Hi Class,
Since we're just starting Stephen King's On Writing, I thought I would open this blog to a discussion. For those of you who have read Stephen King before, what do you think is his best work? Please keep in mind that Stephen King didn't write horror only. Some of his best stories, "Stand by Me," "The Green Mile," and "Shawshank Redemption" are now beloved movies.
Since we're just starting Stephen King's On Writing, I thought I would open this blog to a discussion. For those of you who have read Stephen King before, what do you think is his best work? Please keep in mind that Stephen King didn't write horror only. Some of his best stories, "Stand by Me," "The Green Mile," and "Shawshank Redemption" are now beloved movies.
I'm including a snippet from "Children of Corn" here. It's just the opening passage. The short story is far more visceral and scary than the movie based on it. Notice on how many levels there is tension--between the characters, in the shocking description of the accident, and in the creepy atmosphere of the corn itself. It's a great story and can be found in the collection, Night Shift. For a small taste, read on. If you've got your own favorite passage (just a paragraph or two) please send it to me and I'll post it here!
"Children of the Corn" by Stephen King
Burt turned the radio on too loud and didn't turn it down because they were on the verge of another argument and he didn't want it to happen. He was desperate for it not to happen.
Vicky said something. 'What?' he shouted. 'Turn it down! Do you want to break my eardrums? 'He bit down hard on what might have come through his mouth and turned it down. Vicky was fanning herself with her scarf even though the T-Bird was air-conditioned. 'Where are we, anyway?' -'Nebraska.' She gave him a cold, neutral look. 'Yes, Burt. I know we're in Nebraska, Burt. But where the hell are we?' 'You've got the road atlas. Look it up. Or can't you read?'
'Such wit. This is why we got off the turnpike. So we could look at three hundred miles of corn. And enjoy the wit and wisdom of Burt Robeson.'He was gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. He decided he was holding it that tightly because if he loosened up, why, one of those hands might just fly off and hit the ex-Prom Queen beside him right in the chops. We 're saving our marriage, he told himself. Yes. We're doing it the same way us grunts went about saving villages in the war.
'Vicky,' he said carefully. 'I have driven fifteen hundred miles on turnpikes since we left Boston. I did all that driving myself because you refused to drive. Then -' -'I did not refuse!' Vicky said hotly. 'Justbecause I get migraines when I drive for a long time -'Then when I asked you if you'd navigate for me on some of the secondary roads, you said sure, Burt. Those were your exact words. Sure, Burt. Then -'Sometimes I wonder how I ever wound up married to you.'
'By saying two little words.' She stared at him for a moment, white-lipped, and then picked up the road atlas. She turned the pages savagely. It had been a mistake leaving the turnpike, Burt thought morosely. It was a shame, too, because up until then they had been doing pretty well, treating each other almost like human beings. It had sometimes seemed that this trip to the coast, ostensibly to see Vicky's brother and his wife but actually a last-ditch attempt to patch up their own marriage, was going to work.
But since they left the pike, it had been bad again. How bad? Well, terrible, actually. 'We left the turnpike at Hamburg, right?' -'Right.'
'There's nothing more until Gatlin,' she said. 'Twenty miles. Wide place in the road. Do you suppose we could stop there and get something to eat? Or does your almighty schedule say we have to go until two o'clock like we did yesterday?'
He took his eyes off the road to look at her. 'I've about had it, Vicky. As far as I'm concerned, we can turn right here and go home and see that
lawyer you wanted to talk to. Because this isn't working at -'
She had faced forward again, her expression stonily set. It suddenly turned to surprise and fear. 'Burt look out you're going to -'
He turned his attention back to the road just in time to see something vanish under the T-Bird's bumper. A moment later, while he was only beginning to switch from gas to brake, he felt something thump sickeningly under the front and then the back wheels. They were thrown forward as the car braked along the centre line, decelerating from fifty to zero along black skidmarks.
'A dog,' he said. 'Tell me it was a dog, Vicky.'
Her face was a pallid, cottage-cheese colour. 'A boy. A little boy. He just ran out of the corn and. . . congratulations, tiger.' She fumbled the car door open, leaned out, threw up.
Burt sat straight behind the T-Bird's wheel, hands still gripping it loosely. He was aware of nothing for a long time but the rich, dark smell of fertilizer. Then he saw that Vicky was gone and when he looked in the outside mirror he saw her stumbling clumsily back towards a heaped bundle that looked like a pile of rags. She was ordinarily a graceful woman but now her grace was gone, robbed.
It's manslaughter. That's what they call it. I took my eyes off the road. He turned the ignition off and got out. The wind rustled softly through the growing man-high corn, making a weird sound like respiration. Vicky was standing over the bundle of rags now, and he could hear her sobbing. He was halfway between the car and where she stood and something caught his eye on the left, a gaudy splash of red amid all the green, as bright as barn paint.
He stopped, looking directly into the corn. He found himself thinking (anything to untrack from those rags that were not rags) that it must have been a fantastically good growing season for corn. It grew close together, almost ready to bear. You could plunge into those neat, shaded rows and spend a day trying to find your way out again. But the neatness was broken here. Several tall cornstalks had been broken and leaned askew. And what was that further back in the shadows?
"Children of the Corn" by Stephen King
Burt turned the radio on too loud and didn't turn it down because they were on the verge of another argument and he didn't want it to happen. He was desperate for it not to happen.
Vicky said something. 'What?' he shouted. 'Turn it down! Do you want to break my eardrums? 'He bit down hard on what might have come through his mouth and turned it down. Vicky was fanning herself with her scarf even though the T-Bird was air-conditioned. 'Where are we, anyway?' -'Nebraska.' She gave him a cold, neutral look. 'Yes, Burt. I know we're in Nebraska, Burt. But where the hell are we?' 'You've got the road atlas. Look it up. Or can't you read?'
'Such wit. This is why we got off the turnpike. So we could look at three hundred miles of corn. And enjoy the wit and wisdom of Burt Robeson.'He was gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. He decided he was holding it that tightly because if he loosened up, why, one of those hands might just fly off and hit the ex-Prom Queen beside him right in the chops. We 're saving our marriage, he told himself. Yes. We're doing it the same way us grunts went about saving villages in the war.
'Vicky,' he said carefully. 'I have driven fifteen hundred miles on turnpikes since we left Boston. I did all that driving myself because you refused to drive. Then -' -'I did not refuse!' Vicky said hotly. 'Justbecause I get migraines when I drive for a long time -'Then when I asked you if you'd navigate for me on some of the secondary roads, you said sure, Burt. Those were your exact words. Sure, Burt. Then -'Sometimes I wonder how I ever wound up married to you.'
'By saying two little words.' She stared at him for a moment, white-lipped, and then picked up the road atlas. She turned the pages savagely. It had been a mistake leaving the turnpike, Burt thought morosely. It was a shame, too, because up until then they had been doing pretty well, treating each other almost like human beings. It had sometimes seemed that this trip to the coast, ostensibly to see Vicky's brother and his wife but actually a last-ditch attempt to patch up their own marriage, was going to work.
But since they left the pike, it had been bad again. How bad? Well, terrible, actually. 'We left the turnpike at Hamburg, right?' -'Right.'
'There's nothing more until Gatlin,' she said. 'Twenty miles. Wide place in the road. Do you suppose we could stop there and get something to eat? Or does your almighty schedule say we have to go until two o'clock like we did yesterday?'
He took his eyes off the road to look at her. 'I've about had it, Vicky. As far as I'm concerned, we can turn right here and go home and see that
lawyer you wanted to talk to. Because this isn't working at -'
She had faced forward again, her expression stonily set. It suddenly turned to surprise and fear. 'Burt look out you're going to -'
He turned his attention back to the road just in time to see something vanish under the T-Bird's bumper. A moment later, while he was only beginning to switch from gas to brake, he felt something thump sickeningly under the front and then the back wheels. They were thrown forward as the car braked along the centre line, decelerating from fifty to zero along black skidmarks.
'A dog,' he said. 'Tell me it was a dog, Vicky.'
Her face was a pallid, cottage-cheese colour. 'A boy. A little boy. He just ran out of the corn and. . . congratulations, tiger.' She fumbled the car door open, leaned out, threw up.
Burt sat straight behind the T-Bird's wheel, hands still gripping it loosely. He was aware of nothing for a long time but the rich, dark smell of fertilizer. Then he saw that Vicky was gone and when he looked in the outside mirror he saw her stumbling clumsily back towards a heaped bundle that looked like a pile of rags. She was ordinarily a graceful woman but now her grace was gone, robbed.
It's manslaughter. That's what they call it. I took my eyes off the road. He turned the ignition off and got out. The wind rustled softly through the growing man-high corn, making a weird sound like respiration. Vicky was standing over the bundle of rags now, and he could hear her sobbing. He was halfway between the car and where she stood and something caught his eye on the left, a gaudy splash of red amid all the green, as bright as barn paint.
He stopped, looking directly into the corn. He found himself thinking (anything to untrack from those rags that were not rags) that it must have been a fantastically good growing season for corn. It grew close together, almost ready to bear. You could plunge into those neat, shaded rows and spend a day trying to find your way out again. But the neatness was broken here. Several tall cornstalks had been broken and leaned askew. And what was that further back in the shadows?
