So for my British lit class we wrote stream of consciousness narratives in the style of the Modernist poets--Virginia Woolf, James Joyce, and so on. The stream of consciousness style is characterized by the narrative portraying the scene and events through the thoughts and dialogue of different characters, with little outside narration. Anyway, I may not be on par with Woolf and Joyce, but I sure had fun writing mine, so I thought I'd share it. :) It's called "Nothing."
Nothing
"What are you thinking about?"
That seemed to be a popular question tonight. He looked up at the disco ball twirling over the dance floor and sighed. Honestly, Brett mused, if she really wanted to know, he was thinking about nothing. Nothing at all in particular. He looked over at her, with her hot-pink dress, coiffed blonde hair, and expectant expression--she had stuck like glue to his side all night. Why didn't girls understand that? They didn't seem to grasp the fact that a guy has a Nothing Box, and when he's in his Nothing Box, he really is thinking about nothing. Really. Nothing. Zero. Zip. Nadda. And when you ask him what he's thinking about, and he says, "Nothing," he really is thinking about nothing. Girls were always thinking about something, and some of them were quite determined that everyone has to be thinking about something, and they were equally determined to find out what that something was so they could dissect, weigh, and otherwise analyze the poor hapless fellow's smallest utterance. "Nothing" was not the right answer to such a question. "Nothing" was not "something." Why couldn't he understand that? Brenda sighed to herself in frustration, narrowing her eyes behind her perkiest smile. Brett was going to ask her out, so help him, so he might as well get used to the idea. He was the cutest guy in her ward by far--tall, dark brown hair, broad shoulders, brown eyes, noble brow...Mmm. She had had her eye on him for several weeks, but this was the first chance she had to spend any time with him one-on-one, and she was quite determined to make the most of it. She was trying to establish a connection, but he wasn't having it, darn him. Nothing, nothing. That's what he always said when she asked a simple question like "What are you thinking about?" This was a new experience for her--usually guys melted and told her anything she wanted to hear when she batted her long eyelashes and flashed them her most dazzling smile. What was up with him? Why wasn't he responding? Surely he was thinking about something--why couldn't he just tell her? Why did the cutest guys always have to be the strong silent types? She would just have to find a way to get him out of his shell. But how? She'd think of something. She sighed and shivered a bit. For having so many people around, it was a little cold in here. Maybe he would offer her his suit jacket. He sure smelled good, and she was a sucker for a good cologne. Mmm. Those refreshments looked good. One thing he would say for these kinds of dances--they sure did have good refreshments. He could probably fit like 10 of those cookies in his mouth at once. Maybe more like seven. But he probably shouldn't try. He would definitely eat several, though. Taking a step toward the table, Brett suddenly remembered the girl standing next to him. Noticing that her silence had lasted an unusually long two minutes, Brett thought he might as well be polite and try to contribute to a conversation.
"So what are you thinking about, Brenda?"
"Oh, nothing."
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