The Diverse Writing Styles of Hemingway and Fitzgerald

In the early-to mid-1900s, two groundbreaking writers by the names of Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald published multiple successful pieces featuring very different writing techniques and themes. While Hemingway’s writing featured extremely serious and dark moods, Fitzgerald’s focused more on the cheerful and celebratory experiences in life. First, I am going to discuss the miserably depressing and down-right sorrowful stories by Ernest Hemingway. The best way to describe his writing style is gloomy and humorless; most of his pieces contained very stern situations. And the best way to describe the author is…disturbed. Unlike Fitzgerald, Hemingway’s lifestyle was quite plain and sad. He never seemed to identify or enjoy the little things in life, hence why his stories were so dull. Fitzgerald, his fame-rising opponent, seemed to engage in fun-filled activities as often as possible. Now isn’t that the kind of life most people would embrace happily? Poor Hemingway… Hemingway expressed his blue feelings in many of his pieces, including “Indian Camp”. This particular short-story is about a young boy accompanying his father, the local physician, as he births a baby. When they arrive, the child’s uncle is already there, and offers his father a cigar, a usual tradition for the birth of new life. Inside the cabin, he aids his father, who performs multiple procedures on the wailing mother in labor. The child notices the woman’s husband on the top bunk, who has turned to face the wall. The spouse is later discovered to have slit his own throat, in an attempt to commit suicide. Through multiple uses of symbolism throughout the story, we later are able to identify that the uncle, who may or may not have raped her, is the true father of the newborn baby, a key reason her partner killed himself. He was tormented due to the fact he had to listen to his wife scream in agonizing pain, over something he could not have prevented. This story truly depicts Hemingway’s gut-wrenching emotions, which also lead up to the author taking his own life. These dark writing topics definitely resemble Hemingway’s real feelings and focus on serious life lessons, unlike Fitzgerald’s who couldn’t have been more dissimilar. Fitzgerald’s writing focused on love, youth, and celebrating every moment life has to offer, no matter what the consequences may be. Fitzgerald himself took part in many “extra-curricular” activities which involved evenings of parties and nightlife fraternizing. Doesn’t that sound fun? The author depicted those happy and cheerful emotions in many stories including, “Bernice Bobs Her Hair”, where a boring and unadorned girl changes her appearance and attitude towards eligible bachelors, with the help of her vindictive and seductive cousin, Marjorie. After eventually winning the heart of multiple wealthy men, Marjorie grows a rage of jealousy over Bernice’s growing popularity at the nightly soirees? Bernice is forced to bob her hair at the hand of an envious Marjorie and in return, dismembers her luscious golden braids. While teaching a somewhat comical lesson about being yourself and sympathetic to others, Fitzgerald manages to captivate the audience using amusing tones and vocabulary. As you can see, although these two authors both were able to gain fame and abundant success, there writing styles couldn’t have been more diverse. This also caused heated feuds and competitions between the two. Hemingway struggled to write decent, creative and good pieces that often took months to complete, while Fitzgerald on the other hand, would “party ‘til he dropped” and the extravagant, beautiful stories would just flow out of his brain, without any effort. But, all of the fighting doesn’t even matter; what matters is the readers personal preference. Some may enjoy the eerie moods of Hemingway, while others prefer the extravagant themes Fitzgerald’s stories have to offer; and to this day, their works are still being read. Their creative writings will live on forever, their immortal brilliance to dazzle scholars and pupils yet to be born.

Jaws

The beast glides elegantly through the waves
Prepared to take a life away

The currents crash upon the sand
The tourists clueless of what's at hand

Its stomach roars like a lion beast
Anguished with hunger, ready for a feast

Approaching an innocent boy, ready to strike
Its razor sharp teeth, as ragged as knives

Sinking it's jaws in the young child's skin
The fish has committed the ultimate sin

Taking a life, for its own ungodly pleasure
A life that was thought to be a precious treasure

Bodily fluids flow like a river
The teeth sharp as needles, pierce into his liver

What's done is done, the shark has slaughtered
And all that's left is blood in the water

Creative Piece

JAWS: Chapter Two

The Shark’s Point of View

                I find myself drifting closer to shore, sensing another set of prey that has fallen into my merciless trap. Strangely enough, my stomach still bothers me, the young woman from dawn not completely distinguishing my ruthless hunger.

                The scent of human blood draws me to him; a petite boy with a small gash on his knee, possibly from the jagged grains of sand that make up the densely populated beach. Is this worth it? Risking my existence for a rapid snack; aware that the dozens of other swimmers, stroking leisurely through the waves, may witness my attack. The water turning n  alarming bright red, causing the bystanders into a panic, as they urgently hurry to shore. One glance of a shark my size would force the beaches to eventually be shut down, then my food source will completely vanish; I will most likely die of starvation.

                And this innocent child, what will become of his family? How will they leave on, after their most prized possession is brutally devoured by a mindless animal. Is that what I am? An animal? I’m starting to believe so; my actions in the past few hours have been heartless and pure iniquity. I am positively damned to hell, for I have not only taken an innocent life for my own pleasure and enjoyment, but broken the most sacred law in the food chain. I am a predator; not a killer.

                But I am unable to change the past and what’s done is done. I gradually approach the youthful fellow, not wanting to warn him of my presence or scare him off. His legs dangle from a bright yellow raft, causing my mouth to water. I soon find enough strength to take a small nibble, my teeth stabbing through his left foot. He tries to scream for assistance, but I forcefully drag him beneath the surface, the sound of his cries drowned out by bubbles and splashes.

                I observe a couple of teenagers back away from the area, blood now spurting from his wounds. I suddenly hear a lifeguard blow his whistle, having finally seen the boy’s fight for survival. The yellow raft pops, perhaps my pointed teeth putting enough pressure on the tube, for it to explode. I see many concerned mothers carry their loved ones to safety, the sound of terror obvious in their high-pitched shrieks.

                I quickly flee the scene, the struggling boy, still jammed in my mouth. As I glide away, a trail of his blood pours behind me. Before I can escape, out of the corner of my eye I see that the body of water is now lifeless, not a single soul still in the water. All that occupies the shore is a middle-aged woman who calls out for her son. An adolescent who will never again feel the warmth of his mother’s hug, who will never experience their first kiss, who will never be able to graduate high school, all because of my actions. All because I chose to become a cruel, man-eating machine. 

Point Of View

Kyle Roberts

January 23, 2013                                   JAWS: From the Shark’s Perspective

Point Of View

                I set out for prey, intending to find a food source that would reduce the undeniable hunger and pain twisting in my stomach. The moon begins to rise, its radiance and reflection glistening on my skin as glide through the crashing waves. There is a slight breeze blowing through the air, bringing a chill to my dorsal fin, which sashays through the murky ocean.

                I sense her paddling out to sea, the noise bouncing in and out of my eardrum; her delicate splashing and movements leading me to her silky white figure. Her legs dangle, from above, as if they were bait perched atop the surface, hanging from a silver hook. A mouthwatering sensation occurs in my mouth, her beautiful and leisurely movements testing my basic instincts; my appetite ferociously growls with agony and despair.

                I dive through the upcoming waves, now prepared to take a bite, aware of the life-taunting eternity and consequences that await me. I have no other choice; the lack of fish inhabitants in the cold and crystal clear waters of Amity Island has caused the shark population to decrease drastically. As far as I know, I am the only one left. Once the blood reaches my taste buds, I will develop a liking for human flesh, and be forced to continue hunting and devouring innocent people, spending their vacation on the island paradise.

What have I succumbed to? Is this really the path I desire to take? My hunger gets the best of me and I cautiously brush against her foot, not wanting to warn her of my presence. If she becomes startled, she will positively swim back to the shore; humans are frightened quite easily. She treads in place, floating with the current drawing her out to sea. I open my bulky set of jaws and sink my razor sharp teeth deep into her leg; tugging her beneath the water. I can feel her struggling, but her blood has already reached the tip of my tongue, and I have no intention of releasing my grasp. She begins to thrash around anxiously, pounding her clenched fists  against my rough, strapping build.

The sound of her blood-curdling screams are subtly heard from above the surface, regretful cries that I will forever her in my most terrible nightmares. I push my teeth deeper into her bones, her skin tearing apart, blood flowing immensely from the pain stricken wound. I begin to masticate, her abdomen slowly sinking into my mouth. I chew with great force, her punches growing weak and feeble.

The vibration patterns of her slamming against the sea shows signs of tiredness; I suppose the tug of war battle is coming to an end. I am finally able to swallow her legs, the meat diminishing into my digestive system, relieving my stomach of its agonizing starvation. My teeth are still pressed into her waist; I suppose it may feel like thousands of ragged needles piercing through her flesh. The victim finally accepts her fate, and her life is obsolete with one last bite.

My actions, although regretful, are somehow satisfying. I am willing to repeat my actions as many times needed, for I haven’t felt such pleasure and empowering emotions in quite some time. Amity Island will be my feeding ground; the sensational feeling in my stomach is delightful. I flee from the crime scene, ready for morning to come. Ready for the fiery shine of sunlight to awaken me come tomorrow morning, and the oblivious tourists to enter the sea, stepping right into my trap.