Conversion Exercises

12 thoughts on “Conversion Exercises”

1. Last night, myself and my husband had a movie night. I got to his house pretty late because I was busy earlier. We decided on Alice in Wonderland with Johnny Depp. We both love Johnny Depp so this was a no-brainer for us. Plus, I love the visuals. We decided to let Pepper, the cat, come in the room because it is the warmest in the house. For a whole hour or so, we did not know where this cat was. Every so often, I could hear the jingle of the bell on his blue sushi collar. I knew he was in the room somewhere, I just didn’t know where. Izzy got up to go to the bathroom and I decided to look for Pepper again. I checked inside the closet, because I had a suspicion he was in there- I still could not find him. When I got up to go to the bathroom a few minutes later, Izzy found him. He sprang out of the closet, about six feet in the air and leaped-darting at us as if to say that he got us! He was watching us the whole time!

   The apple has traveled far and wide. The apple comes without a sticker- without a label. And while she herself does not know where it came from, she does know that it came from somewhere far away from cold, dreary, gray New England. It makes her think back to warm, sunny, hopeful spring and summer days. She tries to think with a solely optimistic lens, but it cannot come without an element of realism. She thinks about who did the work to produce this apple. Were they treated fairly? Were they paid a liveable wage? Is the apple a product of child labor? Was the person who harvested the apple allowed to take a break at some point? She took a class on the US-Mexico border last year. In it, she talked extensively about the Bracero Program. We learned that thousands of farmworkers endured deplorable conditions in exchange to be in the US for whatever season of work they were entering in exchange for poverty wages that they would send back to their families in Mexico. Does the apple have a similar story?

2. A Spin on the Travelogue

   I had always said I thought Disneyland was a separate planet. That day it was. In arriving at the gates there was a sea of thousands of people and they parted just for us. They got on one another’s shoulders and bent themselves in the shape of waves, higher, higher, higher still. It was like tsunamis on both sides of us but the waves of people never came crashing down. We just walked straight through. VIP guests. They didn’t even check our tickets they just instantly released the lock on the turnstile and we were in. Every member of the Disneyland workforce had bright cheesy smiles plastered onto their faces, their eyes tracking my family and me like cameras. There are no lines, no noises of other families, a ghost town. None of the countless YouTube videos or TikToks I had watched involved anything like this, not even close. I watched tutorial after tutorial and planned strict itineraries to maximize our time and ride all the rides in one day. What an absolute waste of my time.

   3rd Person Memory

   Defeat. That was written all over her face. A young woman in an unfamiliar place, with just two suitcases, and a backpack sat on the curb next to the huge strange, and now empty building, phone in hand and she began to cry. Her fingers tapped and began sending texts to multiple people checking prices for an Uber, forty dollars for a two-mile ride. Based on the way she began to cry harder, it was money she did not have. The day had been hot and long, the sun blaring down on her back, no shade in the area to escape the miserable heat and her home was two miles uphill, and that is assuming she can even find it, and carry 100 pounds worth of luggage for another second. Then, like a knight in shining armor, a frail older woman in a red Volkswagon Beattle pulls her car alongside the curb where the girl had sat in tears. “Do you need a ride somewhere?” the old woman crooned as she stepped outside her car. The young girl almost crumbled out of relief, every muscle in her back loosened as a weight was lifted off her shoulders.
   “Yes! Please!” she sighed as she rose to her feet, no further questions asked. Soon the pair were lifting the two pieces of luggage along with the backpack into the trunk of the car babbling to one another no doubt exchanging their stories of this long hot day. In a rumble and a press of the gas, as fast as the car came, in a trail of dust, it was gone.

3. 1.) “Mom loves you so much. She just misses her boo every day and you remind her of her baby girl. When we put Sky down that summer afternoon, she held her in her arms while they gave her the shot.” Her heart raced and raced till there was nothing left. You don’t know this and how would you? You’re just the new puppy. She spent the next two weeks sending videos to the family non-stop of our beloved shaggy white cottle ball. Not like those rat dogs though. Your angel sister was just about the same size as you just a little shorter.

   Mom swore that she would never get another dog ever again. She wouldn’t even pet other dogs when she would see them. Sometimes when she sees mutts that look like Sky she’ll double take and ask people what kind of dog it is, but never pet.

   When you came along unexpectedly, brought into our home by Dad, my mother as you could imagine did not pet you. She didn’t want to even look at you and you were adorable. It’s been 3 years now and whether she likes it or not, you’re family. Don’t be hurt by her pitty pats on top your head or her mean comments of “This dog doesn’t know anything.” She lost her boo and she sees know other way to cope.

   2.) After she gets her hair cleansed by the warm water and soap, she’s given a little towel to drape around her shoulders. A booster seat is put ontop the black leather chair before realizing the girl is tall enough to sit without it. Her frizzy strands dance with water droplets curling down the tips of her locs onto her face, chair, towel, floor, everywhere but the towel. A smokey fog covers this area of the salon. By the window is a wall of magazine prints reflecting their shine from the afternoon sun. Nothing but neck pain and fear comes next. With a blowdryer just a quarter inch away from her scalp, she sits sweating in fear of getting burned. Not that she knew what the feeling was yet, but because the Dominican lady kept telling her in a calming but motherly voice trying to give fair warning. When the hairdresser got to her edges it was over. It felt like a shock that zaps you just for a second before the Dominican stranger that you met three hours ago starts blowing on your scalp and starts fanning her hand like that will ease all the pain of the 200degree air that came before. At the age of 25, this little girl’s fear still comes our when the blowdryer, hot comb, or flat iron does.

4. 1. “Save me, Sabrina Fair,” a newly shaven, white haired Harrison Ford says to Julia Ormond, no longer ugly after being changed to the point of obscurity (she took off her glasses), “you’re the only one who can.” She agrees to perform such impromptu heroics and the two kiss in the road, cars be damned. Sabrina (1995) is a remake of Sabrina (1954) and has the required 50’s aesthetics turned 90’s nostalgia, – that important haze of romanticism. In both versions, sometimes suicidal, sometimes beautiful, sometimes gutwrenchingly ugly (glasses) Sabrina is fallen in love with by a handsome, emotional man and is then given the burdens of their lives. I find myself on the same street, rain hitting my polished hair. I wonder what I could possibly be wearing – a suit or a ballgown – but I don’t have time for such frivolity. I use the internal tracking device they implemented in my glasses to find the exact spot that his car is parked (the transporter never drops you in the right place, no matter how much I have complained). When I zero in on the location, I run. It’s horrible when you miss your opening. The last time it happened, I was on feeding tubes for a week. I turn the street corner, careful not to chip a heel, and nearly crash right into Harrison Ford himself. “Once upon a time, on the north shore of Long Island, not far from New York, there was a very, very large mansion,” he is saying to Ormond. Thank God. I grab Sabrina by the shoulders, shocked by the thickness of the diamonds on her lapel. She appears in a daze, her eyes barely meeting mine.
   “Hi, Sabrina Fair, you don’t know me,” I begin to say but she regains some sense and begins to protest, turning back to Ford. “Sabrina, I know this is insane. I know. But don’t marry this asshole. Or even kiss him.” She looks at me again, something upset but curious in her eyes.
   “You know me?” she asks, speaking for the first time in a while.
   “Um, in a way. I know what will happen to you if you marry him – it’s my job to track these things, you see. And what he’s about to say to you, he means. You are the only one who can – isn’t that more terrifying than it is romantic?” She is all turned around now, so much so that a flame is slowly leaking out of her ear. Happens. The flame disappears in an instant and she turns to Harrison, face resolved.
   “What were you going to say?” she asks, hope in her eyes. He adjusts his glasses and ruffles his hair, unphased by the alien intervention.
   “Save me, Sabrina Fair. You’re the only one who can,” a smile hits both of their lips and they crash into each other in an instant. I kick the ground. You can’t win them all, I tell myself. I wonder when I’ll win one. I click my two heels together, scream at the top of my lungs, and disappear back into the mainframe.

   2. The McRae’s arrive in their distracted, bustling manner to the Watsonville house with 2 minutes to spare. None of their vacations go exactly as planned – no one wants to recall the trip to Boise that began and ended in screaming matches – but this one has run fairly smoothly so far, all things considered. They unlock the door and Jesse rushes up the stairs to make sandwiches. They aren’t actually on a strict time crunch, but Jesse promised the Harrises food upon arrival and she refuses to disappoint. She loves the Harrises in the way you love family, although she only met them 20 years ago on a study abroad trip to England. So do her two daughters, Sadie and Ainsley, whose relationship with the family for years was simply the girls torturing Sarah and Brian with words to say in English accents. Jesse’s husband doesn’t usually come on these vacations but has tagged along this time and looks forward to seeing the family, in his own way. The sandwiches are prepared, the girls are already fighting, and the Harrises are, of course, late.

5. 1. Conversion of “Short Talks on Working Mothers”
   Mom comes home with her brows already knit together, frown contorting her gentle face into that of a monster. A thunderous cloud hangs over her head, and when she lifts her eyes, lightning cracks, dangerous and electric. Day-old hair hanging in strings around her shoulders, falling out of her bun and twisting around her neck as hours paint dark circles under her eyes, thin skin spread across a skull. Short greetings are snapped out with a forked tongue like a snake. We smile like nothing’s wrong and avoid her glowing eyes. When she shoots silent death glares at the dishes in the sink, they explode and shatter shards of glass and ceramic all over the floor. We bite our tongues so hard they bleed and we don’t ask what’s for dinner because we value our lives.

   2. Memory in 3rd Person POV

   She stumbles down the path, legs refusing to follow the commands from her brain, vision blurry in the dark. She sees a bench up ahead and hesitates for a moment before stepping off the path and nearly falling onto the seat. For a while she just stares at the pond in front of her, watching the puffs of her breath like smoke in the bitingly cold air. Eventually she tilts her head up to look at the stars above, eyes habitually seeking out and finding Orion’s Belt, the only constellation she can recognize. It’s always there in the sky, waiting for her, grounding her. That’s when the tears come. They’re faster than she expected, and cool as they roll down her face, creating little rivers all down her cheeks. Soon they’re shaking her whole body. She can’t stifle the sobs even though there are people laughing on the bench a few feet away from hers, faint music playing in the background. They must be having fun, she thinks. Then, they must think I’m crazy. Or drunk. Or both. She can’t help but laugh helplessly, incredulously, at herself as she puts her face in her hands. Tears pool in her palms and she’s laughing and crying and she doesn’t quite understand why. She sits on the bench, knees hugged to her chest, glistening face to the sky, eyes reflecting the constellations she can’t name through damp lashes. She stays there until she can’t feel her fingers and her breathing returns to normal. By the time she stands up and walks away, the people from nearby had long since left, and her legs had steadied underneath her.

6. From Travelogue
   The car is an ultra-black fish. The deep sea summit. Shiny, onyx, dirty on the bottom. That’s the car. It changes over the six hours we’re in it, but we can’t tell. The interior stays the same. Cramped. Tree tall, beetle boys. Been in this car for a while. Surprisingly enough, there’s no spit. No heart. You’d think we’d be right in the digestive juices, fizzy acid, but that’s not the case. Or we don’t notice. We might be right on top. Wind blasts. News cast.

   Memory in Third POV
   She’s tired. Fatigued even. The clock blinks back a squiggle and two inflated zeros. Just thirty more minutes and she’ll give up, just submit the monster project. And not for the reasons she thinks. But for right now, she can’t bring herself to. The lamp light beams. She feels like a desert plant. Freeze dried fruit bags on her bed, crinkling when she shifts away from the monitor. Not like the plant on her windowsill with real dried extremities. Then there’s that shrill, cruel shock. Smoke detector. Going off. Both a blessing, she can turn on her room lights, and a curse, that caterwaul beeping shunted into her eardrum. The family gathers downstairs. There is no fire. And no smoke. This is more complex than either of those things. Carbon Monoxide? Very possibly. But calling the instructed information lines doesn’t yield any information. Either make a fuss right now, only admirable if there is a real threat, or go to bed. They all wait to feel headaches or nausea or loopy-ness. It’s not very helpful, since it’s four in the morning, and if 3 am is the witching hour, 4 is its hung over aftermath.

7. 1. Conversion of “Story of a Photograph” exercise.

   A party was to be held, a party of the grandest scale in honor of the coming year. Upon arrival, all the guests sat on plastic hats and pin cushion chairs, reveling in the snow that fell around them, made of tissues and ribbons. The centerpiece of the event, a diamond thrice the size of a guest’s face, surrounded by bedazzled jewelry much too large to fit in any person’s hair, inspired awe and envy in those who saw it. The extravagant centerpiece sat juxtaposed on a table made of playing cards, tic tacs, and cheap cardboard jewelry boxes. With all four guests present, six if you count the anthropomorphic handbag and dress, seven if you count the newly born cow, the party was certain to be the most lively of the year, both the old and the new.
   The countdown to midnight came and went but the festivities continued with no end in sight, each guest feeling as if this was a moment trapped in time, one that would go on forever with no change or deterioration in the joy they felt and the fun they were having.
   With the flash of the camera the end times came. An omnipotent being, cruel and destructive, rearranged the world with no care for its inhabitants. The party ended at 12:07 AM and all that once was everything was suddenly nothing more than a photo on a phone.

   2. A eight year old girl, Rachel, walked down the streets of Mexico with her tour group. After a long day of excursions at the water park, which Rachel would mispronounce the name of until she went to write about it twelve years later, she was more than ready to return to the cruise ship. Being eight years old Rachel was still bouncing with energy despite the long day of adventuring, something certainly felt by her family who were the victims of her incessant, but charming, yapping on the walk back to the ship. Perhaps Rachel was focusing too much on yapping and skipping down the street, as she quickly ran into a street sign. Embarrassed and now dealing with a headache she resolved to keep her head down for the rest of the walk back to the ship, avoiding the worried and curious stares of her family and fellow tourists. This was her second fault of the walk back. In doing the opposite as she had done before, Rachel now had her second crash of the walk. This time, she alone wasn’t affected. Walking straight into a wooden pole Rachel knocked a Parrot off of its perch. Her headache worsened and her embarrassment grew. The once excited, lively little girl was now determined to make herself invisible to the world, squeezing herself between her mom and sister until they returned to the ship. Once back on the ship little Rachel let out a sigh of relief upon feeling the coolness of the AC and hearing the familiar chatter of guests bounce off the intricately decorated red and blue walls of the Disney owned cruise vessel. With her family’s room on the eighth floor and her on the first, Rachel was determined, steeled to take the elevator upstairs. Her parents preferred to walk, but with her incessant pleading she at least got her sister to take it with her. Shoving into the crowded elevator, guests exhausted and eager to return to their cabins without walking up flights of stairs, Rachel, the sweet girl, decided to stick two fingers out to keep the elevator doors from closing so more guests could file into the already cramped, sweaty space. This was her final mistake of the day. Maybe the elevator couldn’t detect her little hands, maybe it simply didn’t care that they were there, eager to empty itself of its many guests, because suddenly and without warning it closed on the eight year old girl’s fingers. What a day for a eight year old girl, for her sister, who watched the ordeal take place, for her parents, who heard her scream several flights of stairs up. Rachel was fine, she just needed an ice pack. In the moment, it was a day full of injury after injury, embarrassment after embarrassment for the little girl. But maybe one day, maybe a couple years in the future it would become a fond memory to tell as nothing more than a funny anecdote when the conversation dries up.

8. She walked up the carpeted ramp and into the studio. Nearly a dozen pre-teen dancers had spread themselves around the room. The excitement was evident among the group as they were about to learn their choreography for the competition season ahead. Leaning against the back wall of the studio, the director observed for a few minutes. She noticed one of the students struggling to keep up. She called the young pupil over and they left the room.

   She led the girl to the dance apparel shop, as it was called. The dancer was confused. They sat together on a small black bench, one that the girl hasn’t forgotten, amongst the boxes of tap shoes and racks of leotards. She told the girl it was unsafe for her to dance. She told the girl that she would lower competition scores. She told the girl, who had been dancing for nearly 10 years, that she couldn’t participate anymore. The girl was disabled. It was a miracle she could even walk through the door of the studio, let alone dance. Now, the studio director was destroying the miracle.

9. 1. Converted from Short Talk on Charlotte Smith
   Shadow-soft fingers rest on her shoulder as she writes about her sorrows. Trace the line of her ever-clenched jaw. You should rest. Twine through the strands escaping from her disheveled braid. Come to rest. Tap impatiently above her collarbone. You need to rest.
   She shakes her head and waves dismissively at the figure behind her. Her hand passes through the darkness without resistance. Flickering candlelight spills over the spidery worry lines of her face and the spidery ink lines of her handwriting. She raises her head to hear if the children are stirring. No. Still quiet. Nothing except the cold night pressing in to whisper hoarsely in her vulnerable ears. There is no one standing at her shoulder.
   Charlotte, darling. Rest.
   A featureless face sinks close to hers to watch her mournfully before pressing chilly lips to the angle of her cheek.
   Rhymes spill onto her page, love sonnets to stability and to solace. She writes to the darkness about her love affair with Hope itself.

   2. 3rd Person Memory
   She wants to climb a tree. She wants to feel taller than she is, to take her feet off the ground, to reach up to the sky in all its May-blue glory. This one, she says, pointing. There’s a crook in the trunk about four feet off the ground, above her head. She wants to get there.
   Her father helps her reach up for grips on the tree, search for footholds. The bark is rough under her small hands. She could not reach all the way around the trunk if she tried to hug it. She presses off against one foot, stretches with the other hand, moves up.
   A metallic ringtone. The number of a work call on her father’s phone. He steps away to take it with a word of warning to the little girl. He’ll be back in just a moment.
   She watches him stand not ten feet away with the black phone case held to one ear. She looks back at the tree. She is so close to that split in the trunk, where she can stand and look out over the world from twice her usual height. Maybe she’ll be at eye level with her dad. That would be cool.
   Maybe there’s a place she can put her foot. She steps up. Steadies herself against the trunk, gripping the coarse bark. That worked. She wants to try again. Her foot catches on a deceptive place in the flaking bark, slips out from under her. Her father’s eyes widen and his hurried steps to catch her seem to thunder against the earth she wanted to escape only moments before. She falls.

10. 1. It was something we always did when mom wasn’t home. Dad would put on his AC/DC records we would dance around while cooking dinner. He would take them out of the bag for us to play with. They were usually silent toys. Slimy, slightly salty, but I don’t think I was supposed to be putting them in my mouth. This time thought was a whole other story. I thought I could hear something as soon as they were brought in. A small squeal, like an overworked pipe. But as my dads hand reached into the bag it got louder. And clearer. “Please! Please! Don’t put us in the water!” we all just stood there, that was certainly not supposed to happen.

    Harrison walked into McMurphys pub with Budweiser on his breath and a smile on his face. His wasn’t looking for anything but a good laugh and song to sing. He and Collin ordered their usuals and began to scan the bar. One boy with one tooth, three girls with two bags. Something happened. He wasn’t sure exactly what is was. He honestly still can’t remember. But he knows that it made her turn. She made a quick joke to him. It was innocent, not flirty, but he wished it had been. They talked for an hour. When they left the bar he said he was gonna take her on a date. She laughed in disbelief. “That’s what they all say” she retorted. I am definitely not all of them he thought.

11. 1) Dog sniffs and sniffs on our cold walk. Finds a sandwich. Unhinges jaw, rows of sharp teeth gleaming. Vertical reptilian pupils lock on target. Scarfs down sandwich in three percussive bites. Oh no. Not my dog, not your dog. Food drive activated. Looks at us with a big, sharp grin. Begins to drool.

    2. Sam has an ex who won’t give back her UMaine sweatshirts (probably at least $40 each). Em says they’re in a storage locker far, far away and refuses to retrieve them. Taylor texts Sam’s girls: “are you also upset with Em’s asshole antics? join me in tanking their podcast ratings! it’s free, fun, and deserved!” She sends a link to a 1 star podcast. True crime.

12. 1) Take any brief clip you wrote for the NF unit and make it as fantastical as possible to convert it into a fictional story

    My brother is a famous collector of magical knick knacks and doo dads, he was always a finder. A finder of lost things. I think maybe because he was lost once. We all thought he must’ve run away, my parents didn’t even look for him. I did though, I charted maps of everywhere I looked and outfitted ship after ship to find him. Ended up having to fly my ship to Neverland just to find him having the time of his life with Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. He wasn’t happy to see me. We used to fight all the time so I wasn’t surprised.

    I ended up back at my ship and found this tiny magic toadstool. I hadn’t seen its species before. It was no bigger than my fingernail and had spots all over it. It glowed in the dark! The next day, I gave it to Jac and I said, “Hey, I was thinking about you while I was away.” Jac hugged me tighter than he ever had and tucked the tiny magic toadstool in his pocket. We spent another month in Neverland, I helped Jac pack all of his lost things onboard. Then we set off for the next magical land.

    My grandmother taught me when I was very young, sometimes the best gifts are the smallest ones. That is indeed the case with my tiny magic toadstool.

    2) Write a brief scene from memory (one already written in the NF unit or totally new) narrated in 3rd person POV

    There’s nothing special about the kitchen. Except that it fits in a two-hundred-and-four-year-old farmhouse. They made it a home. Now, Michelle cooks for Al while he sits in his green armchair reading the daily newspaper. The small TV above the counter by the sink is on, the local news mummers at a quiet volume. Boris, the cat, watches the screen with great interest. Rosie, another cat, comes barreling into the room with something dangling from her mouth. She sits back on her haunches next to Al by the green armchair. She promptly drops the dead mouse like a triumphant hunter. Al doesn’t notice at first but when Rosie begins snaking through his legs, he can’t ignore her any longer. Al chuckles low in his belly when he sees the “gift” Rosie has left him. He shakes his head, thinking it’s a gift he’d happily return. The oven timer dings, dinner is ready.