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Description
Exercise 1: The Reluctant "I"

     The purpose of this exercise was to write a short scene from a first-person perspective while using the first-person pronoun only twice.  I fudged a little but - I used the plural first-person once as well.  But, besides that, I did pretty well, I think.

     It's funny - as often as they bark the order, there's no one as good at an about-face as the Drill Sergeant himself.  There he stood in front of the row of cadets standing stiff with fear, beaten into discipline but undiminished.  For six months he had spent fourteen hours daily convincing us, with every harsh word, punishment, and creative application of rubber hosing his craft could supply, that "worm" was a word of high praise.
     Schmidt was the division funny man.  One time he wrote a song about Sarge that even Casey admitted had a pretty catchy refrain.  For a week he sang it to lighten things.  Then Sarge found out about it and later provided us with a colorful account of the chat he had with Schmidt about respect and teamwork.  It was half a month before Schmidt could speak without a lisp, he never sang again.  As Sarge so clearly explained, the unbearable conditions were the natural and proper state of scummy dog-shits like us, and therefore any attempts to alter them were unnatural and improper.  No one argued.  Brady said it first: that was the day things really changed.  There was no escape.  If the conditions were only fit for scummy dog-shits, then the solution was to become scummy dog-shits.
     The change was palpable.  Swanson stopped grinning anytime someone mentioned oatmeal, as if the famous incident had never even happened.  Carmichael didn't even get misty-eyed the next time someone stole that handkerchief of his.  I don't think he even looked for it.  That twinkle in Brady's eye anytime he got a letter from home disappeared, and Casey stopped reading his books after lights-out.  The officers call it "breaking them in", but from the private's end, it feels more like just getting broken.  Everything manly and human about  the human men in that camp had been knocked clean out, and no one could even muster the energy to remember it had ever been there.
     It was to such a group of men that Sarge now spoke in a tone he had never used before.  Suddenly, by fiat, the piles of filth he had barely endured were men again.  You would think the war was already over, the enemy scared stiff by the mere rumor of our coming.  But Casey knew the truth.  So did Brady.  So did Swanson and Carmichael and all the rest.
     And so did I.  That must be where it came from; it just started building up on the inside, where you can't do anything about it except just shoot yourself, and they hadn't issued the rifles yet.  So when it became unbearable, there was nothing to do but cut loose.
     "Permission to speak freely, sir."
     Silence.  The others didn't dare turn their heads, but their thoughts were audible, it was so quiet.  The Sergeant paused mid-pace and turned - another perfect about-face.  His face smiled the same as it had two seconds ago.  It could afford the lie - his eyes were telling the truth.
     "Permission granted, Private Jenkins."
     "Sir, with all due respect, this is bullshit.  For six months of Hell you've played Satan with a smile.  You're standing in front of broken men, talking like we've been through something together.  Like there's nothing but brotherhood behind us and easy victory ahead.  Like you're so full of peace and good will you're ready to bust.  But they all know what you're really full of.  We know.  I know."
     As the words kept coming - no stopping them - Sarge slowly walked closer.  His smile actually got bigger, but as it did it assumed a more familiar shape.  Seventeen men all knew what was about to happen, and not one of them regretted it.
     Familiarity is sweet.

Description
Exercise 1: The Reluctant "I"

     The purpose of this exercise was to write a short scene from a first-person perspective while using the first-person pronoun only twice.  I fudged a little but - I used the plural first-person once as well.  But, besides that, I did pretty well, I think.

     It's funny - as often as they bark the order, there's no one as good at an about-face as the Drill Sergeant himself.  There he stood in front of the row of cadets standing stiff with fear, beaten into discipline but undiminished.  For six months he had spent fourteen hours daily convincing us, with every harsh word, punishment, and creative application of rubber hosing his craft could supply, that "worm" was a word of high praise.
     Schmidt was the division funny man.  One time he wrote a song about Sarge that even Casey admitted had a pretty catchy refrain.  For a week he sang it to lighten things.  Then Sarge found out about it and later provided us with a colorful account of the chat he had with Schmidt about respect and teamwork.  It was half a month before Schmidt could speak without a lisp, he never sang again.  As Sarge so clearly explained, the unbearable conditions were the natural and proper state of scummy dog-shits like us, and therefore any attempts to alter them were unnatural and improper.  No one argued.  Brady said it first: that was the day things really changed.  There was no escape.  If the conditions were only fit for scummy dog-shits, then the solution was to become scummy dog-shits.
     The change was palpable.  Swanson stopped grinning anytime someone mentioned oatmeal, as if the famous incident had never even happened.  Carmichael didn't even get misty-eyed the next time someone stole that handkerchief of his.  I don't think he even looked for it.  That twinkle in Brady's eye anytime he got a letter from home disappeared, and Casey stopped reading his books after lights-out.  The officers call it "breaking them in", but from the private's end, it feels more like just getting broken.  Everything manly and human about  the human men in that camp had been knocked clean out, and no one could even muster the energy to remember it had ever been there.
     It was to such a group of men that Sarge now spoke in a tone he had never used before.  Suddenly, by fiat, the piles of filth he had barely endured were men again.  You would think the war was already over, the enemy scared stiff by the mere rumor of our coming.  But Casey knew the truth.  So did Brady.  So did Swanson and Carmichael and all the rest.
     And so did I.  That must be where it came from; it just started building up on the inside, where you can't do anything about it except just shoot yourself, and they hadn't issued the rifles yet.  So when it became unbearable, there was nothing to do but cut loose.
     "Permission to speak freely, sir."
     Silence.  The others didn't dare turn their heads, but their thoughts were audible, it was so quiet.  The Sergeant paused mid-pace and turned - another perfect about-face.  His face smiled the same as it had two seconds ago.  It could afford the lie - his eyes were telling the truth.
     "Permission granted, Private Jenkins."
     "Sir, with all due respect, this is bullshit.  For six months of Hell you've played Satan with a smile.  You're standing in front of broken men, talking like we've been through something together.  Like there's nothing but brotherhood behind us and easy victory ahead.  Like you're so full of peace and good will you're ready to bust.  But they all know what you're really full of.  We know.  I know."
     As the words kept coming - no stopping them - Sarge slowly walked closer.  His smile actually got bigger, but as it did it assumed a more familiar shape.  Seventeen men all knew what was about to happen, and not one of them regretted it.
     Familiarity is sweet.