Elyria Writers

Junky Graffiti (a short story REVISED)

2008-03-22T12:46:00.002-04:00

She would drive home through a toxic twist of turns. Unsure of whether the fog was coming from her mind or the road, she would finally arrive at the Dove family house on Patterson Street. She tried her best to keep her membership a secret. Sitting there smothered by a fossil of problems, she knew what await her once she stepped outside of her car.
Every night, Lily stood outside her car and stare at the infinite piles of dog shit that surrounded the vehicle. “It’s my fucking step mom, I know it, I know it!” she would say. Lily’s only suspect to blame for this new encounter of steamy welcomes was her stepmother Gretchen. Gretchen and Lily got along great.
Gretchen was an elderly old southern bell. She wore glasses that were a 1950s style with over-sized, red plastic rims across the top. The exaggerated rims looked like a rusty butterfly with black spots. They blocked her wrinkled and craggy face. Very unlike her stepmother, Lily saw the world through scabby telescopes. At the expense of what Gretchen called her “huffie puffies”, Lily’s hair color changed twice a weak from mellow yellow to turtle green, and ruby red. Gretchen could only see in two colors; the first was white, and the second was whiter. But racist pigs were not the concerning issue-at-hand with Lily. She just wanted her stepmother to stop walking the dogs near her car.
Apparently, Gretchen got pissed at Lily when she started parking her car in the driveway, unlike her usual spot in the street. Gretchen was old and couldn’t really drive that well, and when she needed to back out of the driveway in the morning for work, well she had a little trouble. Lily felt there was plenty of room for her to park in the driveway. So Gretchen’s solution, instead of practicing mother to stepdaughter futility, she would every night before bed, take the two family dogs to relieve themselves in the little grass yard besides Lily’s car, hoping her stepdaughter would give up and stumble her car back to the street.
Gretchen would just say something very dainty, “Good Heavens, I haven’t the slightest clue, and Lily, stop saying ‘shit’, say ‘poo’. It’s more polite.” To this day, Lily wonders where the extension chord is to plug-in Gretchen. This problem could have been easily solved by Lily parking in the garage, and Gretchen in the driveway. However, stubbornness was seen as a positive character trait for the Dove family. Lily hated being in the street, and Gretchen wanted the garage because she was certain her car would get stolen if parked in the driveway. So on and on, every night Lily would tiptoe over landmines, and every morning, Gretchen would slowly and gracefully, monster truck her way over the driveway, wondering each and every time if she would make it to the street.
Her first attempt was somewhat of a miss. She could have been backing out of an airplane hanger, and it still wouldn’t have made a difference. Gretchen’s stale green hunk of metal that floated on water had this silver bumper that stuck out along the nose of the car. The rusty and faded bumper, jagged around the sides, knew well of Gretchen’s driving record, and sweated every time it heard the engine spark. During her first effort, Gretchen slowly and delicately steered this hang tooth bumper, which just happened to latch onto a two week old garbage bag that Lily never took out, which resulted in Lily’s car receiving a sponge bath in rubbish that morning. Gretchen really couldn’t see that well, so she didn’t notice anything, and well, she struggled with hearing things too, so the clank-scrap-rip across the side of Lily’s car went unnoticed as well. She drove her whole way to work with a trash bag on her bumper. Little kids on school buses giggled towards their education that morning, sailing next to a green boat, and Captain Gretchen S. Dove spreading her junky graffiti across the roadway.
“So not only do I have to deal with dog shit at my feet every time I get out of my car, I also have to worry about used diapers stuck to my tire? You know how embarrassing that is?” Lily belched.
“If you would have taken out the trash like I asked you wouldn’t be crying,” Gretchen defended. “A little grease for your elbow wouldn’t hurt ya’ know?”
“No, now my entire body is greasy thanks to Miss Skippidy-Do-Da,” Lily whined. “I’m gonna go shower in bleach. Thanks. Oh, I heard BFI is hiring by the way, just thought, you might want to apply.”
The next night, Lily hazed home sliding through turns and weaves preparing for an unpleasant walk from her car to the house. During her drive, she stumbled across the idea of parking on the right side of the driveway. This, in her mind, would take care of the landmines, and hopefully free her car from anything that latched onto Gretchen’s bumper. Not the worst of ideas, a noble effort of sorts. She just looked over one small detail. Gretchen’s right eye had a very skewed peripheral ability. That next morning, Gretchen opened the garage door and peered happily out. “She finally wised up and parked in the street,” she muttered to herself. With no obstacles in sight, Gretchen with a new confidence, decided to back out a little faster then normal. The two cars fused and flushed together for three feet before she felt the resistance. This time, Gretchen heard what became of the clank-scrap-rip, which really was just one long SKRIEK, which awoke the neighborhood that morning.
Lily slowly stumbled outside in crabby pajamas rubbing her eyes against the first images of the day.
“Please tell me this is a nightmare.” She moaned.
Gretchen desperately squeaked, “You know my right eye is lame, how was I to know you parked on the right side of the driveway when you normally park on the left?”
“Whatever, you’re paying for this.” Lily said turning towards the house realizing that the two hours she could normally be sleeping in for, would be spent plotting her stepmother’s demise.
The next night came upon them. Lily spent the whole day brainstorming on how to get back at her stepmother. This was the night. Focused and calm, Lily drove home impatiently through twirls of clarity. She was alert and determined, and the only thing in sight was her destination. Arriving home, Lily parked in the middle of the driveway, knowing all well that Gretchen would not be backing out the next morning. She spent the next half hour unplugging her stepmothers car battery, releasing all the air in her tires, and hiding Gretchen’s keys in the one place she knew she wouldn’t find them, her trunk. Lily fell asleep that night with a smile, not caring what was to come that morning, because she knew that her car was safe and sound from Gretchen’s monster boat.
The next morning Gretchen came across the sabotage left for her from the night before. Not even bothering looking for her keys, she left a note on the table for Lily to find when she awoke. It read:
Dear Lily,
I needed a car for work so I borrowed yours!
Love,
Gretchen
Lily came across the letter that morning, and was so angry, she decided to skip school and wait for her stepmother. Gretchen arrived home early from work to find Lily sitting by the door.
“Was that a taxi that dropped you off?” Lilly asked.
“Well, we need to have a talk dear.” Gretchen said.
“Where the fuck is my car?” Lilly screamed.
“Honey, what did I tell you about that word?” Gretchen hesitated.
“The only thing you need to be telling me is where my fucking car is.” She ruptured.
“Well, I was on my way to work, just putting along, and this cop car came out of no where, and I sorta got in a little fender bender.” Gretchen revealed.
“You hit a cop?” she asked.
“Sort of, but don’t worry, your car is fine, it was the officers car that got damaged. I swore I thought the light was green, it looked green, but you know me and my vision,” she explained. “Well, ultimately, because I’m not insured on your car, and it’s registered to you, they had to tow it. I swear it wasn’t my fault.”
Gretchen swears to this day she saw Lily’s eyes do a three sixty inside her sockets. Lily unable to drive anywhere spent the rest of the day and night locked in her room. Every time Gretchen knocked on her door, Lily screamed for her to go away.
The next morning came, and with no vehicle for Gretchen to go to work, and no vehicle for Lily to go to school, the Doves boarded the crowded city bus. There were only two seats left, and to Lily’s disappointment, they were right next to each other. They plopped down on the hard plastic and waited for the sudden jolt for the public transit system to begin. They were quiet most of the time. Gretchen would go to open her mouth and Lily would dramatically throw her hands in the air saying, “Don’t talk to me!” Gretchen gave up and spent the rest of the time with her eyes shut. When it came time for Lily to get off the bus, Gretchen felt a grueling stare from her stepdaughter. “Thanks for being a true asshole,” Lilly said.
Gretchen’s simple response was, “Hey. This is a world of sticks and stones!”
Lily sighed, “Yeah, but you are the only one who doesn’t feel broken bones.”
Gretchen frowned. “I’m sorry,” she said as Lily exited the bus.
For two-weeks, the two sat next to each other on the city bus. When they did finally get their vehicles back, Lilly ended parked in the street, and Gretchen spent forty-five minutes picking up dog shit.

It's been awhile

2008-03-21T17:42:00.002-04:00

Hey guys, sorry I haven't posted in awhile, but below is a short story I'm working on for my creative writing class, it's a rough draft. Let me know what you think.

Much love,
Joe Wilbert

Junky Graffiti (a short story)

2008-03-21T17:31:00.004-04:00

She would drive home through a toxic twist of turns. Unsure of whether the fog was coming from her mind or the road, she would finally arrive at what little she could call home. Sitting there smothered by a fossil of problems, she knew what await her once she stepped outside of her car.
Every night, Lily would stand outside her car and stare at the infinite piles of dog shit that surrounded the vehicle. “It’s my fucking step mom, I know it, I know it!” she would say. Lily’s only suspect to blame for this new encounter of steamy welcomes was her stepmother Gretchen. Gretchen and Lily got along great.
Apparently, Gretchen got pissed at Lily when she started parking her car in the driveway, unlike her usual spot in the street. Gretchen was old and couldn’t really drive that well, and when she needed to back out of the driveway in the morning for work, well she had a little trouble. Lily felt there was plenty of room for her to park in the driveway. So Gretchen’s solution, instead of practicing mother to stepdaughter futility, she would every night before bed, take the two family dogs to relieve themselves in the little grass yard besides Lily’s car, hoping her stepdaughter would loose all hope.
Gretchen would just say something very dainty, “Good Heavens, I haven’t the slightest clue, and Lily, stop saying ‘shit’, say ‘poo’.” To this day, Lily wonders where the extension chord is to plug Gretchen in. This problem could have been easily solved by Lily parking in the garage, and Gretchen in the driveway. However, stubbornness was seen as a positive character trait for the Dove family. Lily hated being in the street, and Gretchen wanted the garage because she was certain her car would get stolen if parked in the driveway. So on and on, every night Lily would tiptoe over landmines, and every morning, Gretchen would slowly and gracefully, monster truck her way over the driveway, wondering each and every time if she would make it to the street.
Her first attempt was somewhat of a miss. She could have been backing out of an airplane hanger, and it still wouldn’t have made a difference. Gretchen’s stale green hunk of metal that could have floated on water had this silver bumper that stuck out along the nose of the car. The rusty and faded bumper, jagged around the sides, knew well of Gretchen’s driving record, and sweated every time the engine sparked. During her first effort, Gretchen slowly and delicately steered this hang tooth bumper, which just happened to latch onto a two week old garbage bag that Lily never took out, which resulted in Lily’s car receiving a sponge bath in rubbish that morning. Gretchen really couldn’t see that well, so she didn’t notice anything, and well, she struggled with hearing things too, so the clank-scrap-rip across the side of Lily’s car went unnoticed as well. She drove her whole way to work with a trash bag on her bumper. Little kids on school buses giggled towards their education that morning, sailing next to a green boat, and Captain Gretchen S. Dove spreading her junky graffiti across the roadway.
“So not only do I have to deal with dog shit at my feet every time I get out of my car, I also have to worry about used diapers stuck to my tire? You know how embarrassing that is?” Lily belched.
“If you would have taken out the trash like I asked you wouldn’t be crying,” Gretchen defended. “A little grease for your elbow wouldn’t hurt ya’ know?”
“No, now my entire body is greasy thanks to Miss Skippidy-Do-Da,” Lily whined. “I’m gonna go shower in bleach. Thanks. Oh, I heard BFI is hiring by the way, just thought, you might want to apply.”
The next night, Lily hazed home sliding through turns and weaves preparing for an unpleasant walk from her car to the house. During her drive, she stumbled across the idea of parking on the right side of the driveway. This, in her mind, would take care of the landmines, and hopefully free her car from anything that latched onto Gretchen’s bumper. Not the worst of ideas, a noble effort of sorts. She just looked over one small detail. Gretchen’s right eye had a very skewed peripheral ability. That next morning, Gretchen opened the garage door and peered happily out. “She finally wised up and parked in the street,” she muttered to herself. With no obstacles in sight, Gretchen with a new confidence, decided to back out a little faster then normal. The two cars fused and flushed together for three feet before she felt the resistance. This time, Gretchen heard what became of the clank-scrap-rip, which really was just one long SKRIEK, which awoke the neighborhood that morning.
Lily slowly stumbled outside in crabby pajamas rubbing her eyes against the first images of the day.
“Please tell me this is a nightmare.” She moaned.
Gretchen desperately squeaked, “You know my right eye is lame, how was I to know you parked on the right side of the driveway when you normally park on the left?”
“Whatever, you’re paying for this.” Lily said turning towards the house realizing that the two hours she could normally be sleeping in for, would be spent plotting her stepmother’s demise.
The next night came upon them. Lily spent the whole day brainstorming on how to get back at her stepmother. This was the night. Focused and calm, Lily drove home impatiently through twirls of clarity. She was alert and determined, and the only thing in sight was her destination. Arriving home, Lily parked in the middle of the driveway, knowing all well that Gretchen would not be backing the next morning. She spent the next half hour unplugging her stepmothers car battery, releasing all the air in her tires, and hiding Gretchen’s keys in the one place she knew she wouldn’t find them, her trunk. Lily fell asleep that night with a smile, not caring what was to come that morning, because she knew that her car was safe and sound from Gretchen’s monster boat.
The next morning Gretchen came across the sabotage left for her from the night before. Not even bothering looking for her keys, she left a note on the table for Lily to find when she awoke. It read:
Dear Lily,
I needed a car for work so I borrowed yours!
Love,
Gretchen
Lily came across the letter that morning, and was so angry, she decided to skip school and wait for stepmother. Gretchen arrived home early from work to find Lily sitting by the door.
“Was that a taxi that dropped you off?” Lilly asked.
“Well, we need to have a talk dear.” Gretchen said.
“Where the fuck is my car?” Lilly screamed.
“Honey, what did I tell you about word?” Gretchen hesitated.
“The only thing you need to be telling me is where my fucking car is.” She said.
“Well, I was on my way to work, just putting along, and this cop car came out of no where, and I sorta got in a little fender bender.” Gretchen revealed.
“You hit a cop?” she asked.
“Sort of, but don’t worry, your car is fine, it was the officers car that got damaged. I swore I thought the light was green, it looked green, but you know me and my vision,” she explained. “Well, ultimately, because I’m not insured on your car, and it’s registered to you, they had to tow it. I swear it wasn’t my fault.”
Gretchen swears to this day she saw Lily’s eyes do a three sixty inside her sockets. Lily unable to drive anywhere spent the rest of the day and night locked in her room. Every time Gretchen knocked on her door, Lily screamed for her to go away.
The next morning came, and with no transportation to work or school, the Doves boarded the crowded city bus. There were only two seats left, and to much of Lily’s disappointment, they were right next to each other. Gretchen would go to open her mouth and Lily would dramatically throw her hands in the air saying, “Don’t talk to me!” Gretchen gave up and sat there quietly for the rest of the bus ride. When it came time for Lily to get off the bus, she stared at Gretchen for thirty seconds before saying, “Thanks for being a true asshole.”
Gretchen’s simple response was, “This is a world of sticks and stones!”
Lily sighed, “Yeah, but you are the only one who doesn’t feel broken bones.”
Gretchen frowned, “I’m sorry.”
For three weeks, the two sat next to each other on the city bus. When they did finally get their vehicles back, Lilly parked in the street, and Gretchen spent forty-five minutes picking up dog shit.

My Own Book of Blues

2008-03-09T22:22:00.002-04:00

This next post needs to be slightly prefaced. All of the writings I am posting were created during a short period while I was in Chicago. I have written more like them but these all sort of go together. It was a quiet time and I was really falling in love with the city. It was about this time that I discovered a lot of passion in the small things that I did and created.

The writings were an experiment that I did for myself. I wrote them based on a simple form that Jack Kerouac sort of created. There are several pieces all broken down into short segments. To help explain it better, here is a quote from Jack Kerouac in his poetry compilation 'Book of Blues':

"In my system, the form of blues choruses is limited by the small page of the breastpocket notebook in which they are written, like the form of a set number of bars in a jazz blues chorus, and so sometimes the word-meaning can carry from one chorus into another, or not, just like the phrase-meaning can carry harmonically from one chorus to the other, or not, in jazz, so that, in these blues as in jazz, the form is determined by time, and by the musician's spontaneous phrasing & harmonizing with the beat of the time as it waves & waves on by in measured choruses.
It's all gotta be non stop ad libbing within each chorus, or the gig is shot."

With that said, here is a taste of my attempt at Jack Kerouac's 'blues choruses'.

*****

The words are there,
but no one can see,
If they are only
in my head,
Are they
still
words -
Still thoughts?
or just emotions -

meaning?
Full or Less
Circle one, then
let me in on it.

*****

If time is so
precious then
why do we waste
it with our "breast
pocket notebooks"?
Why here - or on
that sheet there.
Turn me over and
waste here!
Atleast here will
live forever when
Time is wasted.
Time is here -
not yet wasted.

*****

To where will you
go?
When I leave -
where will
I go?
Why do I have
to have a clue
-O-
To what reasoning
is there that
I should know
Cabins, woods, dreams,
and rivers -
I shall take a
bus -
From coast to coast
I can place my
name on any
mail box.
I can sit in a
recliner and
get
-HI-
Watch time go
by - High and
Time go -
Where will I end
up? It's
as much
your clue
as it is mine.
g
u
ess
Because that is
where I will
be - Carmen
S a n d i e g o
That is where I
will be -
-O-
That is where
I WILL
BE
That is what I Love.

*****

Where am I now -
Chicago, well
not this second.
10
thousand miles
above the ground -
Airplanes
Flying or soaring
or
drifting in the air -
Ro ck et -
ing
and bringing a child's
imagination to life.

*****

honk honk
vezooonm -
screeching tires
but no end - no
bang. no
BANG. NO
in Chicago -
no pickup
or call in - bumper
to bumper but never
bumper
in
bumper

*****

My heart over
a sunset
R
i
s
ing to show
me how beautiful the
world is
How peaceful the
r
o l
W d is

My heart is here.

*****

My loves find
inspiration in Chicago.
Chicago finds
inspiration in
M E.
This is why I
love this city.

And why I don't
want to leave -
but I'm sorry -

The wind
The wind -
It goes West to East
West
to
East

But my love for
home will only take
me so far -
it will take
me West to East -

to O O
hi

to where I was
born, but that
isn't
enough - I read
and see a
place I love -
I drive to smell

it's air - passed
over the ocean.

The sweet smell
of land - and
salt
WA TER.
The water oooo
the Water of
California - or
San cisco -
Fran
where will I end -

I don't know -

I've never seen
Port LAND

But I hope to -
I dream to.

I have smelled a
beauty and I can
NOT
deprive myself
of that beauty - of
that sun
rise and Fall -

The sunset over
the ocean -
It wouldn't be
F A
I R to me.
To us.

But I may extend
my boundaries . . .

Boundaries beyond
our National
Bor
d
e
r
s.

Who knows.

I love where
I am -
And I know I'll
Love where
I will be.

This is not good-
bye
B
Y
E - just see
you Later.
The point is
Chicago - I have
to
Chica GO

A continuation- The Manx

2008-02-20T11:47:00.001-05:00

He woke up. The alarm clock placed at the other end of the room had nothing to do with it. It was six a.m., too early for sunlit mornings during the winter months. Manx’s mother came up to his room and checked if he was awake for school. Like most days he was. On the rare occasion where Manx was not up his mother would tickle the bottoms of his feet until she saw him smile. Though for some time Manx practiced waking himself without the need of an alarm clock or device and got very good at this skill, there were still days when he would stay under his sheets acting, knowing his mother’s tendencies.

Manx went to school following the progression he usually took during the winter months. He cut through a yard with an open fence that led to a small park with maple trees a few scattered pines, a playground, two baseball fields and an outside basketball court. If there was more than a foot of snow on the ground he usually stuck to sidewalks. Other factors played their parts- girls, friends, enemies of a youth’s proportion, seasons, and time all served as variables in the morning walk to school. Never did school serve more than a purpose of destination.

Today at P.S. 118 Manx was extremely bored and had grown tired of listening to his teachers. His English teacher, Mrs. Gridge, was reading aloud when Manx decided to get out a blank sheet of paper and pen. He started to draw an abstraction of a building, yet never following a point of perception. It came out of the ground one way, and just when you thought it was going to stop- it morphed into the end of another building falling from the sky. The objects around the buildings were not drawn to scale; the whole picture itself followed no real basis. No right side up, no down side down- didn’t matter. Manx was completely focused. Complete attention to detail, little time passed in between thoughts, lines, shades, shapes, picture. His teacher had finished reading and given out an assignment for the students to do in class. Soon after the order she noticed that Manx was not paying attention. She walked over to his desk from behind, stood at his back and hovered over Manx’s shoulders. Her shadow cast over half of his drawing, and at that point Manx looked into his creation far more intently with fierceness like it was the first time he had ever completely seen something. Mrs. Gridge swung her arm over his shoulder and snatched the paper from his desk, ripped it down the middle and threw it away while staring at him with eyes that told him what to do next. Manx sat motionless and unsure except for a little irony that pulled him apart because he could never take that lady seriously. Manx had been ripped from a dream as he felt a jolt run down his spine. He was slightly embarrassed because he knew the class waited for moments like this- got by on moments like this, and ate lunch with moments like this. After the initial and raw shock, there was a still and resonating tingle in Manx’s foot that had not been grounded.

The day passed and standard procedures went as followed: lunch, recess, classes, bell. In those linear hours talk formulated. Manx was a large portion of P.S. 118 gossip.

“Did you see the look on his face.”
“Hahaha., I bet he never does that again” crept through cracks of conversations.

Manx played along with the fun. At lunch the boys were sitting with Manx; many of which would have considered themselves to be friends with him raved about the English class incident. Manx laughed and saw humor in it but didn’t participate unless obligated. He didn’t care, that was all. A word here or there about it in response would do, but it was just to please. Other kids dramatized for certain reasons. And that is why matters like this always got the best out of other children breaking them down to tears or making them sad for the rest of the day, or even week depending on who it was. The fragile Meredith McCoy could attest to that. It usually took the weekends to clear a child’s relative mentality. If the situation were substantial enough the parents would be notified. Perhaps a call to Manx’s mother would be in order from the teacher, or even better the principle. The slight threat of authority and fear of discipline can tear at a young youth’s heart. Not Manx’s. Not because he was a rebel or anything like that, but he understood that this thing happening was insignificant. He laughed at the ones who took it too seriously. He was calm, whereas many children could only comprehend the immediate, impetuous moments of life. In this situation he felt no wrong, and no error of judgement on his part.

It’s safe to say that once Manx left school he wasn’t apart of what had conspired that day. The other kids walked and talked vicariously with the dramas of school. Telling parents, friends, and younger siblings all that they had to offer. They shared what had gone on that day in school, who it was about, where it took place, why it happened-always including the embellishments, after all, that’s what people wanted to hear.
Manx walked to his nearby home using detours to fill his delight. This day in particularly Manx walked with a friend that lived nearby. Nick was a good fellow and meant no harm and Manx enjoyed his company enough. Sometimes he would invite Nick over to play afterwards. A short get together would suffice for today. When Manx got home around 3:30 he greeted his mom who hugged him with her apron on as she prepared dinner, then she asked how his day went.
“It was good.”
“What did you do at school today.”
“Nothing, kicked a homer during recess.”
“Goooooooood.” Manx’s mother said in her sweet and praising voice.
“When’s Dad getting home?” Manx asked, even though he knew it would be the regular.
“Five-thirty.” She stretched her voice out to Manx already skipping upstairs letting room for insignificant talk that need not be explained.

***

“I hate it when people complain.”
“Me too Nick,” Manx gave hints of slyness without all the irony.

The goal was to stretch his expression far enough so that Nick could keep up, but at the same time, recollect, and say, ahhhh. Nick would however lose the connection much like how a dream escapes. Manx viewed it almost as a conditioning experiment. In the back of his mind it was just one player game. Nick never played.

“Are you-” Manx said while pointing across the street to the gym.
“Am I what?” Nick didn’t see him pointing and Manx was still playing somewhat of a game.
“Nothing.”
“Am I what!”
“Nothing Nick, just wanted to know if you were going to…play basketball.”
“Basketball?”
“Yea at the YMCA, I think there are a bunch of guys meeting after school today.”
“Who’ll be up there.”
“I don’t know, some of the guys from class. Jerry, Darren, Marcus- the usual.”
“Nah.”
“What else are you going to do?” He knew the answer, which was watch TV or play video games.
“I’ve got better things to do.”
“Like what complain?”

Manx had played basketball in Nick’s own driveway for years. Even though he wasn’t much competition it was still fun- at least they were running around. Driveway’s, or “home” courts, appealed to Manx because they had their own unique way of play. You had to know where the cracks were that affected the bounce of the ball and the lightness of your feet. You had to understand the spatial realm of the court. A rectangular shaped driveway that had a fiberglass basketball hoop could be exploited with jab steps and vertical quickness much more than a sloped concrete court cut with irrigation canals for depressurization. The ladder, concrete slabs and all was Manx’s home court

YMCA’s carried characteristics of people unbelonging to the orderly realm society. At least the ones Manx went to. Apparently it’s some kind of Christian association.

“Score?” Manx yelled onto the court.
“10-7”

Manx dribbled around and waited for his time on the court. Games were played up to 12- win by 2, or straight up to 15. He looked at some of the players, most of them showed little potential. A few of his classmates were there, some guys a couple years older, and a cute girl with a parks and recreation shirt on. She wasn’t playing.
On the walls of the gym were action shots of people playing sports. They were blue or pink. Guy and Girl presumably. Their joints were rounded off in every way- they were stencils handicapped to walls like expressions sown on dolls. Manx didn’t get it. He didn’t know if they agitated him, or whether he found them tacky, or if he liked them- they were a staple of the YMCA.
“Ball!” A quick pass from the wing followed. Some call it the tit of the court. It’s where the three-point line curves around to the baseline.
“Swing it!” Marcus said.
Manx faked the pass and drove the lane. He jumped in the air for the layup. At the same time Darren hit him across the face intentionally.
“Fuck you.” It wasn’t until his mid teens where words like this entered and exited his lingo without feelings of regret.
“That’s the game man!” Darren shouted.
“It is if you can’t win.”
“What?”
“Keep foulin’”
“I will.” The emphasis was on the I.

The game continued and Manx got more aggressive. The ball bounced off the rim and Manx went up for the rebound with Darren beside him. Manx stuck his elbow out after gathering the rebound and clocked him on the head.
“Sorry part of the game.” It was Darren’s turn to get mad.
“Ahhh!” He pushed Manx in the chest. A bunch of foul jumbled words mixed with grumblings in Darren’s quivering, on edge of tears voice. Manx pushed back keeping pressure on Darren’s chest but never forcing him off balance. It was defensive and articulate of certain softness. In that way Darren understood there was to be nothing more.
The next time down Manx hit a short jump shot.
“Game.” He walked off the court straight to the drinking fountain.

After the game Darren and Manx strolled home together. A cut on the side of Manx’s face and a goose bump under Darren’s wiry black hair.
“You playin’ tomorrow.” Darren said while giving Manx a handshake and bump with the side of his shoulder.
Manx nodded his head down never really bringing it back up.

It was later that night Manx lay in bed reflecting upon the day’s time. In the dark he thought about the pointless things around him. A fan with basketball team logos on it that didn’t exist, his grandpa’s Rebmen’s Lanes bowling trophy from 1982 – a prize won six years before Manx was even born. There were swords on mirrors, glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling with planets including Pluto, posters of skiers and snowboarders, Batman merchandise, box’s with nothing in them, nesting families, and a dream catcher in the window that overlooked a ravine.
These things combined with a sort of guilt in Manx. He got out of bed and started to draw. He drew the images that appeared on the wall’s of the YMCA. They were a little messy but just as nondescript as the actual’s. He looked at them after they were done, then he looked around his room that was now lit. He compared the images before him at random.

“Pluto, the blue planet, meet Blue Man.” He thought to himself.
“Guy with bowling ball- Blue man with blue ball.”
“Dream catcher catch the Blue man’s throw.” He started smiling, then crumbled up the paper and threw it at the dream catcher, whom he named Sandy Alomar, and went to sleep.

***

2008-02-11T11:53:00.000-05:00

Hi Baki

sorry I haven't posted my new material yet. It's not ready- I can't turn to the left yet

Where have all the Writers Gone?

2008-02-03T17:03:00.000-05:00

Just because the Writer's Guild is on strike doesn't mean you can't write here!

It's not just you guys though. It's me and you. No one is writing. So everyone is in the wrong. I fully understand everything with the holidays. But they are over. So, let's kick off a new year of writing. Let's post everything and post often.

We have seen some writers a lot and then we have seen a couple new writers a little. Let's all try to post and comment.

Invite your friends or anybody. I want some new people posting. Post short things or long things. Anything. Let's get the blog rolling!

Untitled 2

2007-12-17T22:04:00.001-05:00

He woke up. The alarm clock placed at the other end of the room had nothing to do with it. It was six a.m., too early for sunlit mornings during the winter months. Manx’s mother came up to his room and checked if he was awake for school. Like most days he was. On the rare occasion where Manx was not up his mother would tickle the bottoms of his feet until she saw him smile. Though for some time Manx practiced waking himself without the need of an alarm clock or device and got very good at this skill. But there were still days when he would stay under his sheets acting, knowing his mother’s tendencies.
Manx went to school following the progression he usually took during the winter months. He cut through a yard with an open fence that led to a small park with maple trees a few scattered pines, a playground, two baseball fields and an outside basketball court. If there was more than a foot of snow on the ground he usually stuck to sidewalks. Other factors played their parts- girls, friends, enemies of a youth’s proportion, seasons, and time all served as variables in the morning walk to school. Never did school serve more than a purpose of destination.
Today at P.S. 118 Manx was extremely bored and had grown tired of listening to his teachers. His English teacher, Mrs. Gridge, was reading aloud when Manx decided to get out a blank sheet of paper and pen. He started to draw an abstraction of a building, yet never following a point of perception. It came out of the ground one way, and just when you thought it was going to stop- it morphed into the end of another building falling from the sky, or somewhere. And the objects around the buildings were not drawn to scale; the whole picture itself followed no real basis. No right side up, no down side down- didn’t matter. Manx was completely focused. Complete attention to detail never too much time passed in between thought, lines, shades, shapes, picture. His teacher had finished reading and given out an assignment for the students to do in class. Soon after the order she noticed that Manx was not paying attention. She walked over to his desk from behind, stood at his back and hovered over Manx’s shoulders. Her shadow cast over half of his drawing, and at that point Manx looked into his creation far more intently with fierceness like it was the first time he had ever completely seen something. Mrs. Gridge swung her arm over his shoulder and snatched the paper from his desk, ripped it down the middle and threw it away while staring at him with eyes that told him what to do next. Manx sat motionless and unsure except for a little irony that pulled him apart because he could never take a lady who used hipster lingo seriously. Mrs. Gridge was well known for her untimely use of words she had untimely picked up from seventh grade conversations during recess duty. And on top of that she had no right to try and apply seventh graders conversations. It was just silly. Startled for reasons only intuition knows, Manx had been ripped from a dream as he felt a jolt run through his spine. Embarrassed because he knew the class waited for moments like this- they got by on moments like this, and ate lunch with moments like this, Manx lowered in his seat. But after these initial and raw shocks, there was a still and resonating tingle in Manx’s foot that had not been grounded.

The day passed and standard procedures went as followed: lunch, recess, classes, bell. In those linear hours talk formulated. Manx was the gossip of P.S. 118.
“Did you see the look on his face.”
“Hahaha., I bet he never does that again” crept through cracks of conversations.
Manx played along with the fun. At lunch the boys were sitting with Manx; many of which would have considered themselves to be friends with him raved about the English class incident. Manx laughed and saw humor in it but didn’t participate unless obligated. He didn’t care, that was all. A word here or there about it in response would do, but it was just to please. Other kids dramatized for certain reasons. And that is why matters like this always got the best out of other children breaking them down to tears or making them extremely melancholy for the rest of the day, or even week depending on who it was. The fragile Meredith McCoy could attest to that. It usually took the weekends to clear a child’s relative mentality. If the situation were substantial enough the parents would be notified. Perhaps a call to Manx’s mother would be in order from the teacher, or even better the principle. The slight threat of authority and fear of discipline can tear at a young youth’s heart. Not Manx’s. Not because he was a rebel or anything like that, but he understood that this thing happening was insignificant. He laughed at the ones who did take it so seriously. He had an inept ability to see the future, whereas many children’s mind can only comprehend the immediate. But don’t get it wrong, many elders were quite impressed with him and pleased to be around him, and he sought out their respect, at least at a young age. In this situation he felt no wrong, no error of judgement on his part.
It is safe to say that once Manx left school he was not apart of what had previously conspired that day. The other kids walked and talked vicariously with the dramas of school. Telling parents, friends, and younger siblings all that they had to offer. They shared what had conspired that day in school, who it was about, where it took place, why it happened-always including the embellishments, after all that is what people wanted to hear. Manx walked to his nearby home using detours to fill his delight.
This day in particularly Manx walked with a friend that lived nearby. Nick was a good fellow and meant no harm and Manx enjoyed his company enough. Sometimes he would invite Nick over to play afterwards. When Manx got home around 3:30 he greeted his mom who hugged him with her apron on as she prepared dinner, then asking how his day went.
“It was good.”
“What did you do at school today.”
“Nothing, kicked a homer during recess.”
“Goooooooood.” Manx’s mother said in her sweet and praising voice.
“When is Dad getting home?” Manx always asked for some reason or the other, even though he knew the regular time he was getting home.
“Five-thirty.” She stretched her voice out to Manx already skipping upstairs letting room for insignificant talk that need not be explained.

An Ode to Thirsty Thursdays

2007-12-10T18:48:00.000-05:00

Over the weekend, I attended a "bad sweater party". The reminded me of a rant I wrote in college about parties like these. It's a rather negative take but I hope you enjoy....

Sometimes in life, I run into people and situations that get under my skin. I am almost always bothered by the little things more than anything. I am in college and when you are in college you often find yourself drinking. That is okay. I sometimes go to parties and drink. I may drink heavily or I may not. The entire situation is fun and I typically enjoy myself. My only question is, what is with all the terms and clever saying? Let me start at the beginning:

I get lost in the lingo and slang of an everyday night. If I am belligerent, this makes the whole night harder. Let’s bring out an example to help me explain. If I’ve drank enough to dance, am I toasted or tipsy? If I’ve drank enough to piss in the kitchen, am I crunked or smashed? And how do I know if I’m f***ed up or wasted? To be f***ed up do I have to throw up or just piss myself? I just can’t find the line. And the more I drink the blurrier it gets. Which brings me to my next and more important point:

I know that college kids think they’re clever, but you can’t pull the wool over my eyes. Remember when we used to drink on Saturdays? It was Saturday night and we’d get crunked or wasted or whatever. Well, you guys started getting antsy for the weekend and you slowly bumped it to Friday. Freaky Friday or Funky Friday or F***ed up Friday. Whatever. And maybe this was a long time in the making. Maybe Friday is a good day to party. But I don’t know who you’re fooling. Giving the day a rhyming name doesn’t change the fact that you’re an alcoholic.

So, maybe it’s a stretch. You’re only drinking on Friday and Saturday. That’s not alcoholism. It’s just being social. Well then how do you explain Thirsty Thursdays? Oh you clever devil. You know I get thirsty on Thursdays and you’re using that against me. I don’t know about you, but when I get thirsty I don’t think of Irish car bombs and jack Daniels. I think of poweraide, milk or water. Maybe that’s just my conservative side.

But you know my fellow lush’s; I’ll give you Thursday because I don’t have any classes on Friday. Maybe this is a trend around the world. Who knows? But Wicked Wednesday? Now you’re just trying too hard. Inebriated Tuesdays? That doesn’t even make sense. And Maniac Mondays? My grandpa has Maniac Mondays. But that’s only because he is a drunk.

So we might as well make Smashed Sundays. Or why not Wasted Weeks? Just name everything in one big swoop. I get it, you’re creative. Whoopee! Let’s move on. Let’s say it’s Wicked Wednesday and you’re heading out to a party. What are you going to wear? Well, if it’s a good party, you’ll wear whatever the f*** you want. If it’s a party that annoys me then it will require attention to the invitation.

What type of party is it? Golf pros and tennis hos? What does that even mean? I went to a party like that and a girl hosted it. She just set woman back 50 years. Guys dress in sweaters and girls wear next to nothing. What the f*** is a tennis ho? Are tennis players secretly pimps? That would be an awesome underground ring. Andre Agassi whoring out women. Weird. Ganstas and hos? Good, I’m well prepared. I just need to dust off my grill. I should never have to buy anything to go to a party. NEVER. Not a hat, or coat or pitching wedge. Nothing.

So, I will wrap this up in saying that I will put my drinking on hold. I will boycott the delicious taste of alcohol until you, my fellow college students, just drink. Stop with the names and terms and parties and just drink. Go places with friends and drink and have a good time. Maybe get drunk. But stop with the tennis hos and thirsty days and getting crunked (which, by the way, I couldn’t even begin the describe what that word means). Stop with all the nonsense and drink like you lost a leg in Vietnam. Use alcohol to forget your problems. Use it as a crutch. Just don’t give it clever name and clever reasons to consume it.

And while you’re learning your lesson I will be sitting alone in my room, not drinking. . . . .Unless of coarse I get thirsty.

Untitled 1

2007-11-28T20:54:00.000-05:00

My symbolic superhero features are as followed:

I wear hand me down clothes even if they don’t fit correctly. If I had a uniform on my superpower would not work.

My name is Milo.

In general there is to be one distinct feature on me at all times to cover up my lameness and seemingly unenthusiastic approach.

I try not to walk on cracks in the sidewalk. That’s more of a game than anything.

Sometimes I pretend to be blind.

Sunday’s are a day of rest, so I can’t be a superhero on these days- I’m just myself.

Often times I will disagree with conservative politics. But I’ll drive a Ford.

I’ll buy stock in The Longaberger Company and sell their baskets door to door and not even ask for money in exchange, only donations, because I love the baskets so much.

I’ll partake in a monthly book clubs that only reads romantic novels.

On the back of my Ford truck I will have bumper stickers. They will read: 1 cross + 2 nails = Forgiveness…I’m 59% pussycat And 49% Bitch, Don’t push it…It takes a lot of balls to golf Like I do…If God Didn’t want us to eat animals, he wouldn’t have made em’ out of meat!…Asshole not just a word a lifestyle…Gun control means using both hands…and finally (I made this one up) hippies ruin grass.

I will go to the democratic convention with a tide eyed grateful dead T-shirt (hand me down of course) and talk about supporting the war.

I will try and use my car door remote to open up doors and set alarms off at the office building I work at.

The European cut Speedo is my preferred beach wear attire.

As often I possible I will make Boyz II Men references-that no one else will get.

I will offer candy to little kids only to be rejected because all I give out is black licorice, banana runts, and the occasional bit o’ honey.

My diet consists of mostly green beans and pears.

My favorite past time is watching highlights of the 1995 Cleveland Indians, in particularly Kenny Lofton’s steal from second base to home on a wild pitch from Randy Johnson in Game 6 of the ALCS.

Whenever anyone asks me if I’ve heard of the television show Seinfeld I’ll just say no and cite my 8th grade D.A.R.E. program leader officer Bob.

I’ll get into all of my favorite concerts for free using a fake CIA badge. If the bouncer asks why I must go in I’ll tell him that if I don’t the band will not play. If he still doesn’t believe me than I’ll call the police.

Connecticut Christmas (1 of 3)

2007-11-28T18:35:00.000-05:00

I am 16 but have never met my father. That is why I am here in this convertible. My name is Matthew and sitting next to me is my brother Chew. We have been driving for 2 days now and are getting excited to see our birth father. Last we heard, he lived in Arizona so that is where we will search.
“Where are we going?” Chew asks.
“We’re almost there, Chew.”
Chew isn’t actually my brother and his name isn’t actually Chew. I guess I should start at the beginning.
My mom was a beautiful girl when she was young. Long before her truck driving days. When she was 17 she met a nice young man who turned out to be my father. Nine months later at least.
The tricky part is that my mom’s twin sister also met this nice young man a week later and she had his baby too. That’s where chew comes in. My mom and Chew’s mom are twin sisters who were knocked up by the same man. To make things more unique, me and Chew were both born on the same day only hours apart.
We have a lot of pride in our family and I love my step-twin brother. He is the most important person to me and the way I see it, he is my whole brother.
It gets weirder though. Our mom’s were in different rooms when they named us. My grandpa’s name is Matthew and they seemed to have the same idea to name their kids after him. So we were both named Matthew, but Chew came out a little different.
Chew grew up with what we thought was a lisp. We soon learned that Chew was actually mentally retarded. He couldn’t pronounce Matthew, he could only say MaChew, so we now call him Chew. My mom always said that it was a miracle that Chew came out retarded or else there would have been a lot of confusion. I agree.
So our dad skipped town and no one’s seen him since. The last we heard he was living in Arizona. He called Grandpa Matthew a few years back. He told him what he was doing and how life was. I’d like to think that he was looking to come back into our lives. But I don’t think Grandpa Matthew would like that too much. So, we’re heading south to find him.
Not only are we looking to meet this man but we’ve also run into some money trouble. Chew’s mom is pretty sick so she can’t work. My mom just lost a finger on her cross-country trucking route and we’ve been waiting for her worker’s compensation. We’re in the market for a prosthetic finger but times are tough. Plus, Grandpa Matthew just died last month so everyone’s been pretty down. Chew always has a smile on his face, but I just need to get out.
Last week I told Chew we were leaving and going to find our dad. He doesn’t really understand but he needs to come. We both need this.
So, Chew and I suited up and said our goodbyes to our moms. We left Connecticut and headed south for Arizona. We’ve been driving a beat up car but traded it in with our baseball card collection for this awesome convertible. The convertible can only reach 30 mph but it has been a lifesaver with the heat.
Chew has been complaining for most of the trip. “Its so hot here, Machew. And I stuck my head out the window like you told me to but I can’t breath. I can’t breath Machew. And if I can’t breath then I will die Machew. I don’t want to die!”
Chew is wearing a dirty starter jacket, sweat pants and LA gear light up shoes. It is a week away from Christmas and Chew is positive it will snow. I’ve explained to him that it won’t snow where we’re going but he is adamant that it will. So I let him.
Chew turns the radio on, “Rockin’ Jams 101.7 the Rockin-est Rock!”
A DJ comes on the radio, “big news for the drivers out there. It seems there has been a huge recall on several makes and models of cars. It appears that the airbags are deploying for no reason. This could become a serious problem. Be safe out there drivers and check online to see if your car is included in the recall.”
Chew continues to sweat and try to breath while sticking his head over the door. We drive into Phoenix and Chew starts to get excited. “Penix, Penix!” Chew yells.

Connecticut Christmas (2 of 3)

2007-11-28T18:33:00.000-05:00

We drive up to a motel and I pay for a night. I hope that will be enough to find our dad. We just don’t know where to start looking. We’re not positive what he does but we know he makes great money. He’s a businessman of some sort and he owes us child support.
We start by looking in phone books. His name is Merl Furqward. You would think that there could only be one Merl Furqward in all of Phoenix but there are 12. We start at the top.
“When do we get to see dad, Machew?” Chew asks.
“Soon enough buddy. I’ve just gotta call a few numbers and we’ll find out where he lives. Then we can finally meet him.”
Chew responds to himself, “He lives in Penix, my dad does. And I get to see him. And it is like a Christmas present because it is almost Christmas but that isn’t my only present because I told Santa what I want and it will be waiting for me back in Curneckertut.” Chew can’t say Connecticut.
So, I call the numbers and catch a break. They are all disconnected numbers except my dad’s. I don’t know what was up with the other numbers. He answered his every time I called, which was several. And every time he said hello, I hung up. I can’t bring myself to talk to him. I’m afraid he won’t want to see me.
I finally stir up enough guts to talk to him. “Hello, Merl? Hi, this is…uh…this is Matt’s Extermination and you have won a free de-bugging service. Yeah, but uh it seems your number is not in the phone book so if you would just give me your address I can swing by in the next week and deliver your free service.” I write the address down and hang up. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t tell him.
Me and Chew eat out of the vending machine for dinner. We will go to our dad’s house tomorrow. Sleep now and go tomorrow.
“Did you talk to dad?” Chew asks.
“Yea I did, and he told us where he lives.”
“Will he like me, Machew?” Chew wonders.
“Of coarse he will Chew. How can he not like you?”
Chew thinks for a minute. “I know, but maybe he won’t.”
“Just sleep Chew, and tomorrow we’ll go and see him.” We both lay down and Chew’s feet stick out of the bottom of the bed. His shoes are still on and they light up the entire room.
The next morning we wake up and get ready to go. Chew whines, “Can we eat first? I don’t want to meet my dad when I’m hungry.”
We go to get some breakfast. The waitress makes polite conversation, “And what are you boys doing here?” She points at Chew, “You ain’t dressed like you’re from Arizona.”
Chew answers with food in his mouth, “We’re from Curneckertut and came to Penix to see our dad. My mom is sick and we’re going to meet out dad in Penix. He is nice but I never met him.”
She looks at him for a minute. “Curneckertut?”
Chew says, “yea” and keeps eating.
“We’re just here to meet our father,” I explained to waitress. She nodded her head politely and walked away.
We finish with our meal and head over to see our dad. I am nervous but Chew sang Disney songs all the way there. We pull into his driveway and the place is beat up. It looks worse than our trailer back in Connecticut.
We knock but no one answers. Our dad is not home. All the lights are off and I look through a window at the side of the house and it looks deserted. A neighbor walks up behind me, “You looking for Merl?”
I tell him I am and ask if he knows where I can find him.
The neighbor responds, “Yea, he leaves for work in the morning and comes back in the evening. He won’t be back here until late. But you can catch him at work if you like Santa.”
Chew’s eyes light up, “I like Santa!”
The neighbor continues, “Well, he is a Santa down at the mall and you can go see him there.”
I tell him thanks and we head off for the mall.
Chew is still trying to process the information, “Our dad is Santa? Santa is dad? This is amazing.” Chew sticks his head out the window to yell but can’t breath and quickly comes back to his seat and coughs.
We go into the mall and find SantaLand. Chew is excited but I’m hesitant. We find the line of kids and wait. We wait for 2 hours before we get to the front and then I see him. I can’t tell what he looks like but it’s my dad. My father who I’ve never met. The man that is missing in my game of catch and the man who will teach me how to shave. He has a cut off T-shirt on and a white beard that is turning brown from dirt.
We walk up to him. He smells like baby powder and scotch. He asks us, “Ho Ho Ho, aren’t you boys a little big for Santa?”
Chew screams, “Santa! I mean dad! I love you so much!”
“What’s he talking about? Hey, elf, get these kids outta here!” Santa yells.
“But wait,” I said, “We’re your son’s. I’m your boy, I just want to meet you.” That’s when Sprinkles and Plunket grabbed my collar and took me and Chew out of the store. We had been defeated by 2 boys our age with curled shoes.
We decided to wait at his house meet him when he came home. This took longer than expect. We waited for 7 hours and he finally stumbled out of his car. He was drunk and he had a friend with him. It was a girl who couldn’t have been older than me. She was drunk and he dragged her everywhere by her wrist. Our dad took that young girl inside.
He fucked her.
She passed out somewhere in the middle. But our fucking deadbeat pervert of a dad fucked her. He smacked her and fucked her. He’s not the man I thought I would find. This is the same piece of shit man that fucked my mom. The same piece of shit that fucked my aunt. I made Chew sit in the car while I watched. I couldn’t take my eyes away. It was like a car accident but in this case I just wanted a knife to cut his dick off. This piece of shit man needs to be stopped. I will kill this son of a bitch.
I get back in the car to breath a bit. Chew and I go back to the motel to sleep. I don’t sleep though, I stare. I stare and plot. Everything I just saw keeps replaying in my mind and I want to kill him.

Connecticut Christmas (3 of 3)

2007-11-28T18:30:00.000-05:00

The next morning we go to the mall. And we volunteer as elves. Which turns out is much easier than being hired as one. We have a post in SantaLand where the fake snow is and we have to make sure it stays there. It is boring.
There is a car that was being shown across our post but they are hauling it away today. The airbags are deployed and a man is leaving on a stretcher. I suppose that recall is really starting to hurt people.
I try to pass the time by watching people but I keep thinking about last night. I start to day dream and I walk up to him tell him who I am. He will try to get me to leave but I will snap off the glass candy cane sitting next to him and slice his throat. I guess he can’t rape girls when his throat is leaking on SantaLand’s snow.
I snap out of it and think for a bit.
Chew recites what he wants for Christmas, “Lotsa lego’s and a pair of scissors with the safety edges because I lost mine. And a glue stick because I ate mine and candy and baseball cards with gum because my cards were given to a man with a car and my dad. I want my dad for Christmas. But my dad is Santa so I wan t Santa.” Chew looks at me, “You think my mom knows that my dad is Santa?”
“I don’t know Chew. But we’re going to be leaving soon. Real soon Chew.”
“What about dad?” Chew asks.
“We’re going to meet him outside.”
Of coarse when I say meet I mean stab excessively. I have decided that I will kill him for sure. I buy a knife at a shit hole store later that day and head back to the mall before the old man gets out. I see him walk out the doors and I head toward him.
Chew asks, “What are you going to do to dad?”
“I’m sorry Chew, but I’m going to kill him.” I head after him but he is about 30 yards away. He is heading for his car and I figure I’ll meet him there.
Chew yells after me, “No don’t. Dad is Santa and we look alike and if you kill Santa he may not know which one of us is which and you will be on the naughty list but you look like me, so he may put me on the naughty list.” Chew screams, “Don’t kill Santa.”
Our dad, if you can call him that, crosses the parking lot and turns around when Chew yells. He sees me with my knife and looks wide-eyed.
A car hits our dad and mashes him under its tires. He is dead on contact. The boy who was driving was a student driver. He stares for a minute. He looks at the instructor, “Does this mean I . . .” his airbag goes off before he has a chance to finish.
Me and Chew stand there in awe that our father is dead. Neither of us knows what to say. Chew starts crying. We get in the car and start to leave the parking lot.
An old lady is trying to park her car and slowly pulls into a spot. We wait for her and she edges closer and closer. The tip of her bumper touches the car next to her and her airbag goes off. She slams the gas and rams several cars around her.
I’m sure she’s dead.
We head back to Connecticut and Chew sings Christmas songs the whole way there. It took about 5 minutes for me to get him to stop crying, all I had to do was explain to him that our dad wasn’t Santa. I told him that our dad died a painful death but Santa was still alive.
Chew was happy.

Early Emotions

2007-11-19T22:44:00.000-05:00

I will post more but I've got to go.

What was that Brandan? I said I will post some more if you just wait. But you can't, can you. It's always about you... right now... isn't it? You are so selfish, let's make ever situation we can something. And no Brandan, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you stayed with me during my infertile days. I guess I just wasn't thinking. Maybe I just didn't try hard enough to have your babies- if that's all you wanted I don't know what was keeping you. Besides I think I truly stayed with up with you because I just didn't want you going around and fucking some slut. So maybe I'm the selfish one. You know what...NO...I'm not. Don't tell me that I don't play with your box enough and then call me out about not fixing the drain. I didn't fix it because no one was draining me if you know what I'm sayin. O yeeah Brandan I said it. And in fact that's the first reason as to why I'm not cleaning your fucking drain. The second is because YOU CLOGGED IT with your pitiful, repugnant, painfully poor pubic hairs. Soooo don't you Howard me yoooouuuu...It's ok I'm done with it, I'm going to walk outside and never, ever come back. OOOO I know what your thinking right now and don't even say it mister you've used them all already and this time its not going to work. Just like you. All you do work on is nagging me- nagging me to death that is. Man - I wish you got paid 16 dollars an hour to do it though then we would have a steady income around here. I work at the plant all day and come home to you watching Opera. Or Opra whoever the fuck she is.

"whomever" Brandan interjects

Whatever- you'd think maybe since you stayed at home you could learn how to cook. Or do you just practice talking on your fancy blue tooth all day to god knows who. Well this isn't Hollywood Brandan- It's not even Bollywood.

"What's Bollywood!" Yelled Brandan.

Just Bollyshut it and I'll tell you. That's another thing just wait till I'm done talking for a second and let me get out what I'm saying...You always have what you think I said before I say it in your brain---so you never know what I actually say. It's like talking to a dog.

"O did you see the Klitz's new dog nextstore," Brandan said with a soft and innocent tone.

No haven't seen the damn dog. I heard she was cute though.

Running Late

2007-11-18T21:54:00.000-05:00

Wait…before you go, I just wanted to let you know, that I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’re too damn stupid to understand. I’m sorry you were never taught how to read a clock. Damnit, I said 5 and you come waltzing in here at 15 after. I should have eaten. I don’t like cold food, but apparently you do. Apparently, the little world that revolves around your beer belly has to eat cold asparagus because you like it that way. Just another bump in the road, right? How many bumps until we tip over? Huh, Howard, how many bumps? And I asked you to fix that shower this weekend because the drain is clogged with hair, and did you? Nope! That shower doesn’t even drain now. Maybe your balding head should fix it since it is after all his fault. We can’t even shower until you feel like it. We can’t shower until you have time in between your under-achieving job, calling your mom and being a dumbass. Maybe you could squeeze it in, Hun? What do you think? God, I stayed with you through your infertile years. You can play with boxes all day at work but you sure as hell don’t know how to work mine. Oh, did that surprise you Howard? Catch you off guard? And just so you know, golden retrievers are not the same as children. I have needs! . . . . . Go ahead, leave. But just know, just know that if you walk out that door, don’t expect to come back . . . . . . . Wait, Howard, come back, I said I was sorry. What more do you want from me? . . . . . . . Fine! Go, but you’ll be back, no one else will put up with you . . . Wait, what about the shower?

The Men's Room

2007-11-14T22:16:00.001-05:00

(Pete Sminkle sits at his cubicle and bounces his knees. He downs the last of his cup of coffee and closes a document on his computer. He stands up quickly and Jan is standing on the other side.)

JAN
Hey Pete! How are things going?

PETE
Good Jan, I’m real good and I’d love to tell you about it but I’m kind of in a hurry.

JAN
Well, I just wanted to stop by and say hey.

(Bill walks past the cubicle)

BILL
Hey there colleagues. What a beautiful Monday! Pound it!

(Bill makes a fist and points it at Pete. Pete is slow to react but connects with his fist. Bill leaves.)

PETE
What a beautiful Monday? Is he serious?

JAN
Well, I’d steer clear of Bill anyways, he’s been ranting and raving all morning about winning the sales contest. It’s really getting annoying.

PETE
(Fast without pauses)
Oh really Jan, that’s awesome, I gotta go, see ya later!

JAN
Well, maybe we can hang out this . . .

(Pete leaves before Jan can finish her sentence. Pete races toward the restroom in short steps with his butt clenched together. He gets to the restroom and sees Bill walk in before him. He hesitates and takes a deep breath, then walks in. Bill’s shiny shoes dangle under one stall and Pete goes into another that is two stalls down. He undoes his pants and sits down.)

BILL
(Deep sigh)
Unbelievable! Un-be-lieve-able! Sheesh, I cannot believe this. Hmm. Is someone over there?

PETE
Uh, what? Me?

BILL
Hey! Pete Sminkle! Is that you!? Sminks!
PETE
Hey Bill.

(Bill pulls his pants back up and comes out of his stall and into the one next to Pete. He shuts the door, undoes his pants and sits down.)

BILL
Sorry about all the noise over there, it’s just this stupid phone. I told my wife we didn’t need the same phone, but she wanted matching ones. Maybe a pink faceplate I suggested but no. So they got switched up and I brought hers to work. Unbelievable huh, Sminkle?

PETE
Yea, that’s pretty crazy Bill.

BILL
So, I don’t know if you heard or not, but it looks as if I pulled in the most sales this month. That’s 3 in a row Sminks. Hat Trick! Pound it!

(Bill reaches his fist under the stall)

PETE
Do What? No man.

(Pete brushes Bill’s hand away with his foot)

BILL
That’s one more Home Depot gift card in the bank. And they don’t play here Sminkle, that thing is worth 50 buckaroos. Pretty sweet huh? I guess that’s just what happens when you love your job like I do. I truly have a love for this place, good old region 503.
(Pause. Followed by a loud farting noise)
Wooooooo buddy. So what are ya in for? The weekend wets or is this one scheduled?

PETE
What? I don’t know.

(Long pause with coughs, farts and moans)

BILL
So did you hear the big news? I had the most sales again this month.

PETE
Yea, Bill we just talked about that, not 2 minutes ago.

BILL
Yea, man. Hat trick. I don’t even know what I’m gonna spend it on. We need lighting fixtures and the wife’s been on my back about the gazebo. I wonder if 50 bucks will cover the gazebo wood. Hmm, maybe I’ll start on the armoire. Not real sure what it is, I think it’s like an entertainment center with a footrest. Maybe I’ll just wait until next month when I win again. That’s be four times in a row. Hey Sminkle, what do you call four in a row? Quad trick. Quad trick Smink?

PETE
Yea, I don’t know.

BILL
Well anyway.
(pause)
So, casual Friday is coming up.

PETE
It “comes up” every week, Bill. And today is the furthest work day from it.

BILL
Yea, well I think I’m gonna wear my planet Hollywood shirt. It’s the one I got in Georgia. Did I ever tell you about that trip? Talk about tropical, Sminks. Yea.

(Long Pause)

BILL
Sex, drugs, rock and roll. Speed, weed, birth control. Life’s a bitch and then you die. So, fuck the world and let’s get high.

PETE
What?

BILL
Just some bathroom poetry. Some of the things in here are so beautiful. Man, people must really find a lot of inspiration while they take a ride to brown town. Man, this stuff is great. What does yours say Smink?

PETE
There’s a lot of stuff Bill.

BILL
Come on read some.

PETE
Well, there’s a lot of racist comments. Most of it is pretty offensive. I’d rather not read them.

BILL
Read one man, come one.

PETE
Well, there are a lot of names and numbers. Hey, Jan’s number is in here. . . . OK, and apparently there is a woman who is called the boa constrictor because she can swallow you whole. I don’t know what that means but there is an arrow that points to it indicating she is a dirty ho dinger. And there’s a penis drawn next to it.

BILL
What a little freak. Sminkle, please tell me there’s a number.

PETE
There’s a number, Bill.

BILL
Sminks, what I am about to say is very important. I have never held more conviction. I have never spoke words that were more important than this. Sminkle?

PETE
Yea?

BILL
Call. That. Number! Call it Sminky. Call that number.

PETE
No, I’m not gonna call it.

BILL
You have to Sminks. You absolutely have to. This is so important. Dude, you used to always do this crazy stuff. We used to call you brass balls Sminks. Man, you’re gonna back out now after all we’ve been through. We used to hang out all . . .

PETE
(Interrupts)
Bill, we have never hung out before. You never called me brass anything. I gotta get going. If I’m gonna beat you in this fourth month I gotta start now. See ya Bill.

(Pete lifts his feet as though he is leaving. He jingles his pants and kicks the door open. He pats his hands on his thighs to make a walking sound. A pause)

BILL
Sminkle, you’re still here.

PETE
Fine Bill I’ll call! But only if you let me finish in silence.

BILL
I promise Sminks. This is going to be awesome.

(Pete dials)

PETE
It’s ringing.

BILL
Yea, call that slut.

PETE
I am Bill relax.

(Bill’s wife’s phone begins ringing)

PETE
Hey, Bill your wife’s phone is ringing. This is awkward.

(Blackout.)

Fairy Tale for a Hunter S.

2007-11-13T22:17:00.000-05:00

He walked with a bass line in the natural rhythm of his feet. With a deliberate step he entered into the mud where his foot imprinted on the foundation of the forest. The recollection of a similar footstep he had once taken in this place inspired Gordon to look across the Alpine Valley for the familiar. On top of the highest peak he scanned in the depths of the forest as far as his eyes could now take him. His antlers perked when the cadence of rain began playing a methodical tap. It was a light rain that hinted a faster pace. The valley’s river dimpled and gained speed. Although time was catching up with Gordon he remained steady and humped down the valley-legs in tandem and head bobbing. Rain pushed Gordon down the slope as if he was the mud of an imprinted foot washing away. Was there not a tree here that held a bird nest of young sparrows Gordon thought? Fooling himself and blaming his vanished senses he tried to rub the top of his head against a tree no longer there. Gordon lifted and felt a something of sorrow. His eyes crinkled and began to blink as the rain started to pick up. He ripped off some chew for the sake of filling an empty mouth. For the time being it was the only sense of truth he had within.

Gordon passed a family of fox that lived in dens surrounded by heavy brush. The brush rustled as the fox dug their ways back into the den. Unacquainted with these animals Gordon bowed the ground to his head. He kicked up the dead leaves that stuck to the bottoms of his wet feet. The sun was getting low which chilled the breath to the resolve of a color. Gordon had a nice coat for the end of winter, which kept him warm enough.

When he stood earlier at the top of the valley he saw the bottom of this forest as a place of refuge and comfort. It had been a place he visited so many times before. The riverbank stored dividends Gordon issued in dreams, practices, art and more. So Gordon roamed in the riverbed. He splashed in the water and stumbled his way over rocks. Spent some time eating from the riverside grasses, roots, bark and vegetation. It was the end of winter and Gordon had to eat whatever came his way even though these substances were foreign to his usual diet. After an hour of meandering around the river Gordon had grown more comfortable. He found a tree where an old owl that knew Gordon’s father lived. Gordon, who was so happy to find this connection, excitedly asked the owl to tell him a story of the gaffer. The owl chirped an interesting story of how Gordon’s father once escaped the clutches of a bear right around this river in Alpine Valley. The bear was 15 ft. high on his hind legs. Paws that could wrap around tree trunks. And orange eyes that by legend made it so that the bear only saw shades of the sun. Thunder was his name. Gordon looked at the owl- fixated upon every detail.

“Does he still live?”

“Not he but three cubs called the teddy bears” the owl said.

Gordon peered over his left shoulder. The dark valley only shimmered from the reflection of the moon off of the river. The nocturnal owl smiled at Gordon as he flew off for a munch. Gordon stammered and felt something run across his hind leg. A snake? The ivy rustled and before Gordon knew it his legs had been tangled all throughout the ivy. He started to chew the finger-like vines that seemed to attach themselves to his ankles. He had only been standing but a moment in that place Gordon thought? Getting pent-up he recklessly sprung his way out and stumbled into a spider web that glued to his face. Now in fear he jumped into the river to wash himself clean of the sticky web. A cold amplitude froze Gordon’s state into the limited scope one refers to as being childlike. But in clear audible range a roar reverberated at the back of Gordon’s neck. Where had the river gone- an absent flow? “Who’s there!”

He jerked his head around to see…nothing. CrAaCk…A branch snapped. “Where’d that come from?”

“Did I say that?”

Gordon’s joints tweaked. He lifted up his leg and tried to gain sure footing. (Another roar). The hazy fog left from the rain made for little visibility. “Who’s There!” Gordon’s echo stirred bats out of there hang outs. He ran in the only direction he could see in. The night illuminated with colors of fear. Tree trunks burned like hot embers scorching Gordon’s side whenever he ran into one. He strode lightly trying to stay atop the wet floor of quicksand that came a step closer to burying his hooves with every hesitant move. The neon green ivy grabbed at his legs entangling them, causing his knees to buckle and hit one another after jerks of escape. Thorns injected themselves into Gordon’s bottom legs. There were screeches from bats dodging Gordon’s antlers as he ran against the current of evil. He had total disregard of anything outside one foot of him. Sporadically the only thought he had within himself was an echo whispering hints of insanity.

Gordon ran trying to reach the light of elevated heights. He thought that if he could trace back his steps to the place he started, the place that held imprints of truth, and where he could scan across the valley in picture perfect form that he would be o.k.. But the stars lit fog particles to dust and the only sense Gordon was making looked like a synthetic hope. And he could no longer tell what was true. Was it the memories of his youth, what was happening, or just the idea that there is a truth? He kept coming back to the same questions around and around. This was all a digital blasphemy. In Gordon’s betrayal of his surroundings he found refuge in the only place where nothing existed. He crashed in the darkness of a cave. He started to settle down for a moment and close his eyes. The feeling in his legs came to and he could start to feel a warmth come across his chest once again. Time had escaped Gordon and he realized that the break of dawn crept into the cave and it was time to move on.

Slowly arising with the ache his body shared with this day Gordon exited the radiant cave opening. In and out just like that, he looked over to his right…then to the left…his eyes were still dilated from the nonconforming light. A blurred red and black flannel scoping HIM like an eye. This was a bad trip he thought.

Blackouts, fire alarms, and gay sex

2007-11-13T14:50:00.000-05:00

The story is based on true events that happened at Lorain County Community College.

Its hard to figure out where to begin the story. So many factors and minute details to reveal. All I can say is that it couldn't have started any other way. It is the kind of story that can't be made up. It would be impossible. Some may call it irony at its finest. Or maybe just a good story. However it is labeled, one thing is for sure, I will never forget that day in september when I discovered LCCC is not just an average and boring community college that it so often gets named.

It began during a boring Earth Science course around 1:00 in the afternoon. It was the sort of class that put students in comas. Nobody cared for it. It felt more like a waste of time. So the class is sitting there desparetly fighting off sleep, when a miracle happens. The power goes out. It wasn't that unusual, but it was exciting enough to wake the class. I'm not sure what other students were thinking, but I was hoping like no other that class would be canceled due to the unexpected blackout.

Ofcourse it wasn't though and the determined professor decided to press on without fear of no electricity, and no lights. My hopes were needless to say, crushed.

I can't express how it feels to be in a boring class, let alone a boring class without lights on. There was no way I was going to be able to stay awake. I could barely do that with the lights on. I was screwed. Then miracle number two happened. The fire alarm sounded.

I felt like a little kid on christmas eve ready to be spoiled. It was like God answered my prayer. Class was obviously canceled due to the unexpected alarm. I had the rest of the day to forget about the boring class, the boring teacher, and the boring material that I really never learned anyway because I wasn't paying attention in the first place.

It really did feel like a miracle. The building we were in was the only building where the fire alarm went off. It had to be a miracle.

As I exited the building, not to be too crude, but I noticed I had to urinate, pretty badly. I had ants in my pants, what can I say. My bladder felt like it was going to explode. I realized later that it was due to drinking 7 cups of coffee and an Arizona green tea right before class. It was inevitable, and it hit me like a bag of bricks.

Now, I can't use the bathroom in the building I was in because of the fire alarm. That was obvious. So I headed towards the closest building, that I knew of, with an accessible bathroom.

I can't imagine what I looked like. Running around campuse deperately trying to find a restroom. I know I looked something like a mix of a "jerk" and an "ass-hat". I'd say that's about right.

So I find the rest room. But there is a problem. The power is out. Thank God I smoke cigarettes because if I didn't, then I would not happen to have a lighter, and that would utimately result in me pissing blind. Which is not a skill I have mastered quite yet.

Anyway, lighter in hand, I entered. What happened next is something I hope nobody ever has to witness, ever. If God shit directly on me, I imagine it was some what similiar to that effect. I walked in on two guys having sex.

My miracle day turned into dooms day. Why me I thought. Not only did I walk in on two guys doing the "swimmy swa swa" which is bad enough, but I also desparetly needed to relieve myself for much different reasons. I just had to pee. I know you're all wondering if I made it, and yes I did finally find a restroom just in time. Okay, maybe a little bit of drippage, but nothing noticable.

I'm more worried about what sort of psychological damage this had on me. I will probably be the one student from LCCC who has to drop out of college because I have somehow developed this fear of campus bathrooms. Who knows though. All I can say is that all my emotions, hopes, and dreams where on one crazy roller-coaster ride that day in september. A roller-coaster that came off the tracks and crashed into a burning oil-tanker.

But hey, at least I got out of a boring class, and in turn was put into a situation that has changed my view of LCCC for life.

Ray Bradbury Quote

2007-11-12T20:01:00.000-05:00

"We need not to be let alone. We need to be really bothered once in a while. How long is it since you were really bothered? About something important, about something real?"

-Ray Bradbury

-------

This is sort of the point of this site, guys! Jason posted...then got pissed he was the only one. Keep bothering each other because it's the only way you'll make the time to do what you really want.

Death by Mango

2007-11-12T17:27:00.000-05:00

I lay in my bed wondering why I even bought a clock with a 4,000-watt light in it. I glows a blue 5:00 am and the room is as bright as daytime. My mind starts to question the situation I am in, as I cannot sleep and have a huge presentation in class later this same morning. You may be asking why I cannot sleep. That answer is simple. I am laying on my bed praying for death. My hands search the circumference of my body in hopes to find an overdosing amount of sleeping pills or a revolver with a single bullet in the barrel. My suicide reasoning? Earlier that night, I ate a mango.

This may sound weird to some, and understandable to others. This was my first mango, and my last. About 45 minutes after devouring this juicy and quite delicious fruit, I discovered that I was allergic to it.

I have never had any food allergies, until this one. I literally tore it apart and loved it. This was about midnight. I was finishing up some homework when my throat started to get scratchy. My nose started running. I then decided to just lie down and go to bed. My halogen clock glowed 1:15. This is my favorite part of the story; this is when my throat began to swell. I had to take slow breaths and I thought that I should maybe give a quick call to the old hospital; after all, we do go way back.

Then my mind wondered in other directions. I couldn’t help but think about my favorite comedian, Dane Cook and a bit he does about ways to die. He talks about getting killed with a “rogue tire” and about dying as a result of being stung by a swarm of bees. In his literary excellence he states, “fuck bees”. I laughed at this point. I thought about allergies in general and about how people can be killed from things that shouldn’t kill you.

If I died on this pathetic night, I would have been killed by a freakin’ mango. A MANGO! How sad is that. And what if I had an extremely adventurous life before that. My tombstone would be awful. It would read, “here lies Brandan Baki, he was a loving father and husband, mountain climber, skydiver, crocodile hunter, ninja fighter. Mango’s were his kryptonite.” That is sad. To die from any allergy is embarrassing; poison ivy, penicillin, peanuts, milk. All of it sounds so crazy and you would think that we humans, you know, the rulers of the world, would have a little defense against these silent killers.

So I now have a little laughter and the night doesn’t seem so terrible. I continue laying there and it is now that awful 5:00 am death light that I stare at. I get up to blow my nose more. Here is where I discover the best part. I glance in the mirror to find two extremely puffy eyes that are about 1/16 of an inch open and a jaw that is wider than Brad Pitt’s. I laugh again, but it hurts this time. I lie back down and stare at the ceiling thinking about how long it would take them to find my decayed body. I hope that they think I died of an extreme amount of manly testosterone instead of finding a mango in my fecal matter.

My phone rings and it is my girlfriend. It seems like days have passed but it is only 8:00 am. The swelling in my jaw has gone down but it is sore and I try to explain my situation to her worried voice but it is hard to talk. Being in college I have found one thing to be increasingly evident; I need my mommy. So I called her. She told me to go to the store and get some medicine and so I suited up and started my travels.

Living in Chicago has many perks, one being the minorities. I love seeing this cluster of countries all grouped together and living in the same building. This was not a good thing this morning though. My swollen eyes were now just swollen puffs underneath them. My eyes were squinted and I looked Chinese. This would seem okay, or even funny, but I think that was the problem. I live in a building with old people, Chinese people and some college kids. I rode on the elevator for 16 floors and the Chinese people stared at me. I walked to the store and the Chinese people stared at me. I felt bad because I felt that they thought I was making fun of them; if that makes any sense. They stared like I put makeup on before I went out to look Chinese. As you and I both know, this was not the case. I felt I should apologize before getting a samurai sword to the skull. Instead I just kept my head down and ran in and out of the store.

I took my meds and carried on. The day was rough and I looked like I had two black eyes. I rocked my presentation and went to class and work all day. I was a trooper and I know that I will never let a mango whoop my ass again.

I prayed that this would be the end of my week but it was not. The following day I was kicking a soccer ball in my apartment and I popped my back and couldn’t stand up so I napped on the floor for four hours and was able to stand but not turn my head. The next night I came home at four in the morning and had been drinking a bit. When I walked into my apartment, the lights were off and I stepped on that pesky soccer ball and fell into the corner of a wall. I gashed my right eyebrow open and it bled for about an hour. I went to sleep with a paper towel on it and it hurt something else to rip it off in the morning. I have a rad scar but a pathetic story as a result.

This ramble was just to help the world to understand the dangers when living life. You can’t think about them from day to day but you have to know that the littlest things could totally end you; a bee, mango, soccer ball, angry Chinese with samurai swords. It is these dangers that make life so unpredictable and beautiful. Live your life to the extreme and don’t ever be surprised if you find on your grave, “death by mango”.

His eyes were dilated

2007-10-28T11:36:00.000-04:00

Bittersweet Sensory

“Hello”
“What’s up?” Nick asked as he sped up to walk beside his schoolmate.

His eyes were dilated. The sun—bright reddish-orange…he walked his head to the ground where it did not hurt to look. The ground was dull—colors that is. Earth tones: gray, brown, green…simple. Looking above led to the harsh stigma bleeding el sol, the relinquishment, intensity, and irony of tenderness.He bent his head to the ground, or maybe just slightly downward so that the angle was obtuse to the light.

“I can’t go, I have to go to the dentist,” this reply stretched out to a passer-by walking in the opposite direction that had asked him if he was going to play kickball after school.
“-Gotta cavity huh?” Nick interjected with a sly look on his face.

The cold air was handing the hands of this vulnerable soul a feeling that everything around isolation was warm. This metaphor is like dry ice to the touch of skin. That simile is difficult to understand. This is what I really mean it feels like- a hand can feel scalded and scolded from the iron left on to warm and straighten a necktie shirt. It can taste the toasting and tainting from an oven releasing a testy love. A hand can even burn from the battering flame beside the hot torch that flies out toward you from the family of Flares’ all held together in a free for all fire only to be smothered by the tie around a neck that restricts the breath away from a blue flame now fighting for air. Yea, it is hard to explain the feeling of an isolated hand in a November air. It is something you have to describe in two forms, because we don’t really know the form it’s (or it is) in. Words can mean whatever you want them to personify. Don't let me describe a metaphor in terms of a simile that correlates to an extended metaphor that explains the hands’ feeling of isolation from warmth. Words personify whatever you want them to mean.

“I had a cavity before, I had like five shots of novocaine too! There was blood all over the place, a lot of needles, and sharp things!” Nick was an obvious looking kid. He didn’t have an accent. He was from Ohio. People from Ohio don’t talk like northerners, easterners, westerners or southerners. He looked husky, and had on lay-ErS of clothing, which added to his size as he dwarfed the friend (if he was even that) who walked next to him on the right. Nick was talkative, space intrusive, and incredulous of everything. The only thing I could not believe was the number of novocaine shots Nick supposedly received at the dentist, and the fact that he was quick to respond to his own question about having a cavity.

His cheeks blushed through the many different ways of saying the word cold. The face was what it was. Some people might say he looked almost sad, quiet, unsettled but perhaps content. Though, in a way he was laughing. There is much speculation about his face, both serious and funny. It was calm. Not excited, not depressed— it may not of even been calm. But the response given from it was not such any. More or less it was open. He was not expressing what was going to happen, or what did, NOR what was. The art on his face led me to believe nothing. There was no need for him to prove anything. All I knew is that he had a dentist appointment.

“It’s freezing out here!” Another obvious comment under all of the layers Nick was wearing.
“ .”

I was a fitting response on the path that he was on; he wasted no energy or time on something as trivial as that question. So many things need to be said in this world of voice and dialogue…they need to be asked…to be learned…to be concluded… Shakespeare was concerned with To Be, or not To Be? Dumb question. But a great question for musicians, writers, and creative geniuses that want to go nowhere. For norms, so to speak, it is still a question. Dentists have one of the highest suicide rates among all people who are classified under occupation. Two opposite spectrums of people, words, and meanings share the same struggle. A struggle that plagues intellects that have the ability to think but not feel; and poets, painters, musicians and artists that can feel only to be treated like children when they speak of thoughts that have no proof but the one inside their burning hand. But it was there on the right———a squirrel in the grass searching for nuts to bury during the winter hibernation. It chewed off the casing of the fallen acorn, and held the remains eye level.

“I wish it wasn’t cold as hell- this weather-” as he stopped abruptly, sighed, and looked to the side. Describing Nick could go on forever, or it could just take a second. He was a dirty-mouthed eight-year-old seemingly obsessed with gut reactions that were made for attention, “It couldn’t be any colder!”

“ .” Still no response from the introvert.

The angle at which his eyes slanted showed a path some feet or yards, metric units ahead. It showed the distance needed to be reached. I don’t know how he reached it. A few feet went by____ each step taken was independently chiseled out. One-step, two,
and a slight gimp in the leg, not because of pain, just because.
Maybe it wasn’t a gimp, just natural progression
of the walk. It was a nice stroll,
cautious, yet extremely
smooth.

His eyes were dilated. He saw the relentless sun. Sensitive to only the touch from within- improvised thoughts from feeling, from somewhere- improvised feelings from thoughts, from somewhere came and went never showing up in a frown or smile.

I saw him look to his side as he felt an arm being put around Him. He walked the same, looked the same- remaining steady and patient in his own thoughts. It was his mother picking him up from school to go to the dentist, and no thought, action, word or emotion could satisfy the description of feeling he had when she gave him a hug.

I saw through blushed skin in the cold air, while commotion of a passing plane left a faint sound of noise pollution and insignificant dialogue from Nick persisted on that all I wanted to do was say hello without all of the conclusions that go along with the word as I stepped up to my mom.
“God!” I cried while hugging her for all the reasons in the world.

Welcome to Elyria Writers!

2007-10-25T16:19:00.000-04:00

This goal for this blog space is to be an oasis for authors of all sorts. Please read and post all you want. If you want to be an author and feature your work, just contact me and I will get you started. We hope to have several writers who post often. You can post to get feedback or just to share. Either way, all is welcome.

Please post anything and everything you want to share. Anything with words will work. Short stories, poetry, prose, songs, whatever you have.

So I hope to hear from you all very soon and I look forward to reading all your great writing!