For this assignment, I’m working from pages 5 and 6 of Elements of the Writing Craft by Robert Olmstead.

Siobhan

Where does it start?

It starts (with an itch), a partly (formed) memory of (tormented sacrifices).

Make a declaration.

This morning I was (paralyzed again, their angry voices filling my ears).

Make a comment about the foundation established in the first two sentences. Make Wisdom.

What an (elixir), of  (desperation), is mixed when one is (unaccountable for their own misdeeds for centuries), alongside the (guilt) and (noise), the (bargaining) and the (self-loathing.)

The fourth sentence returns to the intention of the second sentence.

My identity is a (carousel of horrors) or (wicked reflections), borne (of a series of increasingly poor compromises), including (my first offenses) of being (a cruel jailor) and (and belligerent inmate in a prison of my own making.)

Dhoul

Where does it start?

It starts in my belly, a partly filled pit at my center.

Make a declaration.

This morning my hunger was worse than usual.

Make a comment about the foundation established in the first two sentences. Make Wisdom.

What a (banquet of flavors), is mixed when one can taste (terror) alongside the (hope) and the (courage), the (fear) and (sweat.) All things taste better when seasoned with emotion.

The fourth sentence returns to the intention of the second sentence

My identity is (destruction) or (fate) borne of (a relentless, eternal hunger) including (my monstrous reputation) of being (the only dragon around.)

Siobhan (rev. 1)

It starts with an itch, a partly formed memory of tormented sacrifices. This morning I was paralyzed again, their angry voices filling my ears. What an elixir of desperation, is mixed when one is unaccountable for their own misdeeds for centuries, alongside the guilt and noise, the bargaining and the self-loathing. My identity is a carousel of horrors and wicked reflections, borne of a series of increasingly poor compromises, including my first offenses of being a cruel jailor and belligerent inmate in a prison of my own making.

Dhoul (rev. 1)

It starts in my belly, a partly filled pit at my center. This morning my hunger was worse than usual. What a banquet of flavors, is mixed when one can taste terror, alongside the hope and the courage and the fear and sweat. All things taste better when seasoned with emotion. My identity is destruction or fate borne of a relentless, eternal hunger including my monstrous reputation of being the only dragon around. 

Siobhan (rev. 2)

It comes upon me first as an itch, a fragment of memory, a glimpse of tormented faces. This morning I woke, drowned in sweat from remembered anguish. The tortured screams of those I’ve sacrificed, tearing at the edges of my sanity. What a pungent brew of despair, when guilt is mixed with rationalization and self-loathing. My identity is consumed by my choices, by what must be done, and to whom. Borne on a sea of justifications and ignored warnings, I am adrift, unmoored, lost.

Dhoul (rev. 2)

It gets worse all the time, the hollow pit in my belly. This morning I was overcome by my hunger. Such a desperate, empty feeling when one doesn’t know when or what their next meal may be. When I feel like I’m starving, I lose myself. My identity is tied to my satiation. Borne upon the tenuous wisps of decreasing prey populations. You wouldn’t like me when I’m hangry.