Added Chapter For Flowers For Algernon Creative Writings Examples

Abstract

Flowers of Algernon, by Daniel Keys, is the story of a man with a low IQ who becomes the test subject for an experimental new surgery to increase his intelligence. The novel, written in the form of journal entries, chronicles his rise and fall from genius, and reminisces about the road that lead him to take such experimental lengths to improve his cognition. I wrote this chapter for Flowers for Algernon to create a new reality for the Charlie character, my aim was to give him more of an opportunity to explore his shared past with his father, and to gain resolution of his greatest conflicts. I achieved this by allowing him to actively speak to his father when he visited the barber shop. I composed this new chapter by mimicking the style of Daniel Keyes, in terms of both sentence structure and tone, and by pulling out specific pieces of text, or sentiments, from the original novel and weaving them into my newly written chapter to create a sense of connection, or continuity, with what Keyes had already written. It is written largely informal, though with a certain “lab report” kind of tone, which also influenced the style of the original work. This is significant, because Keyes style changes throughout the novel to reflect the changes in Charlie’s IQ, and it places the chapter in context, chronologically, in the novel.

June 19- Today was the day I decided to face Matt. I have been waiting for the right time, saying “perhaps I should wait” but I realize that there will never be a day when I feel brave enough to face him, because nothing ever turns out the way I expect it to.
I knew that Matt had opened a little barbershop in the Bronx after he and Rose split, but I had never been there. He wasn’t hard to find. I walked up to the shop, with its candy can barber pole slowly circling, and recognized the familiar sensation of fear and excitement, mixed, twisting up in my stomach and knotting in my throat.
I saw him through the window, sitting there, reading the local newspaper and shaking his head slowly in disapproval of what he read. I recognized the familiar gesture immediately, the furrowed brow and pierced lips. He used to turn that look on mother every time they spoke about me.
With a sigh, and knowing I could stall no longer, I swung open the heavy glass door, and startled when the bell above my head gave out a “ding” announcing my arrival.

Matt turned to me “Hello Sir, how can I help you today?”

I stare, boring into his familiar eyes, noticing the subtle worry lines that have emerged on his face with age, hoping he will see the same reflection of our joint past, our similar pains, in my eyes. He squints momentarily, I think almost in recognition, but perhaps only in confusion at my silence.

He takes a step toward me. “Do you need something mister? Are you ok?”

I shake my head no, slowly looking for the words, or the courage to say the words that stick in my throat. In a burst, I blurt out “I am your son.”
It’s his turn to stare boringly into my eyes, but not in recognition – in astonishment. He looks, confused, or maybe angry, as he tries to attach meaning to my words. Finally, he speaks “Is this a joke?” He looks hurt, as if I am a cruel man, drudging up his past, hurling insults at his injured past.
“No it’s me, its Charlie.” I say with sincerity, but still he only squints and stares as if he is trying to understand what I am saying, and more importantly why I am saying it. I search for the words to help him understand and finally remember. “Do you remember?” I ask “You made me that spinner. I had not remembered until just now, but it was you that made it for me. I played with it for hours. It had bright colored beads, and rings threaded onto a string. And if I held it up in the light it would flash as it spun. It was beautiful. Entrancing, even, I think.” I know I have rambled, and catch myself starting to kind of stare off, no longer making eye contact. And when I look back his eyes are wide with wear, confusion and sudden recognition.
“Charlie” he breaths out. The word is barely more than a whisper. A tear rolls down his cheek. His eyes look pained but his mouth begins to turn up in a smile. “But how?” he asks.
I smile in pure elation that he seems relieved that it is me, happy to see me even, broken over the years that have passed even, and I rush a few steps toward him. “It was a surgery, to help boost my intelligence. I know so much. It was an experiment you see, and we are studying my reaction, if my progress continues they say they will begin to use the procedure to help other people who are like I was.”
He smiles proudly, and I picture him bragging about his “boy” while giving haircuts the next day, his son, the brilliant scientist, the first of his kind.

Then, the conversation turns, as I ask him gingerly “Where is Rose?”

“I don’t know” he says simply. “Do you remember that night, when I took you to Warren State Home?”
“Yes, I remember,” I respond quietly, reeling from the pain of the memory. My mother screaming “take him, take him tonight.” I envision her, shaking the knife, face red and shaking with rage and adrenaline. My tender father loved me, and always tried to fight her bullying. He encouraged her to accept me for who I was, but she could never accept anyone who she saw as less than perfect.
He pauses, perhaps replaying the same moment in his mind. Then he shakes his head, that same slow wag, and pierced lip gaze, and raised his eyes to meet mine. “That night shattered us. There was nothing left. I never went back home.”
He embraced me then, and we sat in two barber chairs, facing one another, and talking about the things we had shared, a lifetime ago, both broken and blessed. We remembered how I loved Nora, my desire to comfort her, and my mother’s abuse anytime I dared go near her. Rose slapping me backward onto the bed. We remembered fathers laughing smile as I played beside his chair. We remembered the move from P.S. 13 to P.S.222, and my mother’s inability to accept that I would never learn the way other children do.
We laughed, cried and enjoyed, what I will always remember, as a great communion of both mind and heart. We reconnected, as only a father and son can, before suddenly realizing it was late evening. We had been so engaged in our evoking of past demons that we did not realize we had completely missed lunch, and had treaded upon the dinner hour. “It is so late, I guess I should go,” I said quietly, embracing him.
As I reached the door I turned back to him “I have dinner plans, with a friend, a lady friend.” He smiled and nodded in approval. “Would you like to join us? I would very much like you to meet her.”
He smiled, eyes glistening with tears again. “I thought you would never ask.” And we left the barber shop in stride, heading toward dinner, and I hoped, a new chapter in our lives, free of the darker days of the past.