The following is material that has been generously shared by the attendees of the second session of the creative writing workshop.

Sunaina Rao
The first thing that I’d do would be to haul down the hallway the few things that were left in the
room. The room was stale and musty, and still there was an outline of tape on the floor. It was
my second time there. The first time, they hadn’t removed the body yet- just dragged a sheet
over the top as if 
I hadn’t known my uncle well. Something about a long past argument with my mother. But mom
had died last summer and that meant I was the “next-of-kin”, or that’s what the woman on the
phone told me. I hadn’t even realized that my uncle lived just 10 blocks away from me, in a
damp and crumbling apartment in what used to be a nice part of town. 
The one thing that struck you when you went in was the peak of the ceilings. Everything felt soft
and unstable, but you could see the building’s former glory in the sharp angles and fine detailing

• which was now covered in layers upon layers of paint so you could barely make out the curves
  of the crown molding. 
  I stepped through the apartment, darting around the conspicuous body-shaped tape that used to
  hold my uncle. I grabbed a lamp and a throw pillow and made my way outside. The heat made
  me sweat, even with the smallest of efforts. 
  Just my luck, my uncle was one of the last hold-outs in this building that developers had bought
  and wanted to tear down. Once I moved all this stuff out of there, I’d get a nice settlement that
  would make all this drudgery worth it. I’d finally be out of my own shitty apartment and on a
  plane to somewhere (anywhere)
  But there was one obstacle. In the center of my uncle’s dining room was an intricately carved
  wooden cockroach. It was about the size of a great dane and made my stomach churn just
  looking at it. 
  Deciding to get it out of the way, I walked purposefully toward the sculpture, grabbing a blanket
  and thinking I’d just wrap it up and drag it out. I walked in and threw the blanket over the
  sculpture, and bent down to pick it up. As I clasped my hands around it, it moved. 
  Screaming I fell backwards onto my bum and moved away. The cockroach’s tentacles (?) began
  moving around, its skin taking on a shiny sheen that no longer looked like wood.
  In a deep voice it said, “oh god, I thought I’d never get out of there.” Turning to face toward me it
  said, “hey, you got a towel? Can you wipe my brow? It’s a scorcher today!” It was my uncle’s
  voice. 
  If I was brave, I would wipe the sweat off the cockroach. But I wasn’t. I was horrified. I screamed
  again and scrambled to my feet. 
  “Wha wha-what’s going on?! This can’t be real” I screamed to myself and fought the urge to
  throw up. I ran out of the dining room, around the body-shaped tape on the floor, and out the
  door, slamming the heavy door behind me. I pressed the elevator button and took big gulping
  breaths, willing myself to believe that what I was was an illusion or a trick of the light or
  dehydration. I waited for the strange feeling to pass, for health to return.

Marie Claire
Exercise #3: Stream of consciousness (sentences in italics are the sentence prompts we were
given in class)
The first thing that I’d do would be to haul down the hallway, the few things that were left in the
room. I have no idea why she left these things. They didn’t make any sense – a book of poetry,
an old pair of button-up shoes, a box full of satin ribbons and a locket with a photo of a little
girl. I wonder who the little girl is? Is it Clarisse as a child or is it perhaps the child of Clarisse?
Anything is possible with her. She is such a mystery. Just like her showing up here after such a
long time with no word from her for years. And now, she has just picked up and left without a
word, again. No forwarding address, no good-bye. No nothing. I guess I should be angry or at
least a bit worried or maybe just intrigued by it all. But, I am so over her inconsiderate behavior
that right now, I don’t feel anything at all. Maybe she’ll send a note as some kind of
afterthought and maybe not. Either way is fine with me. Great, there’s a roach running across
the floor boards. I hate roaches! Can’t stand the sight of them. They really creep me out. But, if
I was brave, I would “wipe the sweat off the cockroach.” That’s an old saying that I remind
myself of whenever I feel the need to be courageous. But, that will never happen. Never! This
whole experience is making me feel sick to my stomach. Unhinged. Unnerved. I wish I had
never known her. I wait for the strange feeling to pass. For health to return.