Here's that writing sample that terrified me so much last night. It still terrifies me, but I'm happy to have it done and sent in. I could have used some old material, but everything saved on Mac just seemed so juvenile. So, in true Holly fashion (well, in true Holly Fantasy Study Abroad fashion), I spent the entire day dashing about Paris, staring at Marcel Proust and Oscar Wilde's graves (asking for some help in the inspiration department), and I whipped out this tidbit an hour ago. I hope it's all right. I know it's nothing wonderful, but it reflects what I've been dealing with today, and I actually think it's kind of funny. I hope the professor agrees...
I tried to count, once, how many times you complained. I used my fingers, because I thought keeping a tally in my notepad would be too obvious, and maybe too concrete. One for your feet hurting, two for having to use the bathroom (yet again was what I didn’t say out loud), three was that you have to work over break, and oh man, you have to drive to Springfield to cosign your house lease.
After three, my fingers clenched into fists of their own accord, and I found myself swinging my stiff arms like an upright gorilla. Steam was coming out of my nose, thick as King Kong’s breath on some unsuspecting townsperson’s shoulder.
I huffed and puffed with that pent-up tally as you ordered a crepe. The man swirled the batter deliberately, used his fingers to lift and flip the pancake. While the other side sizzled you dug in your purse for change. One coin short, you moaned about high prices, and I ticked four in my head. I also handed you fifty cents.
Your crepe was warm, but you apparently were not, as we picked our way through the nightlife. Five was tallied walking past a porn shop. I ducked my head stupidly as a woman with big hair and big shoes beckoned us in. The neon lights glittered against puddles in the street, which you hated, hated to walk through. You paused, and I wondered, only half jokingly, if you expected me to offer to carry you across the water. I couldn’t anyway, because one entire hand was already carrying your complaints.
You hit six and seven waiting for the crosswalk to turn pedestrian green. My fingers clawed and jutted against my hips, and I trembled a bit. You get uglier every time you talk. Someday, when you’re not so old, I think your chin will melt against your neck. It’s used to being there as you look down your nose at puddles and people and such. Someday your eyebrows will fuse together in a permanent scowl, and then you won’t have to flex any muscles at all to achieve your favorite expression. I think how happy you’ll be, and then remind myself that you won’t be, of course.
Eight was a beggar who clung to your arm for a few seconds until you shook him off. I’ve sorry, sir, I mouthed, I’ve given my fifty cents away to someone else. I don’t think he understood.
Nine was schoolwork, and ten was me. Me, the dawdler, who couldn’t be bothered to appease beggars or glare at prostitutes or ferry over puddles. You threw ten over her shoulder as you continued on, leaving me out of fingers and gasping on the sidewalk. I felt my jacket shred off my arms, felt the fur burst onto my forehead and nose. I was on all fours behind you, pawing the ground with strong feet. You sashayed away, and I sat back on my haunches and watched you go.
Showing posts with label Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stories. Show all posts
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Thursday, September 1, 2011
The Best Thing I Read This Summer
Was without a doubt The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. Ironically, Edgar is also the last book I read this summer. Just finished it last night. I cried at the end, and then I reread a few passages and cried some more. Then I tried (and failed) to go to sleep. It's one of those books you can't sleep on; its magnificence presses on your mind until you find yourself rifling through your bookshelf at midnight, looking for something comparable. You fail, and ultimately have to rely on the Benadryl you're taking for your disgusting case of hives to knock you out.
Edgar Sawtelle is a mute fourteen-year-old boy who's family makes their living breeding dogs in the thick Northwoods of Wisconsin.* But when a Hamlet-esque turn of events results in his father's death, Edgar flees into the wilderness, taking along three dogs for company.
The esteemed authors on the back of my copy call Edgar a Coming Of Age Story, which I suppose is true, although one might argue that every single book ever written is a Coming Of Age of sorts (after all, when do we ever truly grow into ourselves? And what kind of author would depict a character as being entirely static, unless he/she was not aiming for realism?).
What I liked most about the book was the insight about the breeding and training of the Sawtelles' dogs. Also the insight into the minds of the dogs themselves. The dogs are truly characters in this novel, with as much depth and intelligence as anyone you've ever met.
Edgar is a pinnacle of fine storytelling, and as I'm sure you know, there are a lot of books out there that don't read like stories, that don't sweep you along and tangle you up and never really release you, even after you've finished the last page.
Only the very best ones do.
*I should tell you: Another one of the reasons why I loved this book was because I am very familiar with the setting of the book. We drive through the Chequamegon (believe it or not, I spelled that correctly without having to Google first)(also, it's pronounced Sha-Wa-Meg-Gun for you outoftowners) National Forest every time we visit our boat on Lake Superior.
Edgar Sawtelle is a mute fourteen-year-old boy who's family makes their living breeding dogs in the thick Northwoods of Wisconsin.* But when a Hamlet-esque turn of events results in his father's death, Edgar flees into the wilderness, taking along three dogs for company.
The esteemed authors on the back of my copy call Edgar a Coming Of Age Story, which I suppose is true, although one might argue that every single book ever written is a Coming Of Age of sorts (after all, when do we ever truly grow into ourselves? And what kind of author would depict a character as being entirely static, unless he/she was not aiming for realism?).
What I liked most about the book was the insight about the breeding and training of the Sawtelles' dogs. Also the insight into the minds of the dogs themselves. The dogs are truly characters in this novel, with as much depth and intelligence as anyone you've ever met.
Edgar is a pinnacle of fine storytelling, and as I'm sure you know, there are a lot of books out there that don't read like stories, that don't sweep you along and tangle you up and never really release you, even after you've finished the last page.
Only the very best ones do.
*I should tell you: Another one of the reasons why I loved this book was because I am very familiar with the setting of the book. We drive through the Chequamegon (believe it or not, I spelled that correctly without having to Google first)(also, it's pronounced Sha-Wa-Meg-Gun for you outoftowners) National Forest every time we visit our boat on Lake Superior.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
I'm Very Sorry That It's True
***Note: This story is based on true events. I'm not sure if it's even a story, exactly; I just wanted to tell you something and this is the way it ended up. I'm sorry that it's disturbing. I'm sorry that it's not incredibly well written. I'm very sorry that it's true.
The kids down the street are possessed. This I know.
Deena, who lives across from us, caught them beating her dog Ritz with sticks, shrieking all the while. They continued to scream in deafening bursts that rose and fell like hail as Deena brought Ritzy home by the collar. She could almost feel the pellets of noise hit her back.
Deena called the children's mother as soon as she got Ritz settled on her pillow with a hunk of comforting hambone. She explained, in the nicest way possible, that the children had been hitting her dog and screaming like banshees. Deena tried not to convey the full force of her shocked disgust. She tried not to imply that the children could use a few whacks themselves.
In short, Deena asked the mother to forGod'ssakedoherjoband give her children a talking to.
The mother agreed.
The very next day, however, the kids were at it again. Ritz ran from child to child, looking for a way out of the flashing, stinging, shrieking circle. She decided, between a rap at her hip and a thwack aimed at her snout, that she was off sticks for life.
But there, breathless and mint green in her work scrubs, was Deena. Ritz dashed behind her as the children let their weapons fall to their sides. Miraculously, their screaming also stopped, and was replaced with slack-jawed looks of surprise. The younger girl's lip wobbled a little. For a split second Deena felt bad for ruining their fun. Ritz's nudge at her knee brought her back.
But the children were walking away, forming a slumped line across the lawn. Their steps were almost in sync.
Later, with Ritz's head resting in her lap, Deena tried to remember how many children there were. She never thought to count until afterwards. And anyway, they were like a little mob, a crazed band. They were everywhere at once. One couldn't stop to count the rioters; there was too much running for one's life to be done, too many hambones to be fetched in the dusty quiet aftermath.
I see the children every day on my way home from work. Yesterday, it was just one. A girl. She stood at the edge of her driveway, feet nudging against the street where I drove. I braked, thinking she was going to cross, but she didn't. She stared at me, and through my sunglasses and the windshield and all the particles in all the air that hung between us, I could see how very blue her eyes were. I sped up again, breaking her gaze with my 0 to 30 mph.
The kids down the street are possessed. This I know.
Deena, who lives across from us, caught them beating her dog Ritz with sticks, shrieking all the while. They continued to scream in deafening bursts that rose and fell like hail as Deena brought Ritzy home by the collar. She could almost feel the pellets of noise hit her back.
Deena called the children's mother as soon as she got Ritz settled on her pillow with a hunk of comforting hambone. She explained, in the nicest way possible, that the children had been hitting her dog and screaming like banshees. Deena tried not to convey the full force of her shocked disgust. She tried not to imply that the children could use a few whacks themselves.
In short, Deena asked the mother to forGod'ssakedoherjoband give her children a talking to.
The mother agreed.
The very next day, however, the kids were at it again. Ritz ran from child to child, looking for a way out of the flashing, stinging, shrieking circle. She decided, between a rap at her hip and a thwack aimed at her snout, that she was off sticks for life.
But there, breathless and mint green in her work scrubs, was Deena. Ritz dashed behind her as the children let their weapons fall to their sides. Miraculously, their screaming also stopped, and was replaced with slack-jawed looks of surprise. The younger girl's lip wobbled a little. For a split second Deena felt bad for ruining their fun. Ritz's nudge at her knee brought her back.
But the children were walking away, forming a slumped line across the lawn. Their steps were almost in sync.
Later, with Ritz's head resting in her lap, Deena tried to remember how many children there were. She never thought to count until afterwards. And anyway, they were like a little mob, a crazed band. They were everywhere at once. One couldn't stop to count the rioters; there was too much running for one's life to be done, too many hambones to be fetched in the dusty quiet aftermath.
I see the children every day on my way home from work. Yesterday, it was just one. A girl. She stood at the edge of her driveway, feet nudging against the street where I drove. I braked, thinking she was going to cross, but she didn't. She stared at me, and through my sunglasses and the windshield and all the particles in all the air that hung between us, I could see how very blue her eyes were. I sped up again, breaking her gaze with my 0 to 30 mph.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Throwback Thursday
I suddenly thought that I’d like to run the rest of the way. It was a breezy night, not dark enough to be creepy, but dark enough to be powerful.
And then we were off running, me clutching my hood up around my face with both hands, Maddie holding her jacket closed against the wind.
As we ran I turned to her, because I couldn’t remember: “Hey Mad, did I start running, or did you?”
“You did, I think.”
“Did I? It’s funny, because the split second after I had the idea that I’d like to run, we were running, and I didn’t know who set us going.”
She laughed at me, and we continued on towards the Tweet Spot, laughing at ourselves for running towards 11 pm junk food, and at the prospect of being spotted from a dorm window, and at the largeness of the night, and how hilariously small we were within it.
And then we were off running, me clutching my hood up around my face with both hands, Maddie holding her jacket closed against the wind.
As we ran I turned to her, because I couldn’t remember: “Hey Mad, did I start running, or did you?”
“You did, I think.”
“Did I? It’s funny, because the split second after I had the idea that I’d like to run, we were running, and I didn’t know who set us going.”
She laughed at me, and we continued on towards the Tweet Spot, laughing at ourselves for running towards 11 pm junk food, and at the prospect of being spotted from a dorm window, and at the largeness of the night, and how hilariously small we were within it.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Broken Glass
What does broken glass mean?
Is it the beginning of something, or is it the ending?
I’m sure I don’t know.
I only know that it was a cappuccino bottle that broke, one of those little ones that come in six packs like they’re beers.
I didn’t even notice the bottle until it fell from a desk in the middle of lecture,
Sending crystal shards tumbling to all corners of the room.
The prof stopped speaking, which surprised me;
I’ve seen them push through cell phone rings
Through whispering
Through endless coughing fits
The broken glass did it, though.
Again, what does that mean?
Jon was up in a minute, slouch left at his desk,
Keeping his place in his open anthology.
He began to pluck dripping pieces of glass from the tile with his fingertips,
Crouching in front of the prof,
Who I think was trying to make a joke.
The girl who spilled was out the door by then.
I didn’t realize until later that she had cut her hand on a piece of her own former bottle.
Which might be ironic.
Something about the way Jon knelt and gingerly picked shining shards from their caffeinated graves
Made me jump up and offer to fetch a broom.
Will mumbled something about checking the Humanities Lounge
But I didn’t waste any time.
The lady in the Division Office showed me the janitor’s closet, and handed me broom and dustpan.
She was very kind.
Prof still wasn’t lecturing, which was still strange, but I supposed
That it would have been more awkward to sweep through American Indian Writers,
To scrape glass to the beat of Sherman Alexie.
I read a book once with a heroine who didn’t know how to sweep.
She had to be taught, and of course it was pretty romantic, because the boy who taught her was in love with her.
But how funny to not know how to sweep.
I’ve always hated it because you can never get all the dust
Or all the glass.
No matter how hard you try, there will be a line of dirt left when you are done
Particles too fine to be flipped into the dustpan.
Today I see no glass glittering in the corners.
Jon’s back in his seat,
And I’m back in mine,
And the prof is speaking again.
And all I can think is how strange of a morning that morning was,
And how it certainly must mean something.
But for all the drafts I’ve made of this narrative,
For all the deep romance and tragedy I’ve tried to pull from it,
I can’t decide if it’s only beginning to mean something because I want it to
Or if it was nothing from the beginning.
Is it the beginning of something, or is it the ending?
I’m sure I don’t know.
I only know that it was a cappuccino bottle that broke, one of those little ones that come in six packs like they’re beers.
I didn’t even notice the bottle until it fell from a desk in the middle of lecture,
Sending crystal shards tumbling to all corners of the room.
The prof stopped speaking, which surprised me;
I’ve seen them push through cell phone rings
Through whispering
Through endless coughing fits
The broken glass did it, though.
Again, what does that mean?
Jon was up in a minute, slouch left at his desk,
Keeping his place in his open anthology.
He began to pluck dripping pieces of glass from the tile with his fingertips,
Crouching in front of the prof,
Who I think was trying to make a joke.
The girl who spilled was out the door by then.
I didn’t realize until later that she had cut her hand on a piece of her own former bottle.
Which might be ironic.
Something about the way Jon knelt and gingerly picked shining shards from their caffeinated graves
Made me jump up and offer to fetch a broom.
Will mumbled something about checking the Humanities Lounge
But I didn’t waste any time.
The lady in the Division Office showed me the janitor’s closet, and handed me broom and dustpan.
She was very kind.
Prof still wasn’t lecturing, which was still strange, but I supposed
That it would have been more awkward to sweep through American Indian Writers,
To scrape glass to the beat of Sherman Alexie.
I read a book once with a heroine who didn’t know how to sweep.
She had to be taught, and of course it was pretty romantic, because the boy who taught her was in love with her.
But how funny to not know how to sweep.
I’ve always hated it because you can never get all the dust
Or all the glass.
No matter how hard you try, there will be a line of dirt left when you are done
Particles too fine to be flipped into the dustpan.
Today I see no glass glittering in the corners.
Jon’s back in his seat,
And I’m back in mine,
And the prof is speaking again.
And all I can think is how strange of a morning that morning was,
And how it certainly must mean something.
But for all the drafts I’ve made of this narrative,
For all the deep romance and tragedy I’ve tried to pull from it,
I can’t decide if it’s only beginning to mean something because I want it to
Or if it was nothing from the beginning.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Friday Doings
Not that my day has been particularly earth-shattering (so far), but if you've been wondering what exactly occurs in my daily life that leads me to post the way I do, here you go:
7:11 a.m. (for some reason whenever I wake up during the night or early in the morning before going back to sleep, I always remember the exact time I woke up, down to the minute. Weird.) Woke up coughing (that's right, The Cold still lives.), bobbed head up to gulp water and check clock. Bobbed head back down and feel back to sleep.
8:00 a.m. My alarm went off. Time to get up for real. Did I? Nope.
8:49 a.m. Woke up again. Bobbed head up to see that The Roommate was dressed and reaching for her backpack. She has class at 9:15 as well. Gave shriek of horror, then jumped out of bed and rushed around getting dressed. For the first time in about a year I didn't have time to put mascara on (sad, I know).
9:05 a.m. Left dorm with The Roommate, heading to class. It was snowing outside, which for some reason disoriented me. Isn't March supposed to mean spring? Or is this just the lion end?
9:15 a.m. American Literature II began. We discussed George Chesnutt's "The Goophered Grapevine." I liked the story all right, but I don't think it's something I could write a 4 page paper on. Unfortunately, I have no choice, as I've procrastinated on the required paper all semester.
10:20 a.m. Class ended. I walked back to my dorm via The Student Center because it's warm and because I like to see what's going on.
10:25 a.m. Back in room. Folded/hung up laundry from last night. The wrinkles, I suppose, are my own fault.
11:14 a.m. Walked with The Roommate to lunch. Ate with Katie, Evan, Mariah, Aaron, Tim and King. I had fish, a salad, and a cookie, in case you were wondering.
11:35 a.m. Headed to class.
11:45 a.m. Beginning German II began. We had a test on Wednesday, so we started a new unit today. Said new unit is all about food and drink, apparently, which should be interesting. I embarrassed myself considerably by shouting out "Spinach!!" when the professor asked what the green blob in the picture was. It wasn't spinach. It was noodles. Hmph. Looked like spinach.
12:50 p.m. Deutsch over, walked back to dorm with Aaron (a different Aaron from the one I ate lunch with).
1:00 p.m. Chatted with The Roommate a little bit before plopping down on my bed with Mac. Went through my bookmarks bar, as I do a few times every day. Here's the order: Facebook, UMM email, Apple movie trailers, IMDB, The Pioneer Woman, 4 or so other random blogs I follow, and a quote-of-the-day website. I usually try to check BBC and Huffington Post as well, but didn't feel like it today. Then, of course, I came to my own blog. Hi.
7:11 a.m. (for some reason whenever I wake up during the night or early in the morning before going back to sleep, I always remember the exact time I woke up, down to the minute. Weird.) Woke up coughing (that's right, The Cold still lives.), bobbed head up to gulp water and check clock. Bobbed head back down and feel back to sleep.
8:00 a.m. My alarm went off. Time to get up for real. Did I? Nope.
8:49 a.m. Woke up again. Bobbed head up to see that The Roommate was dressed and reaching for her backpack. She has class at 9:15 as well. Gave shriek of horror, then jumped out of bed and rushed around getting dressed. For the first time in about a year I didn't have time to put mascara on (sad, I know).
9:05 a.m. Left dorm with The Roommate, heading to class. It was snowing outside, which for some reason disoriented me. Isn't March supposed to mean spring? Or is this just the lion end?
9:15 a.m. American Literature II began. We discussed George Chesnutt's "The Goophered Grapevine." I liked the story all right, but I don't think it's something I could write a 4 page paper on. Unfortunately, I have no choice, as I've procrastinated on the required paper all semester.
10:20 a.m. Class ended. I walked back to my dorm via The Student Center because it's warm and because I like to see what's going on.
10:25 a.m. Back in room. Folded/hung up laundry from last night. The wrinkles, I suppose, are my own fault.
11:14 a.m. Walked with The Roommate to lunch. Ate with Katie, Evan, Mariah, Aaron, Tim and King. I had fish, a salad, and a cookie, in case you were wondering.
11:35 a.m. Headed to class.
11:45 a.m. Beginning German II began. We had a test on Wednesday, so we started a new unit today. Said new unit is all about food and drink, apparently, which should be interesting. I embarrassed myself considerably by shouting out "Spinach!!" when the professor asked what the green blob in the picture was. It wasn't spinach. It was noodles. Hmph. Looked like spinach.
12:50 p.m. Deutsch over, walked back to dorm with Aaron (a different Aaron from the one I ate lunch with).
1:00 p.m. Chatted with The Roommate a little bit before plopping down on my bed with Mac. Went through my bookmarks bar, as I do a few times every day. Here's the order: Facebook, UMM email, Apple movie trailers, IMDB, The Pioneer Woman, 4 or so other random blogs I follow, and a quote-of-the-day website. I usually try to check BBC and Huffington Post as well, but didn't feel like it today. Then, of course, I came to my own blog. Hi.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Speech Revisited
I was tabling for the Rally to Restore Affordability today, when Josh, who heads the committee responsible for organizing the event, asked me to give a speech at the Rally Before the Rally tonight.
Before I continue, here's some vocabulary for you:
Rally to Restore Affordability-An annual event that takes place at the MN Capital. Students from all U of MNs are bused in, and get a chance to not only listen to speeches given by their state congressmen and senators, but to actually speak to their legislators one on one. The goal is to let the Minnesota government know that U of MN students will not stand for budget cuts (which lead to higher tuition, cut programs, etc.).
Rally Before the Rally-Took place in Turtle Mountain Cafe at 6 p.m. tonight. The idea was to convince students (by informing them and prompting discussion about why we love UMM) to attend the Rally to Restore Affordability.
Anyway...
You remember that I was in Speech, right? And that I went to State my senior year? (I'm not bragging, I promise. These are informational points.)
Well let me just say that part of the reason I loved Speech (and did fairly well in it) was because I could PREPARE. I had time to research, to write, to memorize.
I am not a good impromptu speaker at all. Never have been, never will be.
So when Josh asked me if I would give a speech in 4 hours, when I realized that that entire 4 hours was already filled with class and work, I became very, very nervous. Luckily the Writing Room was slow enough that I had time to write some notes down, and even to practice a little bit.
Still, though, when I walked up to that podium I was shaking in my shoes. I started off, characteristically, by squeaking the microphone so loudly that everyone in the room screamed. Then I actually started to speak. I talked, firstly, about the basics of The Rally to Restore Affordability. The date, time, what it is, etc. Next, I decided to share my own experiences with the event. I talked about last year, when the event was cancelled because of a snowstorm, and I was secretly relieved because I was scared to death to meet my legislators. I talked about how I didn't feel that I, an ill-informed, hardly political English Major would have anything to say to them. Then I talked about this year, and how I've realized that The Rally is not about politics. The Rally is about students fighting for their U of MN experience. It's about us sharing with our legislators the things we value about our education, and asking them not to take those things away from us through budget cuts. It's not only our right to hold this Rally, it's our responsibility.
When I finished, I walked back to my seat and sat down to listen to the Chancellor.
After she finished speaking, I got with a group of strangers and we discussed the reasons why we had chosen to come to UMM.
After that, I helped to tear down posters, and move tables back into place.
After that, the Chancellor of UMM (whom I've never met, but have always admired), came up to me and said that I had done a wonderful job with my speech, and that I was a great speaker. After that, Josh told me that I had wiped the floor with them (which I translated to mean good job). After that, Mike (president of MCSA) complimented me as well.
After that, I walked back to my dorm smiling.
Before I continue, here's some vocabulary for you:
Rally to Restore Affordability-An annual event that takes place at the MN Capital. Students from all U of MNs are bused in, and get a chance to not only listen to speeches given by their state congressmen and senators, but to actually speak to their legislators one on one. The goal is to let the Minnesota government know that U of MN students will not stand for budget cuts (which lead to higher tuition, cut programs, etc.).
Rally Before the Rally-Took place in Turtle Mountain Cafe at 6 p.m. tonight. The idea was to convince students (by informing them and prompting discussion about why we love UMM) to attend the Rally to Restore Affordability.
Anyway...
You remember that I was in Speech, right? And that I went to State my senior year? (I'm not bragging, I promise. These are informational points.)
Well let me just say that part of the reason I loved Speech (and did fairly well in it) was because I could PREPARE. I had time to research, to write, to memorize.
I am not a good impromptu speaker at all. Never have been, never will be.
So when Josh asked me if I would give a speech in 4 hours, when I realized that that entire 4 hours was already filled with class and work, I became very, very nervous. Luckily the Writing Room was slow enough that I had time to write some notes down, and even to practice a little bit.
Still, though, when I walked up to that podium I was shaking in my shoes. I started off, characteristically, by squeaking the microphone so loudly that everyone in the room screamed. Then I actually started to speak. I talked, firstly, about the basics of The Rally to Restore Affordability. The date, time, what it is, etc. Next, I decided to share my own experiences with the event. I talked about last year, when the event was cancelled because of a snowstorm, and I was secretly relieved because I was scared to death to meet my legislators. I talked about how I didn't feel that I, an ill-informed, hardly political English Major would have anything to say to them. Then I talked about this year, and how I've realized that The Rally is not about politics. The Rally is about students fighting for their U of MN experience. It's about us sharing with our legislators the things we value about our education, and asking them not to take those things away from us through budget cuts. It's not only our right to hold this Rally, it's our responsibility.
When I finished, I walked back to my seat and sat down to listen to the Chancellor.
After she finished speaking, I got with a group of strangers and we discussed the reasons why we had chosen to come to UMM.
After that, I helped to tear down posters, and move tables back into place.
After that, the Chancellor of UMM (whom I've never met, but have always admired), came up to me and said that I had done a wonderful job with my speech, and that I was a great speaker. After that, Josh told me that I had wiped the floor with them (which I translated to mean good job). After that, Mike (president of MCSA) complimented me as well.
After that, I walked back to my dorm smiling.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
A Nerdy Reference
Whenever we have an unseasonable thaw like this, I always think of The Chronicles of Narnia.
It's in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and because Aslan is back in Narnia, the White Witch's unending winter is slowly ending. The snow is melting, buds are pushing themselves out of tree branches, and the White Witch's slave-dwarf starts to peel off his coat: "It's soooo warm out!" he exclaims stupidly. Piercing glare from White Witch (if looks could kill...). The dwarf, chastened, skulks off away from the Witch: "I'll go and...check the sleigh," he says.
Yes, I think Aslan's definitely back in town.
It's in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and because Aslan is back in Narnia, the White Witch's unending winter is slowly ending. The snow is melting, buds are pushing themselves out of tree branches, and the White Witch's slave-dwarf starts to peel off his coat: "It's soooo warm out!" he exclaims stupidly. Piercing glare from White Witch (if looks could kill...). The dwarf, chastened, skulks off away from the Witch: "I'll go and...check the sleigh," he says.
Yes, I think Aslan's definitely back in town.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
High Spots
I think I wrote part of a story tonight.
I say I think because I'm not quite sure what it is yet. I'm not sure if it's just an overflow of spontaneous thought, or if it's an overflow of spontaneous thought that could possibly mean something to someone else.
I'm so tired, though, that I'm going to leave the overflow saved on Mic Word for tomorrow morning.
I also worked my second to last day at Target today (well, second to last day of work until May).
When oh when are they going to learn not to put me back in electronics, even to cover someone's break?
If you give me a new camera, I will read the directions and figure out how to use it.
If you give me a laptop, I will navigate fairly well.
If you give me a broken TV, I may figure out that it just needs to be plugged in.
But if you give me aisles of merchandise without instructions, if you expect me to think on my feet, if you expect me to pretend I know what I'm talking about to people toting small children and looking into my face anxiously, then I think you have the wrong girl.
There were a few high spots, however, even amidst my confusions and overall awkwardness.
For example, there was a man wearing a black wool coat who wanted a Wii game unlocked from the case.
I did so, and while I was ringing it up, he looked over at a sign by the cell phone plan stuff. It said "offering unbiased opinions."
He asked me about it, and I said that that sign was only for the cell phone plan people, and that all of my opinions were completely biased.
Then he looked at me and said, "Okay, what's your biased opinion?"
Without thinking, I blurted "I think that Obama should be reelected."
The man in the black wool laughed for about five minutes before saying "Me too. Have a nice day."
Yep. That was a high spot.
Another high spot will be happening very soon, when I lower my heavy head onto my pillow and say to myself: "best part of the day."
I've been saying that to myself every night of Winter Break, because that's what my roommate always says when she gets into bed at night.
And I always glare at her because I know I'll be up for hours studying because I'm a chronic procrastinator.
But for now, it's just me.
And I'm going to bed.
I say I think because I'm not quite sure what it is yet. I'm not sure if it's just an overflow of spontaneous thought, or if it's an overflow of spontaneous thought that could possibly mean something to someone else.
I'm so tired, though, that I'm going to leave the overflow saved on Mic Word for tomorrow morning.
I also worked my second to last day at Target today (well, second to last day of work until May).
When oh when are they going to learn not to put me back in electronics, even to cover someone's break?
If you give me a new camera, I will read the directions and figure out how to use it.
If you give me a laptop, I will navigate fairly well.
If you give me a broken TV, I may figure out that it just needs to be plugged in.
But if you give me aisles of merchandise without instructions, if you expect me to think on my feet, if you expect me to pretend I know what I'm talking about to people toting small children and looking into my face anxiously, then I think you have the wrong girl.
There were a few high spots, however, even amidst my confusions and overall awkwardness.
For example, there was a man wearing a black wool coat who wanted a Wii game unlocked from the case.
I did so, and while I was ringing it up, he looked over at a sign by the cell phone plan stuff. It said "offering unbiased opinions."
He asked me about it, and I said that that sign was only for the cell phone plan people, and that all of my opinions were completely biased.
Then he looked at me and said, "Okay, what's your biased opinion?"
Without thinking, I blurted "I think that Obama should be reelected."
The man in the black wool laughed for about five minutes before saying "Me too. Have a nice day."
Yep. That was a high spot.
Another high spot will be happening very soon, when I lower my heavy head onto my pillow and say to myself: "best part of the day."
I've been saying that to myself every night of Winter Break, because that's what my roommate always says when she gets into bed at night.
And I always glare at her because I know I'll be up for hours studying because I'm a chronic procrastinator.
But for now, it's just me.
And I'm going to bed.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Third Is The One In The Polka Dotted Dress
Things are looking up already, folks. I got third place in the firstlinefiction short story contest.
I won't lie; I was hoping for first. But you know what? The first place story is excellent. Really, really excellent. The second place story is very good as well. Both are better than mine, and both deserved first and second place.
You know what else? The August contest starts today. I'm shooting for first place again.
Here's the bronze story in case you want to read through it:
The Waiters
He brought in his shirt pocket the last photograph he’d taken of his son.
Poor guy. You should have seen the way he walked into the office that afternoon. He wore a yellow jacket that seemed inappropriate. Its brightness contrasted with the hollow expression on his face so drastically that it was almost shocking. I was relieved when he took the jacket off, carefully hanging it up on the rack in the corner of the waiting room.
And then the man began to slowly cross, crumpling a little with each step. I imagined that he’d be on his knees before he even reached the chair. I imagined myself putting my hand on the shrugged shoulder, shouting into a wrinkled ear. He made it though, sitting next to me as I knew he would. There was no other place, after all. The waiting room was full of people waiting, most of whom were buried in magazines or clicking on small phones.
He began talking as soon as he sat down. Talking to me, or so I figured after a few seconds.
I had a son once, he said.
A son? This was before I decided he was speaking to me and not to someone else.
Yes. He died, though. Car accident.
I’m sorry. Because that’s what you say, isn’t it? I’m sorry? I’m sorry I can’t know what you’re going through, and I’m sorry that I’m going to try my hardest to comfort you anyway. I’m sorry I don’t understand.
Thank you, he said simply. I thought that would be it, and I could go back to staring at the wall.
He continued, though. So many people die that way; it isn’t terribly original. But my son doesn’t die that way. My son doesn’t die.
He did, though. I spoke softly, hoping he would know that I wasn’t trying to hurt him with my bluntness. I wanted him to keep talking all of the sudden. I wanted to know how this man had come to be folded into himself. How his eyes got to be the way they were now. Drowning. He could see, but he wasn’t really looking out of them. I saw all of these things in that waiting room, and I wanted him to keep talking.
The man paused for a moment, fiddling with the pocket at the front of his shirt. Out of the pocket he plucked a folded bit of paper. A photograph; it said Kodak across the back. He unfolded the photograph and stared at it for a few seconds before folding it once more.
He took a deep breath before he spoke again. Afterwards, we all mourned. No one talked during meals anymore. My wife and I cried ourselves to sleep every night. We tried to comfort one another. I tried so hard. But it is so very difficult to dig yourself out of the well of your own grief and reach for someone else.
Suddenly the man looked up at me, as if just realizing that he was talking to an actual person who was listening.
He looked down again at the photo in his hands and continued. My wife stopped grieving after awhile. She got on with her life. She went back to work. She started running with the dog in the morning. She drove our daughters to lacrosse and modern jazz. She didn’t understand why I couldn’t get up too. She used to become angry with me. Why can’t you get over him? She would yell. Why can’t you see that he’s gone and that we’re left? You have two other children. You have a job. This needs to stop. The man looked at me again, warily this time. Do you have a job?
I nodded. I deliver packages. I drive a truck and I stop and I make people sign for brown boxes or tan envelopes.
The man took this in. Do you enjoy your work? He asked me.
I thought for a moment. Then I answered. I enjoy the people. I watch them. I guess what they’re like, what their names are.
Do you ever get them right?
I don’t know if I do or not.
The man frowned. I would like to know. He unfolded the photograph again and stared at it again. I would like to know.
I saw that he was on the verge of crying. His eyes squinted up and his knees shook a bit. People across the room were beginning to look at us. Not obviously looking, but peering at us every so often over their Newsweeks, as if to warn us that they didn’t want to overhear, but that they would if we spoke any louder. They didn’t want to overhear. They didn’t want a share in the anguish on the man’s face, the bewilderment on mine. They read their magazines.
The man shuddered three more times and was still.
He began to speak again after a few minutes. I realized soon that I could lose my wife as well. That she wouldn’t die, but that she would be just as permanently and irrevocably gone if I didn’t stop missing my son. So I stopped. I had to, you see. I knew if I lost anything else I would disappear completely myself. Everything tying me down would be gone. I would be gone too.
I stretched my legs out across the carpet and arched my back a little bit. I wasn’t bored; I was only sore from sitting so long. He knew I wasn’t bored. Even if I had been, I don’t think he would have stopped. We both knew now that he needed to say these things. We both knew I needed to hear.
He kept talking through my stretch; his gaze wandered down to my brown boots and anchored on to them.
I donated all of my son’s clothes, and cleaned his room. I even took down his posters and painted over his walls with the spring green color my wife picked. The paint erased my son’s smell until I couldn’t breathe in that room anymore. I was about to shut his door behind me for the last time when I spotted the edge of something white sticking out from under the bed.
It was the photograph, wasn’t it?
The man nodded gravely. I had taken it a few weeks before he died. We were driving in my old convertible going west. West like the pioneers, my son had shouted joyfully. While we were stopped at a red light, my son dug the camera out of his backpack and thrust it at me. We were laughing hard, like two teenagers instead of one. My son rested one arm on top of the rolled-down window and leaned back away from me. He grinned the same smile I had seen all his life. My son leaned back into the wind against the highway and grinned while I took the picture.
It was all too much for the man then. He dropped his head into the picture in his hands and sobbed soundlessly. His back rose and fell with each rolling breath, and as I deliberated patting him gingerly on the shoulderblade, I intercepted a few raised eyebrows from across the room. I shot those eyebrows straight back, sending most of the waiters diving back into their Popular Sciences. I wasn’t a big man. I wasn’t even a brave man. Not then. But I knew when things were private. This was between the man, the photograph of his son, and me.
When the man finally calmed down he looked relieved. Now he could finish.
Very slowly he opened the photograph in his hands. I couldn’t quite see it, but I didn’t fail to be amazed at its proximity. I only had to raise my eyes. I didn’t, though. I waited.
He spoke. The last photograph of my son, the one I clung to when my wife wasn’t around, the one that allowed me to keep him and to keep myself together…He trailed off. He wasn’t sure how to end, now that he had begun to end.
He tried again. The last photograph of my son is something I both love and hate. I can’t make myself throw it away, and yet it feels heavy in my pocket. He stopped.
A woman had walked into the waiting room, and was now looking around with a definite air of impatient authority. She called out a name. I didn’t hear, but I guess the man did because he slowly stood and walked towards her with that same worn down gait he had entered on.
I sat back in my chair and looked around the room. The other waiters stared boldly at me now. I dropped my head, all defiance gone. I sat and I thought. I knew this was a story I would remember, not just another observation to drop in my brain like a marble. I wondered if I would ever retell it. I wondered how I would do it. But mostly I wondered how it ended.
How did I know about the photograph in the man’s pocket? Because he told me about it while we waited.
On his way out, the he passed me with only a nod. Thank you, he said quietly, slipping either arm into that inappropriate yellow jacket. I stared, decided.
Yes I must. Sir! I bounded after him past the alarmed waiters. Sir can I please see the photograph of your son?
He looked at me in his watery way, and then seemed to surface. I imagined the last waves breaking around his eyes before receding like the tide. Yes, he replied. Yes of course you can see my son.
Slowly he reached towards his pocket and drew out the creased picture. He handed it to me without unfolding it. Perhaps he thought that by unfolding it himself it would only make it harder. Perhaps he needed me to take it from him, to hold his regret and his pain for a little while.
I unfolded the picture and stared at it for what felt like a long time. I wanted him to feel me take it in. But really it only took me a moment to understand.
As I handed the picture back to him and watched him refold it and set it gently into the same pocket, I listened to him speak the last words he ever said to me. I had a son once, he explained patiently, as if we were starting over, as if we were just meeting each other. I had a son once and he died. I had a son once, and the last photograph I ever took of him captured only his elbow.
I stood and saw the glass door swing shut behind him, watched it forget instantly that such a man had ever passed through.
You know, with people you meet when you’re delivering packages, you can guess. You can assume that a woman is snobbish, or that a man is out of sorts and late for work. You can guess about them, and it never has to bother you if you’re right or if you’re wrong. You can just let your imaginings hang in the air above your head.
Sons and photographs, I have come to realize, are a different matter altogether. With them, you have to wonder your whole life why you didn’t look through the lens before snapping the shutter. You have to wish that you had taken the time to aim, wish that you hadn’t been too captivated by the living, breathing boy to focus on capturing all of him forever.
Eventually, though, you have to know that when you tell the story of your son in a waiting room, when people listen, and when people look at the photograph of your son afterwards, that those waiters see all of him. You have to know that those waiters see all of you too.
I won't lie; I was hoping for first. But you know what? The first place story is excellent. Really, really excellent. The second place story is very good as well. Both are better than mine, and both deserved first and second place.
You know what else? The August contest starts today. I'm shooting for first place again.
Here's the bronze story in case you want to read through it:
The Waiters
He brought in his shirt pocket the last photograph he’d taken of his son.
Poor guy. You should have seen the way he walked into the office that afternoon. He wore a yellow jacket that seemed inappropriate. Its brightness contrasted with the hollow expression on his face so drastically that it was almost shocking. I was relieved when he took the jacket off, carefully hanging it up on the rack in the corner of the waiting room.
And then the man began to slowly cross, crumpling a little with each step. I imagined that he’d be on his knees before he even reached the chair. I imagined myself putting my hand on the shrugged shoulder, shouting into a wrinkled ear. He made it though, sitting next to me as I knew he would. There was no other place, after all. The waiting room was full of people waiting, most of whom were buried in magazines or clicking on small phones.
He began talking as soon as he sat down. Talking to me, or so I figured after a few seconds.
I had a son once, he said.
A son? This was before I decided he was speaking to me and not to someone else.
Yes. He died, though. Car accident.
I’m sorry. Because that’s what you say, isn’t it? I’m sorry? I’m sorry I can’t know what you’re going through, and I’m sorry that I’m going to try my hardest to comfort you anyway. I’m sorry I don’t understand.
Thank you, he said simply. I thought that would be it, and I could go back to staring at the wall.
He continued, though. So many people die that way; it isn’t terribly original. But my son doesn’t die that way. My son doesn’t die.
He did, though. I spoke softly, hoping he would know that I wasn’t trying to hurt him with my bluntness. I wanted him to keep talking all of the sudden. I wanted to know how this man had come to be folded into himself. How his eyes got to be the way they were now. Drowning. He could see, but he wasn’t really looking out of them. I saw all of these things in that waiting room, and I wanted him to keep talking.
The man paused for a moment, fiddling with the pocket at the front of his shirt. Out of the pocket he plucked a folded bit of paper. A photograph; it said Kodak across the back. He unfolded the photograph and stared at it for a few seconds before folding it once more.
He took a deep breath before he spoke again. Afterwards, we all mourned. No one talked during meals anymore. My wife and I cried ourselves to sleep every night. We tried to comfort one another. I tried so hard. But it is so very difficult to dig yourself out of the well of your own grief and reach for someone else.
Suddenly the man looked up at me, as if just realizing that he was talking to an actual person who was listening.
He looked down again at the photo in his hands and continued. My wife stopped grieving after awhile. She got on with her life. She went back to work. She started running with the dog in the morning. She drove our daughters to lacrosse and modern jazz. She didn’t understand why I couldn’t get up too. She used to become angry with me. Why can’t you get over him? She would yell. Why can’t you see that he’s gone and that we’re left? You have two other children. You have a job. This needs to stop. The man looked at me again, warily this time. Do you have a job?
I nodded. I deliver packages. I drive a truck and I stop and I make people sign for brown boxes or tan envelopes.
The man took this in. Do you enjoy your work? He asked me.
I thought for a moment. Then I answered. I enjoy the people. I watch them. I guess what they’re like, what their names are.
Do you ever get them right?
I don’t know if I do or not.
The man frowned. I would like to know. He unfolded the photograph again and stared at it again. I would like to know.
I saw that he was on the verge of crying. His eyes squinted up and his knees shook a bit. People across the room were beginning to look at us. Not obviously looking, but peering at us every so often over their Newsweeks, as if to warn us that they didn’t want to overhear, but that they would if we spoke any louder. They didn’t want to overhear. They didn’t want a share in the anguish on the man’s face, the bewilderment on mine. They read their magazines.
The man shuddered three more times and was still.
He began to speak again after a few minutes. I realized soon that I could lose my wife as well. That she wouldn’t die, but that she would be just as permanently and irrevocably gone if I didn’t stop missing my son. So I stopped. I had to, you see. I knew if I lost anything else I would disappear completely myself. Everything tying me down would be gone. I would be gone too.
I stretched my legs out across the carpet and arched my back a little bit. I wasn’t bored; I was only sore from sitting so long. He knew I wasn’t bored. Even if I had been, I don’t think he would have stopped. We both knew now that he needed to say these things. We both knew I needed to hear.
He kept talking through my stretch; his gaze wandered down to my brown boots and anchored on to them.
I donated all of my son’s clothes, and cleaned his room. I even took down his posters and painted over his walls with the spring green color my wife picked. The paint erased my son’s smell until I couldn’t breathe in that room anymore. I was about to shut his door behind me for the last time when I spotted the edge of something white sticking out from under the bed.
It was the photograph, wasn’t it?
The man nodded gravely. I had taken it a few weeks before he died. We were driving in my old convertible going west. West like the pioneers, my son had shouted joyfully. While we were stopped at a red light, my son dug the camera out of his backpack and thrust it at me. We were laughing hard, like two teenagers instead of one. My son rested one arm on top of the rolled-down window and leaned back away from me. He grinned the same smile I had seen all his life. My son leaned back into the wind against the highway and grinned while I took the picture.
It was all too much for the man then. He dropped his head into the picture in his hands and sobbed soundlessly. His back rose and fell with each rolling breath, and as I deliberated patting him gingerly on the shoulderblade, I intercepted a few raised eyebrows from across the room. I shot those eyebrows straight back, sending most of the waiters diving back into their Popular Sciences. I wasn’t a big man. I wasn’t even a brave man. Not then. But I knew when things were private. This was between the man, the photograph of his son, and me.
When the man finally calmed down he looked relieved. Now he could finish.
Very slowly he opened the photograph in his hands. I couldn’t quite see it, but I didn’t fail to be amazed at its proximity. I only had to raise my eyes. I didn’t, though. I waited.
He spoke. The last photograph of my son, the one I clung to when my wife wasn’t around, the one that allowed me to keep him and to keep myself together…He trailed off. He wasn’t sure how to end, now that he had begun to end.
He tried again. The last photograph of my son is something I both love and hate. I can’t make myself throw it away, and yet it feels heavy in my pocket. He stopped.
A woman had walked into the waiting room, and was now looking around with a definite air of impatient authority. She called out a name. I didn’t hear, but I guess the man did because he slowly stood and walked towards her with that same worn down gait he had entered on.
I sat back in my chair and looked around the room. The other waiters stared boldly at me now. I dropped my head, all defiance gone. I sat and I thought. I knew this was a story I would remember, not just another observation to drop in my brain like a marble. I wondered if I would ever retell it. I wondered how I would do it. But mostly I wondered how it ended.
How did I know about the photograph in the man’s pocket? Because he told me about it while we waited.
On his way out, the he passed me with only a nod. Thank you, he said quietly, slipping either arm into that inappropriate yellow jacket. I stared, decided.
Yes I must. Sir! I bounded after him past the alarmed waiters. Sir can I please see the photograph of your son?
He looked at me in his watery way, and then seemed to surface. I imagined the last waves breaking around his eyes before receding like the tide. Yes, he replied. Yes of course you can see my son.
Slowly he reached towards his pocket and drew out the creased picture. He handed it to me without unfolding it. Perhaps he thought that by unfolding it himself it would only make it harder. Perhaps he needed me to take it from him, to hold his regret and his pain for a little while.
I unfolded the picture and stared at it for what felt like a long time. I wanted him to feel me take it in. But really it only took me a moment to understand.
As I handed the picture back to him and watched him refold it and set it gently into the same pocket, I listened to him speak the last words he ever said to me. I had a son once, he explained patiently, as if we were starting over, as if we were just meeting each other. I had a son once and he died. I had a son once, and the last photograph I ever took of him captured only his elbow.
I stood and saw the glass door swing shut behind him, watched it forget instantly that such a man had ever passed through.
You know, with people you meet when you’re delivering packages, you can guess. You can assume that a woman is snobbish, or that a man is out of sorts and late for work. You can guess about them, and it never has to bother you if you’re right or if you’re wrong. You can just let your imaginings hang in the air above your head.
Sons and photographs, I have come to realize, are a different matter altogether. With them, you have to wonder your whole life why you didn’t look through the lens before snapping the shutter. You have to wish that you had taken the time to aim, wish that you hadn’t been too captivated by the living, breathing boy to focus on capturing all of him forever.
Eventually, though, you have to know that when you tell the story of your son in a waiting room, when people listen, and when people look at the photograph of your son afterwards, that those waiters see all of him. You have to know that those waiters see all of you too.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
In a Nutshell
Only two days left in July's firstlinefiction contest. I've had my entry written for about three weeks, and turned in for about one week, but I'm still second guessing myself a little bit. I don't know why this is exactly; I'm hoping it's because I've been thinking about it for so long that I'm simply getting paranoid. No matter, though. There is not much of a chance that I'll find time to change anything in the next two days: I'm absolutely busy between dentist trauma on Monday and work on Tuesday.
Today I was randomly remembering an incident that happened at a long ago Christmas party, and I thought I'd share it with you.
Like I said, I was at a Christmas party, and I was eating nuts out of a dish sitting on the festively-decorated table. Only, I wasn't eating all the nuts. There was quite a variety in the dish; macadamias and almonds and some unidentifiable ones as well, and, being eight years old or so, I was skillfully avoiding all of the gross nuts and picking out the cashews. I wasn't doing this ridiculously, I didn't think; there were still plenty of cashews left for the other finicky children (and adults). I was surprised, then, when all of the sudden my grandpa came over and scolded me harshly for only taking cashews. I remember I started crying because I was embarassed and because grandpa had never yelled at me like that before.
Later he pulled me aside and said that he was sorry, but that Carolyn (married to my aunt's brother) had been glaring at me and was clearly upset at my nut dish pickings. I forgave grandpa, of course; he was really just trying to warn me to stop before Carolyn (who I didn't know very well) felt compelled to come over and tell me off.
And you know what? To this day, I don't like Carolyn very much at all. I haven't seen her in a few years, but I've always thought that someone stingy enough to get upset about a little kid sorting through a nut dish isn't someone I want to associate with.
It's funny how impressionable you are as a kid, and how some grudges, no matter how trivial, never really leave you.
Today I was randomly remembering an incident that happened at a long ago Christmas party, and I thought I'd share it with you.
Like I said, I was at a Christmas party, and I was eating nuts out of a dish sitting on the festively-decorated table. Only, I wasn't eating all the nuts. There was quite a variety in the dish; macadamias and almonds and some unidentifiable ones as well, and, being eight years old or so, I was skillfully avoiding all of the gross nuts and picking out the cashews. I wasn't doing this ridiculously, I didn't think; there were still plenty of cashews left for the other finicky children (and adults). I was surprised, then, when all of the sudden my grandpa came over and scolded me harshly for only taking cashews. I remember I started crying because I was embarassed and because grandpa had never yelled at me like that before.
Later he pulled me aside and said that he was sorry, but that Carolyn (married to my aunt's brother) had been glaring at me and was clearly upset at my nut dish pickings. I forgave grandpa, of course; he was really just trying to warn me to stop before Carolyn (who I didn't know very well) felt compelled to come over and tell me off.
And you know what? To this day, I don't like Carolyn very much at all. I haven't seen her in a few years, but I've always thought that someone stingy enough to get upset about a little kid sorting through a nut dish isn't someone I want to associate with.
It's funny how impressionable you are as a kid, and how some grudges, no matter how trivial, never really leave you.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Just a Phase
I am very good at not finishing stories. Exceptionally good, in fact. Sometimes my lack of follow-through bothers me, but most of the time I see it as a natural part of writing; you lose interest in the things that aren't special, and you move on to other things that have the potential to mean a lot to you. I go through writing phases the same way I go through music phases and movie phases and "I'm going to match my toenail polish to my fingernail polish" phases.
So when (after a week or so) I stopped being excited about my Target story, I wasn't too upset. Don't get me wrong-I think parts of it are really good, and there's always a chance that I'll go back and finish it someday, but for now I have all my creative juices funneling towards another project.
The project? Write a love story. A happy, sappy love story that is original and fulfilling at the same time.
Why this particular mission? Well, the story I wrote for the firstlinefiction contest is quite sad. One of my friends read it over for me, and he said that to balance the gloom, I should try for a romance.
Okay. Easy. No problem.
Not so much.
I'm beginning to think that writing a love story is harder than writing any other type of story, because you have to dodge the cliches that have been thrown at you practically since birth, while at the same time maintaining enough cliche to make the story believeable. Tough stuff.
I've been thinking about it for a few weeks now, and I still haven't come up with a really good idea. Hopefully one hits before I go back to school, because at that point all short story writing (and most pleasure reading) will cease unavoidably. Depressing, isn't it?
Anyway, I thought that I'd give you a bit more of that Target story. Totally, it's about 3 pages long, and is written in the form of a bunch of different scenes that I was hoping to tie together somehow sometime.
I walkied as I left the break room: “This is Holly. I’m back from my fifteen and swinging through electronics.” Electronics was an important guest service area for Target. Whenever a team member began work for the day or returned from a break, they were supposed to walk through the department and ask any guest they saw if they needed help finding something. It kept our guest service ratings in the green, our GPS’s and TV’s selling, and our bodies circulating. Our red shirts radiated availability like monkeys in estrous.
As I hoofed it around the accessories displays towards the wall of flashing flat screens at the back of the store, I spotted Sarah Berg down a shoe aisle, madly grabbing at the piles of sandals strewn across the floor, and tossing them into their respective boxes.
The phone rang from the operator’s desk. Sarah jumped up and sprinted towards it, muttering as she flew past me, “I’m really fucking things up, Holly.” I clucked my tongue in pity, deciding not to lie and say that she was doing fine.
I had heard the conversation earlier over the walkie. Sarah, who was fitting room operator for the day, was going too slowly on her zone. She had been taking her time with the shoes, arranging them meticulously and forgetting that she still had yet to go through baby and men’s. Kristin had chewed her out as politely as one could be chewed out, but the fact that all team members could hear it over their walkies made Sarah’s face burn red as she ran.
Sarah and I had gone to high school together. We had spent an entire year sitting next to each other in two different English classes. Whenever a paper was handed back to us, Sarah would first check her own, and then not-so-subtly bob her head over to check my paper. If my grade was lower than hers, she would cluck her tongue softly, grin a self-satisfied smile, and promptly talk about something else as if she were Wilbur and ‘humble’ was strung into the web above her sty. If my grade was higher, however, her mouth would gape and her desk would be empty in a flash as she danced up to complain to Mr. Manske or Mrs. Nelson about her unfairly low grade. Hiding my graded paper didn’t help, either. Sarah would simply ask me straight out, her ostentatiously blue eyes innocently daring me not to share.
It had been a large shock, then, to walk into my first day of work to find Sarah waiting by the food court wearing red and khaki.
I continued on towards electronics, spotting out of the corner of my eye a pair of stray white flats peeking out from under an endcap. That’s a B+, Sarah.
Kyle was manning the boat, surrounded by cameras and guests looking at cameras and trying to get his attention as they clutched cameras. He didn’t look up as I passed. I had hoped that he would be one of the team members to train me in when I first started work, but no such luck. He had trained Sarah in hardlines; his lean form easily striding ahead of her petite blondeness as they toured the store.
He was quiet, I surmised. Once I had entered the break room to find him staring at the TV, which had frozen into multicolored squares. “This is some riveting television,” I had joked. Silence. Then I thought I heard him say, very softly and very sarcastically, “I can’t tear my eyes away.” Later I decided I had imagined it.
A guest flagged me down by the ipods. “Ma’am!” I always hated being called ma’am. A nineteen-year-old was nowhere near being a ma’am. Ma’ams were middle aged and wore ankle-length capris and short hair with highlights. I got a glimpse of myself in the reflective ipod case while the woman debated over which color nano she should get. My face was as childishly round as ever. My hair had frizzled into annoying ringlets on my forehead, which I tried to smooth down and tuck behind my ears, to no avail.
“The green is rather pretty.”
Kyle was reflected over my shoulder. He was talking to an older gentleman by the phones.
“But black won’t get dirty so easily.”
Kyle’s face didn’t hold the earnest look I caught so often on my own visage; he looked nonchalant as he listened to the man’s wheezy questions, although his eyes were bright.
“What do you think, ma’am?”
I started and looked back at the woman, aware that Kyle was watching us from the suddenly empty boat. “Red. Definitely red,” I flashed a toothy smile, “But I might be a bit biased.”
The woman laughed and decided on the green ipod. Kyle came over to unlock the case without speaking.
So when (after a week or so) I stopped being excited about my Target story, I wasn't too upset. Don't get me wrong-I think parts of it are really good, and there's always a chance that I'll go back and finish it someday, but for now I have all my creative juices funneling towards another project.
The project? Write a love story. A happy, sappy love story that is original and fulfilling at the same time.
Why this particular mission? Well, the story I wrote for the firstlinefiction contest is quite sad. One of my friends read it over for me, and he said that to balance the gloom, I should try for a romance.
Okay. Easy. No problem.
Not so much.
I'm beginning to think that writing a love story is harder than writing any other type of story, because you have to dodge the cliches that have been thrown at you practically since birth, while at the same time maintaining enough cliche to make the story believeable. Tough stuff.
I've been thinking about it for a few weeks now, and I still haven't come up with a really good idea. Hopefully one hits before I go back to school, because at that point all short story writing (and most pleasure reading) will cease unavoidably. Depressing, isn't it?
Anyway, I thought that I'd give you a bit more of that Target story. Totally, it's about 3 pages long, and is written in the form of a bunch of different scenes that I was hoping to tie together somehow sometime.
I walkied as I left the break room: “This is Holly. I’m back from my fifteen and swinging through electronics.” Electronics was an important guest service area for Target. Whenever a team member began work for the day or returned from a break, they were supposed to walk through the department and ask any guest they saw if they needed help finding something. It kept our guest service ratings in the green, our GPS’s and TV’s selling, and our bodies circulating. Our red shirts radiated availability like monkeys in estrous.
As I hoofed it around the accessories displays towards the wall of flashing flat screens at the back of the store, I spotted Sarah Berg down a shoe aisle, madly grabbing at the piles of sandals strewn across the floor, and tossing them into their respective boxes.
The phone rang from the operator’s desk. Sarah jumped up and sprinted towards it, muttering as she flew past me, “I’m really fucking things up, Holly.” I clucked my tongue in pity, deciding not to lie and say that she was doing fine.
I had heard the conversation earlier over the walkie. Sarah, who was fitting room operator for the day, was going too slowly on her zone. She had been taking her time with the shoes, arranging them meticulously and forgetting that she still had yet to go through baby and men’s. Kristin had chewed her out as politely as one could be chewed out, but the fact that all team members could hear it over their walkies made Sarah’s face burn red as she ran.
Sarah and I had gone to high school together. We had spent an entire year sitting next to each other in two different English classes. Whenever a paper was handed back to us, Sarah would first check her own, and then not-so-subtly bob her head over to check my paper. If my grade was lower than hers, she would cluck her tongue softly, grin a self-satisfied smile, and promptly talk about something else as if she were Wilbur and ‘humble’ was strung into the web above her sty. If my grade was higher, however, her mouth would gape and her desk would be empty in a flash as she danced up to complain to Mr. Manske or Mrs. Nelson about her unfairly low grade. Hiding my graded paper didn’t help, either. Sarah would simply ask me straight out, her ostentatiously blue eyes innocently daring me not to share.
It had been a large shock, then, to walk into my first day of work to find Sarah waiting by the food court wearing red and khaki.
I continued on towards electronics, spotting out of the corner of my eye a pair of stray white flats peeking out from under an endcap. That’s a B+, Sarah.
Kyle was manning the boat, surrounded by cameras and guests looking at cameras and trying to get his attention as they clutched cameras. He didn’t look up as I passed. I had hoped that he would be one of the team members to train me in when I first started work, but no such luck. He had trained Sarah in hardlines; his lean form easily striding ahead of her petite blondeness as they toured the store.
He was quiet, I surmised. Once I had entered the break room to find him staring at the TV, which had frozen into multicolored squares. “This is some riveting television,” I had joked. Silence. Then I thought I heard him say, very softly and very sarcastically, “I can’t tear my eyes away.” Later I decided I had imagined it.
A guest flagged me down by the ipods. “Ma’am!” I always hated being called ma’am. A nineteen-year-old was nowhere near being a ma’am. Ma’ams were middle aged and wore ankle-length capris and short hair with highlights. I got a glimpse of myself in the reflective ipod case while the woman debated over which color nano she should get. My face was as childishly round as ever. My hair had frizzled into annoying ringlets on my forehead, which I tried to smooth down and tuck behind my ears, to no avail.
“The green is rather pretty.”
Kyle was reflected over my shoulder. He was talking to an older gentleman by the phones.
“But black won’t get dirty so easily.”
Kyle’s face didn’t hold the earnest look I caught so often on my own visage; he looked nonchalant as he listened to the man’s wheezy questions, although his eyes were bright.
“What do you think, ma’am?”
I started and looked back at the woman, aware that Kyle was watching us from the suddenly empty boat. “Red. Definitely red,” I flashed a toothy smile, “But I might be a bit biased.”
The woman laughed and decided on the green ipod. Kyle came over to unlock the case without speaking.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Red Means Stop
Hello, my friends.
A few bits of my day that may interest you:
1. I ran my first (and hopefully only) red light. I didn't mean to, honestly! I'm ashamed to admit that I was making up a poem in my head and just blazed right through without noticing the intersection. Luckily, very luckily, I got through unscathed with only a blaring honk to ring in my head for the rest of the day. I felt so bad. I absolutely hate being honked at, but I definitely deserved it this time.
2. Went to the library to check out Eat, Pray, Love. All four copies were checked out (due, I'm sure, to the fact that the movie comes out soon), so I had to put myself on the list. I'm number 19. So it will be awhile, I think.
3. In lieu of E.P.L., I got two items: The Oxford Dictionary of Modern Quotations, and the movie High Noon.
4. Wrote a story last night. A three pager. It took me exactly an hour and seventeen minutes to write, and a sporadic day to edit. I'm planning on entering it in the Firstlinefiction contest at the end of the month, so I have plenty of time to make it wonderful.
5. My nose is blistering from the sunburn. It looks gross and is a cruel reminder that I was stupid and didn't use sunscreen.
6. I thoroughly cleaned my bathroom today. Partly because Dad said I had to, and partly because I was in the mood to kneel in the tub with a Magic Eraser and some great music and just go. This mood occurs only about once a year, of course.
A few bits of my day that may interest you:
1. I ran my first (and hopefully only) red light. I didn't mean to, honestly! I'm ashamed to admit that I was making up a poem in my head and just blazed right through without noticing the intersection. Luckily, very luckily, I got through unscathed with only a blaring honk to ring in my head for the rest of the day. I felt so bad. I absolutely hate being honked at, but I definitely deserved it this time.
2. Went to the library to check out Eat, Pray, Love. All four copies were checked out (due, I'm sure, to the fact that the movie comes out soon), so I had to put myself on the list. I'm number 19. So it will be awhile, I think.
3. In lieu of E.P.L., I got two items: The Oxford Dictionary of Modern Quotations, and the movie High Noon.
4. Wrote a story last night. A three pager. It took me exactly an hour and seventeen minutes to write, and a sporadic day to edit. I'm planning on entering it in the Firstlinefiction contest at the end of the month, so I have plenty of time to make it wonderful.
5. My nose is blistering from the sunburn. It looks gross and is a cruel reminder that I was stupid and didn't use sunscreen.
6. I thoroughly cleaned my bathroom today. Partly because Dad said I had to, and partly because I was in the mood to kneel in the tub with a Magic Eraser and some great music and just go. This mood occurs only about once a year, of course.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Story Time
I thought I'd post a story for a change of pace. Here's one a wrote a few days ago. I sat down and typed it up in about an hour and a half; it's based off a sudden idea I had. It's a little Nicholas Sparks-esque, but it was fun to write, because I think it's about something that everyone secretly dreams will happen to them.
There's no title, unfortunately. Let me know if you think of a good one.
Jack felt something shift on the bed next to him. Heart thumping, he groped in the darkness for his lamp.
“Don’t!” a soft voice came, “you’ll spoil it!”
Jack paused. “Spoil what?” He asked finally, wondering how his death by the axe man beside him could possibly be ruined by a bit of light.
“This,” the now definitely female voice answered, “Your wish.”
“My…what?” Jack lowered his outstretched arm slowly.
“Your birthday wish of course. You wished to hold your true love in your arms for a night. So here I am.”
Jack was baffled now. His wish had been earnest, although certainly not expected to come true. True loves did not suddenly appear in one’s arms because of wishes made over flaming candles. Furthermore, in his dream he had meant the holding to take place in the future, preferably when he was not in a dorm room and wearing his pajama pants with the hole in the knee. He didn’t say any of this to the girl, of course. He didn’t want to be rude to such a nice-sounding apparition.
“But how did you get here?” It seemed sensible to start with this question. Go back from the beginning, and work forward. That was how Jack liked to do things.
The girl laughed a little, and turned her head on the pillow so that she was facing him. It suddenly struck Jack that there was a girl in his bed. Next to him. His amazement only increased with her reply: “Oh, someone sent me. I’m not sure who, actually. I was sleeping in my bed, same as you, and suddenly I heard a voice giving me instructions and I appeared here. I’m as surprised as you are, you know.”
“What instructions?”
“They were very cryptic. We’re not to see each other in the light, We’re not to tell our names, or reveal anything that will help us to find each other. And we’re not to do anything besides hold each other.”
“And then what happened?”
“Things went black in my room. Blacker than they were already. It was if I had closed my eyes. Then everything went fuzzy for a second, and I found myself here.”
There was another short silence as Jack thought about what the girl was saying. It was magic, or God. Must be. He supposed that he should believe it was the latter who had sent her to him, but somehow this seemed too fairy-tale-like to be of His doing.
He finally spoke again: “Then you’re my…” Jack trailed off.
“True love, yes. And you’re mine,” the girl said sweetly and simply. “I’m pleased to meet you,” she laughed.
Jack laughed too, and reached out to shake her hand in the darkness. Her fingers were small and strong, and her palm pressed firmly against his own.
“What happens if we break one of the rules?” He wondered.
“I disappear,” the girl said solemnly, “and we never meet again.”
“We’ll be careful,” Jack promised. He could hardly get the words out. He was still holding her hand.
The girl squeezed his thumb gently. “What now?” She asked him.
“Well,” Jack hardly dared to say it. “About my wish.” He ended with a period, not knowing how to articulate what he wanted more than anything.
“About your wish.” Her period was more definite than his, and she scootched closer to him, so that all he had to do was shift his arms and she’d be inside them, right up against his chest.
He did, of course, and wrapped them around her back. She snuggled her face in his shirt and sighed quietly.
They lay that way for hours, not talking, or even moving. Jack was so happy and contented that he felt if he closed his eyes he would drift into a peaceful sleep. So he didn’t close his eyes, for once not wanting to lose a real moment to the beauty of his dreams. Not that he had ever encountered a moment this beautiful.
He couldn’t see her, not even the curve of her cheek or the glint of her hair. But he could feel her nose pressing against his heart, her hand still in his, her feet tangled in his own. He could feel her strength and her wisdom and her clarity. He could feel the preciousness of what he held, and when he thought of when he would have to let her go and slowly continue to live the rest of his life, he almost couldn’t bear the cruelty of it all. He would plod the path alone for a long time, he knew.
This wish felt like a halfway point; it was a moment given to him so that he could face a million moments unlike it with courage. He was sure that this wish wouldn’t have been granted had he been destined to meet the girl in his arms tomorrow, or even next year.
He traced her face, smiling as he felt her grin under his hand. “Trying to figure out what I look like?” She teased.
“No,” Jack returned mockingly, “I expect I’ll find out soon enough.”
“It can’t be soon enough,” the girl said, suddenly sober, “I’ve been thinking of all the months and maybe years I’ll have to live without you.”
Jack pulled her closer. “At least we have this. Most people don’t, you know. They just have to live in mystery and hope that someone perfect for them is out there. We know for sure.”
“Do we?” the girl asked doubtfully. “What if this is a dream? What if we wake up and everything is the same?”
“Everything will be the same,” Jack replied. “We’re the ones who will have changed.”
Then they were quiet again, each thinking their own private thoughts, each holding on tighter to the other as they saw the morning creeping up under the window shades. Just as the light began to reach out onto the floor near the bed, the girl disappeared.
The room seemed to tilt sideways for a second, and then his arms were empty. Instinctively, Jack rolled over onto the spot where she had lain. The warmth from her body still lingered. So she had been real. Dreams do not leave body heat behind.
He was still for a minute, relishing the night. Then he got out of bed and began putting on his clothes in the dark. Taking a deep breath, he strode over to the window and opened the shades, feeling himself flood with day and the promise of a girl who was looking out her own window into the same brightness.
-End-
There's no title, unfortunately. Let me know if you think of a good one.
Jack felt something shift on the bed next to him. Heart thumping, he groped in the darkness for his lamp.
“Don’t!” a soft voice came, “you’ll spoil it!”
Jack paused. “Spoil what?” He asked finally, wondering how his death by the axe man beside him could possibly be ruined by a bit of light.
“This,” the now definitely female voice answered, “Your wish.”
“My…what?” Jack lowered his outstretched arm slowly.
“Your birthday wish of course. You wished to hold your true love in your arms for a night. So here I am.”
Jack was baffled now. His wish had been earnest, although certainly not expected to come true. True loves did not suddenly appear in one’s arms because of wishes made over flaming candles. Furthermore, in his dream he had meant the holding to take place in the future, preferably when he was not in a dorm room and wearing his pajama pants with the hole in the knee. He didn’t say any of this to the girl, of course. He didn’t want to be rude to such a nice-sounding apparition.
“But how did you get here?” It seemed sensible to start with this question. Go back from the beginning, and work forward. That was how Jack liked to do things.
The girl laughed a little, and turned her head on the pillow so that she was facing him. It suddenly struck Jack that there was a girl in his bed. Next to him. His amazement only increased with her reply: “Oh, someone sent me. I’m not sure who, actually. I was sleeping in my bed, same as you, and suddenly I heard a voice giving me instructions and I appeared here. I’m as surprised as you are, you know.”
“What instructions?”
“They were very cryptic. We’re not to see each other in the light, We’re not to tell our names, or reveal anything that will help us to find each other. And we’re not to do anything besides hold each other.”
“And then what happened?”
“Things went black in my room. Blacker than they were already. It was if I had closed my eyes. Then everything went fuzzy for a second, and I found myself here.”
There was another short silence as Jack thought about what the girl was saying. It was magic, or God. Must be. He supposed that he should believe it was the latter who had sent her to him, but somehow this seemed too fairy-tale-like to be of His doing.
He finally spoke again: “Then you’re my…” Jack trailed off.
“True love, yes. And you’re mine,” the girl said sweetly and simply. “I’m pleased to meet you,” she laughed.
Jack laughed too, and reached out to shake her hand in the darkness. Her fingers were small and strong, and her palm pressed firmly against his own.
“What happens if we break one of the rules?” He wondered.
“I disappear,” the girl said solemnly, “and we never meet again.”
“We’ll be careful,” Jack promised. He could hardly get the words out. He was still holding her hand.
The girl squeezed his thumb gently. “What now?” She asked him.
“Well,” Jack hardly dared to say it. “About my wish.” He ended with a period, not knowing how to articulate what he wanted more than anything.
“About your wish.” Her period was more definite than his, and she scootched closer to him, so that all he had to do was shift his arms and she’d be inside them, right up against his chest.
He did, of course, and wrapped them around her back. She snuggled her face in his shirt and sighed quietly.
They lay that way for hours, not talking, or even moving. Jack was so happy and contented that he felt if he closed his eyes he would drift into a peaceful sleep. So he didn’t close his eyes, for once not wanting to lose a real moment to the beauty of his dreams. Not that he had ever encountered a moment this beautiful.
He couldn’t see her, not even the curve of her cheek or the glint of her hair. But he could feel her nose pressing against his heart, her hand still in his, her feet tangled in his own. He could feel her strength and her wisdom and her clarity. He could feel the preciousness of what he held, and when he thought of when he would have to let her go and slowly continue to live the rest of his life, he almost couldn’t bear the cruelty of it all. He would plod the path alone for a long time, he knew.
This wish felt like a halfway point; it was a moment given to him so that he could face a million moments unlike it with courage. He was sure that this wish wouldn’t have been granted had he been destined to meet the girl in his arms tomorrow, or even next year.
He traced her face, smiling as he felt her grin under his hand. “Trying to figure out what I look like?” She teased.
“No,” Jack returned mockingly, “I expect I’ll find out soon enough.”
“It can’t be soon enough,” the girl said, suddenly sober, “I’ve been thinking of all the months and maybe years I’ll have to live without you.”
Jack pulled her closer. “At least we have this. Most people don’t, you know. They just have to live in mystery and hope that someone perfect for them is out there. We know for sure.”
“Do we?” the girl asked doubtfully. “What if this is a dream? What if we wake up and everything is the same?”
“Everything will be the same,” Jack replied. “We’re the ones who will have changed.”
Then they were quiet again, each thinking their own private thoughts, each holding on tighter to the other as they saw the morning creeping up under the window shades. Just as the light began to reach out onto the floor near the bed, the girl disappeared.
The room seemed to tilt sideways for a second, and then his arms were empty. Instinctively, Jack rolled over onto the spot where she had lain. The warmth from her body still lingered. So she had been real. Dreams do not leave body heat behind.
He was still for a minute, relishing the night. Then he got out of bed and began putting on his clothes in the dark. Taking a deep breath, he strode over to the window and opened the shades, feeling himself flood with day and the promise of a girl who was looking out her own window into the same brightness.
-End-
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
The Things I Used To Like I Don't Like Anymore
Here's a bit of a story I wrote a few years ago. It's not anything really, but it was supposed to be about a teenager trying to cope with her mentally handicapped uncle (whom she's never known about) moving in with her family.
Cheek mashed against my pillow, I watched the lights under my bedroom door move back and forth. Someone was walking around, murmuring quietly. I could barely make out my father’s voice.
“She’s seventeen, Margaret. She can handle it. He’s her uncle, for God’s sake.”
Mom sounded tired when she replied. “I don’t know, Jim. He’s been living with your mother for his whole life. How is he supposed to cope with the real world? With a teenager?”
I was on the carpet now, crouched in front of my door in order to hear their conversation better. What uncle? Uncle Harold I knew. He was married and living in Utah.
Before I could ponder further, I felt something cold under my left foot. Turning around, I saw a penny, the light from under the door glinting off its red surface. Out of habit, I looked at the date etched into the copper. 1955. The year I was born. I slowly straightened up until I was level with my dresser. Groping sightlessly in the dark, I located the jar. I released the penny and heard the small cling as it settled on top of all the other pennies inside. All 1955’s. Lucky pennies.
There was another voice in the kitchen now, a loud, whiny voice begging for a glass of water. Then Mom. “Sshhh, Leo. It’s all right,” she crooned. “Here’s your water. Now you just make yourself comfortable and drift off to sleep. Okay? Goodnight.”
I heard my parents’ bedroom door snap shut.
Very slowly I opened my own door and stepped out into the hallway. Peering around the corner, I could barely make out the couch in the slatted moonlight. A blonde head was poking out from under Great Grandma Blanche’s afghan. As I stepped onto the cold tile of the kitchen, the head stirred, then turned to look at me.
Cheek mashed against my pillow, I watched the lights under my bedroom door move back and forth. Someone was walking around, murmuring quietly. I could barely make out my father’s voice.
“She’s seventeen, Margaret. She can handle it. He’s her uncle, for God’s sake.”
Mom sounded tired when she replied. “I don’t know, Jim. He’s been living with your mother for his whole life. How is he supposed to cope with the real world? With a teenager?”
I was on the carpet now, crouched in front of my door in order to hear their conversation better. What uncle? Uncle Harold I knew. He was married and living in Utah.
Before I could ponder further, I felt something cold under my left foot. Turning around, I saw a penny, the light from under the door glinting off its red surface. Out of habit, I looked at the date etched into the copper. 1955. The year I was born. I slowly straightened up until I was level with my dresser. Groping sightlessly in the dark, I located the jar. I released the penny and heard the small cling as it settled on top of all the other pennies inside. All 1955’s. Lucky pennies.
There was another voice in the kitchen now, a loud, whiny voice begging for a glass of water. Then Mom. “Sshhh, Leo. It’s all right,” she crooned. “Here’s your water. Now you just make yourself comfortable and drift off to sleep. Okay? Goodnight.”
I heard my parents’ bedroom door snap shut.
Very slowly I opened my own door and stepped out into the hallway. Peering around the corner, I could barely make out the couch in the slatted moonlight. A blonde head was poking out from under Great Grandma Blanche’s afghan. As I stepped onto the cold tile of the kitchen, the head stirred, then turned to look at me.
Monday, January 11, 2010
A Bit of a Story
I began writing this about a week ago, and then got tired of it and decided it wasn't going anywhere. It's kind of a fun story, however, so I thought I'd post it. Here you go:
There came a time in my life when I had told so many lies that I didn’t know where my real life ended and my made-up life began. These two lives of mine were not interwoven; they overlapped like two thick pieces of paper. You could not see through one to the markings on the other.
Slowly, I felt myself separate. I spent a day cleaning out my fossilized closet, and that same day I had tea in the city with four beautiful friends. I wore pearls; I hated to show off, but my father had given them to me for my birthday a week before, and it was my first occasion to wear them.
As the pile inside of the closet shrunk and the pile outside of the closet grew, I remembered the pearls I had seen in the window of Macy’s. I had stared at them longingly, forgetting my rain-matted hair and puddle-splashed beagle for a few seconds. My cell phone rang. It was
It was my niece in London. Her husband Mick, who worked for a prominent recording studio there, had just met with Paul McCartney. Apparently they shared the same ambition to save the baby seals. Paul was having lunch with them in the garden next Thursday. Could I please take time out of my busy schedule to help host? And could I bring my Sgt. Pepper’s album? Of course I could, though I would have to unearth the album from a pile of
Moth-eaten teddy bears. I shook the dust off each one as I picked it up, clutching it gently by its furry paws. I could still name all of them, and I did, tapping them on the nose methodically as if they were steel drums and I was the Jamaican with dreadlocks. The dreads were a bit itchy, but they did provide a nice weight on my shoulders
Ache from sitting on the plane so long. First class just isn’t what it used to be. Luckily, the man next to me (who bore a striking resemblence to Jude Law) let me rest my head against his neck. It wasn’t comfortable as a pillow, but smelled a lot
Like the tuna cassorole I had unthinkingly left in the oven while I was cleaning.
There came a time in my life when I had told so many lies that I didn’t know where my real life ended and my made-up life began. These two lives of mine were not interwoven; they overlapped like two thick pieces of paper. You could not see through one to the markings on the other.
Slowly, I felt myself separate. I spent a day cleaning out my fossilized closet, and that same day I had tea in the city with four beautiful friends. I wore pearls; I hated to show off, but my father had given them to me for my birthday a week before, and it was my first occasion to wear them.
As the pile inside of the closet shrunk and the pile outside of the closet grew, I remembered the pearls I had seen in the window of Macy’s. I had stared at them longingly, forgetting my rain-matted hair and puddle-splashed beagle for a few seconds. My cell phone rang. It was
It was my niece in London. Her husband Mick, who worked for a prominent recording studio there, had just met with Paul McCartney. Apparently they shared the same ambition to save the baby seals. Paul was having lunch with them in the garden next Thursday. Could I please take time out of my busy schedule to help host? And could I bring my Sgt. Pepper’s album? Of course I could, though I would have to unearth the album from a pile of
Moth-eaten teddy bears. I shook the dust off each one as I picked it up, clutching it gently by its furry paws. I could still name all of them, and I did, tapping them on the nose methodically as if they were steel drums and I was the Jamaican with dreadlocks. The dreads were a bit itchy, but they did provide a nice weight on my shoulders
Ache from sitting on the plane so long. First class just isn’t what it used to be. Luckily, the man next to me (who bore a striking resemblence to Jude Law) let me rest my head against his neck. It wasn’t comfortable as a pillow, but smelled a lot
Like the tuna cassorole I had unthinkingly left in the oven while I was cleaning.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
A Sneak Preview
Here's an excerpt from my story. Still untitled. I only have about two pages written so far, but it's coming along.
There was a dull fluttering against the window. A moth was caught between the screen and the glass, and was desperately trying to push through to the light within the hospital. Ted paused at his task for a moment to watch its struggle, letting the bedpan slide back beneath the foamy surface of the water with a clatter.
From above, the wail of an ambulance siren suddenly pierced the quiet kitchen. Ted returned to his work, knowing that if another patient was being brought in, his help may be needed soon. Sure enough, someone pounded downstairs a few minutes later.
It was Ray, out of breath, black hair sticking up in haphazard tufts, and right arm dangling. Ray had been born with a twisted, useless right arm. He normally hid it in a sling tied about his shoulder, but when he was sent on errands for Dr. Paget, Ray often became so excited that he forgot about the arm and let it hang by his side like a scrawny loaf of bread.
“Ted, Ted!” Ray was panting heavily. “They just brought a gal in. She’s real bad-pneumonia. Dr. Paget wants you straight away!” He said in a broken rush.
Ted wiped his hands on his pants as he followed Ray back up the stairs and into the sterile white hallways of the ward.
There was a dull fluttering against the window. A moth was caught between the screen and the glass, and was desperately trying to push through to the light within the hospital. Ted paused at his task for a moment to watch its struggle, letting the bedpan slide back beneath the foamy surface of the water with a clatter.
From above, the wail of an ambulance siren suddenly pierced the quiet kitchen. Ted returned to his work, knowing that if another patient was being brought in, his help may be needed soon. Sure enough, someone pounded downstairs a few minutes later.
It was Ray, out of breath, black hair sticking up in haphazard tufts, and right arm dangling. Ray had been born with a twisted, useless right arm. He normally hid it in a sling tied about his shoulder, but when he was sent on errands for Dr. Paget, Ray often became so excited that he forgot about the arm and let it hang by his side like a scrawny loaf of bread.
“Ted, Ted!” Ray was panting heavily. “They just brought a gal in. She’s real bad-pneumonia. Dr. Paget wants you straight away!” He said in a broken rush.
Ted wiped his hands on his pants as he followed Ray back up the stairs and into the sterile white hallways of the ward.
Friday, August 7, 2009
The Easy Way Out (Not That One)
Yes, I'm back to lists. But this one should be a bit more interesting than 'things I did today' (not to say, of course that I won't use that one again).
I recently wrote a Science fiction story just for fun, and to experiment with a different genre. But I noticed a few things about my writing process and about writing in general. I mean, what happened to being able to crank out a poem in about five minutes? Everything rhymes...cheesy title...big embellished signature at the bottom...done! Things have definitely gotten a bit more complicated.
THINGS I KNOW ABOUT WRITING:
1. It's almost impossible to write a story in one sitting. Sometimes (actually, most of the time), it's necessary to walk away, do something else for a few hours, and come back with a fresh perspective.
2. Criticism stinks. It's really horrible to have someone else telling you what's bad about your piece. But you know what? It honestly, truly works. And as a matter of fact, deep down, you already knew what was wrong without being told.
3. No one will love your story if you don't love your story. Don't ever send something out that you don't have complete faith in.
4. Science fiction isn't excruciatingly boring (all of the time).
5. I've heard people say that you should never write what you know. I would say always write what you know. Include any and all personal experiences, friends, pets, names, quotes, random stories...It makes everything seem more realistic.
6. Write about what you want to write about, not what someone else wants to hear. Unless of course it's a school assignment. Then I would say do what you're told.
7. Write something you would want to read. Endless descriptions may be a blast to write, but no one want to slog though that while reading.
8. Write everyday. No matter what. Even if it's just a journal entry or a one paragraph description or a haiku. Write something. And keep it all.
That's all. Sorry if I sound really patronizing, but I'm not trying to preach. I've just recently had a sort of epiphany and I wanted to share it. Also, everything on the list is personal. I think that writing is different for every single person. There is no such thing as 'method writing.'
That's all once again. Good night.
I recently wrote a Science fiction story just for fun, and to experiment with a different genre. But I noticed a few things about my writing process and about writing in general. I mean, what happened to being able to crank out a poem in about five minutes? Everything rhymes...cheesy title...big embellished signature at the bottom...done! Things have definitely gotten a bit more complicated.
THINGS I KNOW ABOUT WRITING:
1. It's almost impossible to write a story in one sitting. Sometimes (actually, most of the time), it's necessary to walk away, do something else for a few hours, and come back with a fresh perspective.
2. Criticism stinks. It's really horrible to have someone else telling you what's bad about your piece. But you know what? It honestly, truly works. And as a matter of fact, deep down, you already knew what was wrong without being told.
3. No one will love your story if you don't love your story. Don't ever send something out that you don't have complete faith in.
4. Science fiction isn't excruciatingly boring (all of the time).
5. I've heard people say that you should never write what you know. I would say always write what you know. Include any and all personal experiences, friends, pets, names, quotes, random stories...It makes everything seem more realistic.
6. Write about what you want to write about, not what someone else wants to hear. Unless of course it's a school assignment. Then I would say do what you're told.
7. Write something you would want to read. Endless descriptions may be a blast to write, but no one want to slog though that while reading.
8. Write everyday. No matter what. Even if it's just a journal entry or a one paragraph description or a haiku. Write something. And keep it all.
That's all. Sorry if I sound really patronizing, but I'm not trying to preach. I've just recently had a sort of epiphany and I wanted to share it. Also, everything on the list is personal. I think that writing is different for every single person. There is no such thing as 'method writing.'
That's all once again. Good night.
Friday, January 2, 2009
There's nothing new under the sun
Just because I want to write but can't, I'm going to draw back on old stuff again. Sorry. These are beginnings to stories I never wrote. Please keep in mind that some of them are very, very old. I've been not finishing stories for many years now.
First, there was nothing. Then light appeared. It seemed to creep up slowly, smothering the warm, dark carpet. I flipped onto my stomach and let my cheek hang off the pillow as I tried to return to my dream.
He and I stared blankly at each other, me pressed against the wall in an attempt to get out of the way, and him still clutching the doorknob as if loss of contact would keep it locked forever. "There's no way out?" He asked briskly.
"No." We were doomed.
I sank to the floor and looked around the room. Toilet. Sink. Tub. There were no resources, no possible means of escape. His back thumped against the door as he sat down across from me.
Helen looked up at Mother, who was wringing a Kleenex in her hands and staring intently at the never-ending gray highway, which separated their neat green lawn from the tumbledown Mullet farm.
It’s funny how things you look forward to seem to shrink as you near them.
It’s a chilly June morning and I’m burrowed under my blankets like my dog, Leech does when he hears the word V-E-T. I wake up to a scuffle outside my window.
First, there was nothing. Then light appeared. It seemed to creep up slowly, smothering the warm, dark carpet. I flipped onto my stomach and let my cheek hang off the pillow as I tried to return to my dream.
He and I stared blankly at each other, me pressed against the wall in an attempt to get out of the way, and him still clutching the doorknob as if loss of contact would keep it locked forever. "There's no way out?" He asked briskly.
"No." We were doomed.
I sank to the floor and looked around the room. Toilet. Sink. Tub. There were no resources, no possible means of escape. His back thumped against the door as he sat down across from me.
Helen looked up at Mother, who was wringing a Kleenex in her hands and staring intently at the never-ending gray highway, which separated their neat green lawn from the tumbledown Mullet farm.
It’s funny how things you look forward to seem to shrink as you near them.
It’s a chilly June morning and I’m burrowed under my blankets like my dog, Leech does when he hears the word V-E-T. I wake up to a scuffle outside my window.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
The Summer Chronicles
I was just looking back through my old Microsoft Word documents when I found this. I wrote it last summer as a series of little blips. I was kind of hoping they would turn themselves into a story.
Anyway, the reason I'm posting is because I think they're funny. It's interesting how things that seem like the most important things in the world can seem so stupid a few months down the road.
I think the writing is okay overall-maybe a little heavy on the adjectives, but that has always been an issue.
So here's a little treat from last July:
All the ugly things in the world came crashing down as Gus Molina shouted at me. I was glad for her sunglasses; glad I didn’t have to see her flat brown eyes burn.
The rest of the saxophones peered through their sweat at us. There were a few tentative giggles-no one knew yet if this was a joke.
Gus’s volume increased, then. “I’ve been in marching band for four years, and we have always played with the brasses. We are brasses. You need to accept that and move on. We play with the brasses.”
I didn’t know what to say. So I just remained still, like an animal playing dead in the jaws of a predator.
Now Mollie was there, holding her sax in one hand, swinging her sunglasses in the other. She may as well have been wearing a cape and tights. “Gus, what is the matter with you? You need to apologize to Holly right now.”
Gus studied the oak tree across the street. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
I stared at Gus’s ear. “It’s fine.” No it’s not.
Gus raised her chin. “But I know I’m right.”
I looked at Ryan. His mouth was open, and his reed was hanging out, dripping blue drops of saliva onto the pavement. I watched the drops turn black and run together into a small puddle, before slowly trailing to the curb.
There was the metallic clank of a tenor saxophone, and Gus was gone, walking swiftly towards the school with a triumphant gait.
The altos and I looked at each other.
Mom picked through a piece of walleye, pinching the tiny bones between her fingers and scraping them onto a napkin. “So, Matt, who died today?”
Dad’s face was sunburned, and the top of his head shone with reflected evening sunlight. “Just some guy on TV. They’re sure making a big deal out of it, but he’s no one worth getting your undies in a bundle over.”
Often things that are not remotely funny, like death for example, can be the funniest things in the world. Amy and I thought so, and we laughed until we cried into our coleslaw.
Later, when the kitchen was empty but for me, and a pile of greasy, menacing dishes, I felt sorry, and vowed to say a prayer for the TV man who had died. I thought I’d thank him for giving me the best laugh I’d had in a long time.
It was one of those nights when the world seemed to be full, and perilously close to overflowing. I had marching band the next day, during which I had to face Gus, play Hot Hot Hot memorized, and become a fearless leader. Thinking about these approaching events rattled the globe a bit, and a few drops splattered into space and were gone. There was only pale blue where New Zealand used to be, and Antarctica was barely clinging to the ocean. But we can only move forward, and so I put the world back onto my shoulders, finding it even heavier than Atlas did, and took a step.
Anyway, the reason I'm posting is because I think they're funny. It's interesting how things that seem like the most important things in the world can seem so stupid a few months down the road.
I think the writing is okay overall-maybe a little heavy on the adjectives, but that has always been an issue.
So here's a little treat from last July:
All the ugly things in the world came crashing down as Gus Molina shouted at me. I was glad for her sunglasses; glad I didn’t have to see her flat brown eyes burn.
The rest of the saxophones peered through their sweat at us. There were a few tentative giggles-no one knew yet if this was a joke.
Gus’s volume increased, then. “I’ve been in marching band for four years, and we have always played with the brasses. We are brasses. You need to accept that and move on. We play with the brasses.”
I didn’t know what to say. So I just remained still, like an animal playing dead in the jaws of a predator.
Now Mollie was there, holding her sax in one hand, swinging her sunglasses in the other. She may as well have been wearing a cape and tights. “Gus, what is the matter with you? You need to apologize to Holly right now.”
Gus studied the oak tree across the street. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
I stared at Gus’s ear. “It’s fine.” No it’s not.
Gus raised her chin. “But I know I’m right.”
I looked at Ryan. His mouth was open, and his reed was hanging out, dripping blue drops of saliva onto the pavement. I watched the drops turn black and run together into a small puddle, before slowly trailing to the curb.
There was the metallic clank of a tenor saxophone, and Gus was gone, walking swiftly towards the school with a triumphant gait.
The altos and I looked at each other.
Mom picked through a piece of walleye, pinching the tiny bones between her fingers and scraping them onto a napkin. “So, Matt, who died today?”
Dad’s face was sunburned, and the top of his head shone with reflected evening sunlight. “Just some guy on TV. They’re sure making a big deal out of it, but he’s no one worth getting your undies in a bundle over.”
Often things that are not remotely funny, like death for example, can be the funniest things in the world. Amy and I thought so, and we laughed until we cried into our coleslaw.
Later, when the kitchen was empty but for me, and a pile of greasy, menacing dishes, I felt sorry, and vowed to say a prayer for the TV man who had died. I thought I’d thank him for giving me the best laugh I’d had in a long time.
It was one of those nights when the world seemed to be full, and perilously close to overflowing. I had marching band the next day, during which I had to face Gus, play Hot Hot Hot memorized, and become a fearless leader. Thinking about these approaching events rattled the globe a bit, and a few drops splattered into space and were gone. There was only pale blue where New Zealand used to be, and Antarctica was barely clinging to the ocean. But we can only move forward, and so I put the world back onto my shoulders, finding it even heavier than Atlas did, and took a step.
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