers into my ears, “worthless, worthless.” I screamed and covered my ears. The tears runs down my face, knowing what is going to happen next. Gravity locked my fragile self. I couldn’t move. Here they go again. Rolling me up, kicking me around like I’m a sphere, then picking on me like I’m a piece of toilet paper. They are starting to make myself believe that I am. A couple seconds later, I get tear into pieces like nothing. To them, I’m just a nobody they wanted to hurt to create their happiness.
I like how you use in your story the aspect of worthlessness and how it affects people. Your story shows the curelness of the world much like in Kafka’s.
I appreciate your usage of similes as you describe your self being kicked around like a sphere. When you added in the the voice whispering in your ear “worthless, worthless” I had goosebumps on my arms, because the tone you created as you screamed felt extremely real. I was able to clearly imagine you being nothing, with the evil roaming around you. Like Kafka, I could see your usage of an aggressor that is clearly oppressing you and tearing you into pieces. Great job with making a connection with the me, because as I reader I felt like I was in your position!
Mai Der , your Kafkaesque story is great. The imagery gets really in-dept just like Kafka’s story’s and the motif of the character being weak and helplessness really elevated the story, great job
Mai Der , your Kafkaesque story is great. The imagery gets really in-dept just like Kafka’s story’s and the motif of the character being weak and helplessness really elevated the story, nice job
When the victim in your story is suffering because an aggressor is attacking her, I am able to feel the pain that she is going through. It’s like how i can feel the pain that the victims are feeling in Kafka’s stories. I also enjoy how you symbolized the victim as a sphere because it shows how she is seen as an object that does not have any value. It is a great story!
I really enjoyed reading your Kafkaesque creative writing! You truly capture an essence that Kafka has in his short stories. The image of the heart is very powerful and symbolizes something greater than it appears. Great!
The first electric sizzle fried the hair off my arms, leaving a hint of ozone suspended in mid-air. Who applied that critique? I can’t be sure, but I think it was the student in the corner. “Class! Now we will learn about the concept of existentialism. First you must realize that…” “Teacher, what exactly do you mean by the term, existentialism,” one curious student asked. “Well,…” I could feel my nerves crackle in anticipation of the next shock, but I continued on “with uncertainty given the possible absence of God, we lack a moral authority to guide our decision-making, and therefore we are left feeling isolated and vulnerable to the possibility of our being entirely responsible for our fates.” I felt relieved. No shock. I had passed for the moment. However, as I walked back to my desk I realized the chief financial officer standing in the doorway. “Ask your teacher about the differences between Soren Kierkegaard and Frederick Nietzsche’s views on the nature of existential reality!” The chief financial officer smiled deliciously as if awaiting a mid-morning barbecue. I did my best to expound the difference, but admittedly my mind was a bit dusty on the subjects. I felt the first shock applied. Then several more followed. Even the sympathetic looking girl in the front row held her remote control and pushed the button repeatedly, each time applying a more severe wave of terror through my burning flesh. “What does it mean?” they kept asking and pushing their buttons when I didn’t respond quickly. “Ask him about whether or not truth exists,” offered the chief. Now the questions came at me from all sides, little pieces of my skin started to burst as if they were water balloons, my clothing caught on fire, and I collapsed on the ground, my skin smoking. The class in one voice called out, “Tell us!” but I was unable to respond. The chief officer said, “This teacher is unsatisfactory. I shall buy you another teacher, preferably a competent teacher who can handle this high stakes testing environment.” Before he kicked my crackling corpse, I tried to say that I could still teach, I knew what I needed to say, but his huge foot kicked off my head and my body exploded into an enormous ash cloud. “Sir, should I turn on the fan?” asked one helpful student. “Yes” was the reply. And I was sucked into the vent and dispersed into the atmosphere, spiraling outward in a whoosh, which sounded like freedom at last.