The opening prompt today was:
Write about your favorite place.

Next writers read and compared the following vignettes:

            Number 200 was at the far end of the building.  Zoë walked the quarter mile from math class, passing no less than forty-nine classroom doors, at least six of which were English classrooms.  “That Zartler guy had better be as good as everyone says,” Zoë thought. 

            After walking a year, Zoë reached room 200.  A wide wooden door, with a huge chip of veneer missing was all that stood between Zoë and his last class of the day.  Zoë reached for the door, just as his fingertips touched the knob, the door swung wide open, nearly clipping his nose.  “I can’t take it!” yelled a tall blonde girl in a General’s soccer jersey, “It’s just too much!” she screamed as she fled down the hall.

             Zoë walked in. Half the shades were halfway up, and the other half were closed.  A strange smell swirled through Zoë’s nose – it reminded him of old lemons.  A paunchy man with a goatee and a school ID labeled “Zartler” was leaning against the chalkboard, a thin layer of white chalk dust hung like vocadandruff on the collar of his worn polyester shirt.

            “Welcome to creative writing,” beamed the teacher.

            Zoë knew this wasn’t going to be good.

           

            Leaving room 274 was anguishing.  Zoë had loved her first day in geometry.  The teacher Ms. Willow had been clear, funny, and had not assigned too much homework.  At the other end of the school was an unknown. “Zartler – English Lit.”  Every time she had shown her schedule to someone they had frowned, or just stopped talking when they got to seventh period.

             Zoë walked by room 243; the fluorescent light overhead was flickering.  As she got to room 206 she entered a long stretch of hall where the lights all seemed to be out, and where the janitor seemed not to come at all.  At the very end of there was one door.  It was labeled “200,” though the “2” was hanging cockeyed from one nail, and one of the zeroes seemed to have been cut out of red construction paper so long ago that it was now the same faded brown as an old scab.

             Zoë stood in front of the door.  The was a large scar in the wood, a place where a chunk of it’s skin had been torn off.  It was all that stood between Zoë and his last class.

            Inside the room was a patchwork of shadow and light.  Shades were randomly up, down and in between.  A couple of football players, still in their huge jersey’s even though it was December cowered in one corner of light.  In the back of the room, almost hidden by shadow a dark, goateed figure nearly as ominous as the blackboard he was writing dense, tiny sentences on.

            “You’re late.  Copy what’s on the board before it’s too late,” the teacher said.

The class discussed how the second version using setting to create a much more ominous and sinister character. The class discussed the use of the opposite of what is expected as irony.

The majority of class time was devoted to conferencing on writers morbid fiction drafts in triads. The class followed the following procedures. The 

1) Writer describes what he /she is trying to "do".

2) Writer describes what she / he thinks that they have done well.

3) Writer offers two questions he / she has about their draft and asks either for positive feedback or positive feedback AND constructive criticism.

     a) Their story, e.g. plot, character, theme, etc

     b) Their writing, e.g., use of the elements of story telling, pacing, etc.

4) Writer shares their story

5) Writer receives feedback

6) Repeat for all members of the group.

With the remaining time writers had time to revise or have additional conferences.