Papers never come easy. If my teachers only knew the creativity in my writing was from Saturday nights 87.3 midnight LP run and a little help from what my friends like to call post-its. The worlds those two paint seems never ending.
I don’t know how my teacher can accept this kind of work. Sure everything makes sense then as words drip off my fingertips. And that’s not me trying to say it’s easy. One time I watched the words as they fell onto my keyboard. When they played Hello Goodbye I was praised on “my insightful satire into happy Sun shine hippie beatniks.” I barely had time to fix spelling and the larger of the grammatical errors.
It’s going to start in about an hour; time to get ready. Can’t forget the speakers. Bose sound reducing headphones really work. Outside antics, even the party down the hall, can’t penetrate these bad boys. God I’m tired of all this writing. I’ll be happy when it’s all over. I must be 30 minutes in; things are starting to get strange. Hungry, I should eat one of those frozen burritos. I wonder what they’re going to play tonight.
“And here we are tonight. We’re going back to the early 90’s. Our man of the hour helped lead the grunge scene from the garage to the stage.”
Monday, July 28, 2008
"Untitled, Unknown Artist, Red Period", Submission 9 by Lee Martin
Days. It had been days since he’d slept. That’s not true; it just felt like days. Days of flinging himself around his apartment, scribbling on notebook paper and napkins, punching the drywall. Then sleep. Broken, unrestful sleep admittedly, but sleep none the less. The guitar had a nice dent in the back where he’d kicked it.
Fuck you, muse
Your face in my mind I cannot use
To dream of you just isn’t right
I’ll sleep alone but broken tonight.
Crumple. Punch. His hand swelled where he’d driven it through the walls several times. Why did she have to do this to him? Show up out of nowhere and mess everything up! Beautiful, yes; perfect, maybe; inspiring? Only of thoughts of longing and frustration.
Shit. FUCK. DIE.
Crumple. He’d paid the price of his devotion; the least she could do was instill in him some seed of creativity…nurture the ability to become great, if she was unwilling to be with him. DIE. FUCK.
The second eviction notice showed up…the past due rent was one matter, but the other tenants disliked his fist coming through the wall in their living room.
The metaphors wouldn’t come; no hyperbole, simile, comparison, devotion, eloquent language to compose into a nice little package and drop like a bomb on the world. Oh, how they would have praised him! “Perfect expression!” “How inspired” They would gather around in hordes to listen to his plight…his young voice quivering on the notes that needed stress, and sliding over the rest like water.
Nothing. Void. Blank. Dark, like night. No, blank like a canvas. SHIT! Crumple. Punch. His hand was clearly becoming infected now, but it wouldn’t matter soon. Enough was enough. He had decided the score for his magnum opus would consist of one simple percussive note, like the period at the end of a sentence. So refined, so complete…ending almost before you knew it had begun. He opened his 10th story window overlooking the park and smiled. She briefly raised her head at the sound of the shot, then laid back down on the park bench.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Something in the Air, Submission 8 by Brian Zook
The Nicaraguan sun was just about to set when Daniel arrived in Chinandega in his dusty Jeep after a long day of avoiding potholes. As he approached his home village, he noticed an eerie emptiness. Not even the occasional stray dog scrounging in the roadside garbage.
“That’s strange,” he thought. “Usually around now there are at least a few people out and about. And who was that asleep on the sidewalk back there?”
He made his way down the cobblestone streets to his parents’ house. As he turned the corner onto his old street, he noticed a pair of legs sticking out the front door of a neighbor’s house down the street.
“Huh. Carlos must have passed out again after one too many beers,” he thought. “Poor Juana, having to deal with that drunkard of a husband.”
Daniel finally got to his parents’ house, parked the Jeep across the street, and made his way to the front door. His parents were expecting him, along with his sister. So where were they and why weren’t they answering the door?
He located the spare key under the flower pot and made his way into the house. Then he saw his father’s lifeless body slumped in the living room sofa. Frantic calls for help remained unanswered. He ran to the kitchen to call for an ambulance, only to find his mother and sister lying on the floor, their lifeless bodies frozen in an embrace. Nobody answered the local emergency number.
“What the heck is going on?” he muttered.
He ran to his neighbor’s house next door for help, only to find that all in that family were either on the floor or in their beds, dead. He ran to the neighbor across the street. Again, their lifeless bodies were in various places around the house. From the relative warmth and limpness of the bodies, he could tell that none of them had been dead long.
Suddenly he felt mildly nauseous. He could tell there was a ever-so-faint odor in the air that he couldn’t quite place.
“That’s it,” he thought. “It must be the volcano spewing something in the air again.”
He tried not to take deep breaths as he ran out to his car to get his cell phone to call his girlfriend in Managua, but he could tell the nausea was getting worse. As he opened the door to the car, the nausea overtook him. He lost consciousness with his arm outstretched for his cell phone.
Mid-Life Crises, Submission 8 by Charlie Arnold
“More like zen and the art of my ass going numb. If I do this again I’m picking a land with smooth paved streets. I don’t even see anyone on this crappy road.“
Countryside was rolling by as Will took his second hand Harley on a three week vacation to ‘find’ himself. A life in the office has left him single with his two sons Arthur and Walter lost to his wife in a custody battle. He knew he could put up a good fight financially but those same long hours that build a career don’t show an attentive father.
“What I wouldn’t give for a sizzling steak and a cold beer. I’m so hungry I’ll even eat the damn garnish.”
“Man am I glad I found you. I nearly flipped over my bike when I caught your open sign. I’ll take anything cold.”
“I’ll take care of you in just a sec.” The man gets up from a stool behind the counter and steps into the back room. Will picks up a paper from a news stand that makes The Post look like Dune. “Families flee in fear of a power struggle turning violent when local La eMe leader dies from multiple shots to the chest. Sources believe this was an inside job…”
Untitled, Submission 8 by Nina C
A light breeze meandered through the back alleyways, rustling dry leaves, softly caressing the water on the street down into gutters. In a delightful fluid movement it would gain momentum, jetting up each telephone pole and shaking the lines that loosely hung connecting each cottage.
Despite the beautiful day and the cool crisp wind, Joseph sat in his house. He would remain in his house for weeks, only to briefly suspend his activities for a stroll down to the corner shop to buy more film or a few cans of beans when he would run out. Beans were easy enough to cook on the stove, and since the death of his wife, he found the only energy he could muster up was for his daily photograph and to warm this sustenance.
Daisy had passed away twelve days prior. The morning she had died, Joseph woke to the aroma of a savory cheese and potato casserole. Each morning, Joseph rose to the redolence of breakfast wafting into the bedroom....eggs florentine on crisp english muffins, roasted potatoes with fresh mozzarella cheese, waffles were always accompanied by homemade syrup and orange juice was fresh squeezed. Daisy appeared capable of taking what little money he gave her for groceries and providing a variety of not only nourishing, but gourmet meals.
After she tended to his needs over breakfast, Daisy would accompany him into the bathroom to help him bathe and shave his face. Carefully, she would drag the razor his jawline and down his chin. Slowly, pulling the handle from middle of each ear to the side of his neck, she was always careful not to cut him. She would see him off at the front door and finish her duties around the house until he came home that evening.
Theirs was a simple relationship, very few words were spoken and throes of passion were devoid. A light touch on the hand or a brush of her hair on his face in the night was the extent of their physical relationship since he lost his penis in the war. The town eerily emulated their relationship. They had moved there soon after the accident and at once both of them felt comfortable in the place that so easily mimicked the inner turmoil of their marriage. Full of secrecy and dark corners, simultaneously it appeared so sunny, light and breezy. The quiet streets each day so much resembled the utter silence that suffocated Daisy and Joseph each night they lay to sleep.
Each day, after Joseph left for work, Daisy would dress herself and walk down to the market. The grips of silence left her as she quickly jaunted on the cobblestone pathway. Joseph was always naive, never understood that it would have been absolutely impossible to obtain two potatoes on what he gave her each week for groceries, let alone the feasts she provided him, but Mr. MacEnroe was a sweet old gentleman, and Daisy knew every man had a price. She would slip in the back door of his store and undress down to her slip in his office each day to provide the services his old wife was unable to in exchange for free reign through the market. In addition, Mr. MacEnroe would prepare meals and freeze them for her so all she would have to do was pop them in the oven. MacEnroe loved to cook, although to admit so would imply a level of homosexuality no one in the small town would have been capable of appreciating. Furthermore, Mr. MacEnroe was a simple man, unable of appreciating the untouched softness of her skin, unable to hear the pleasure he afforded her by the simple act of closeness, but he did enjoy the five minutes of sex she brought him each day.
But today, and for almost two weeks, none of this had transpired. While walking home from the market earlier that month, the wind blew down the corridor, up the telephone pole, through the lines, and down came a squirrel, hitting Daisy in the face which startled her into the street where she was run over by some Italian on a motorcycle passing through the town.
Joseph would come home from work immediately that day, but never shed a tear for his deceased wife. The injuries she had sustained must have been internal, because she did not have a scratch on her. Curiously, there was little difference between dead Daisy and the walking corpse of a human being she had been in the five years of their marriage. Sure, he had no one now to dress him and resorted to eating his meals from cans, but ultimately silence continued to permeate the house and sometimes the cat would brush up against his leg, providing as much affection as Daisy ever was capable of exhibiting towards him.
Despite the beautiful day and the cool crisp wind, Joseph sat in his house. He would remain in his house for weeks, only to briefly suspend his activities for a stroll down to the corner shop to buy more film or a few cans of beans when he would run out. Beans were easy enough to cook on the stove, and since the death of his wife, he found the only energy he could muster up was for his daily photograph and to warm this sustenance.
Daisy had passed away twelve days prior. The morning she had died, Joseph woke to the aroma of a savory cheese and potato casserole. Each morning, Joseph rose to the redolence of breakfast wafting into the bedroom....eggs florentine on crisp english muffins, roasted potatoes with fresh mozzarella cheese, waffles were always accompanied by homemade syrup and orange juice was fresh squeezed. Daisy appeared capable of taking what little money he gave her for groceries and providing a variety of not only nourishing, but gourmet meals.
After she tended to his needs over breakfast, Daisy would accompany him into the bathroom to help him bathe and shave his face. Carefully, she would drag the razor his jawline and down his chin. Slowly, pulling the handle from middle of each ear to the side of his neck, she was always careful not to cut him. She would see him off at the front door and finish her duties around the house until he came home that evening.
Theirs was a simple relationship, very few words were spoken and throes of passion were devoid. A light touch on the hand or a brush of her hair on his face in the night was the extent of their physical relationship since he lost his penis in the war. The town eerily emulated their relationship. They had moved there soon after the accident and at once both of them felt comfortable in the place that so easily mimicked the inner turmoil of their marriage. Full of secrecy and dark corners, simultaneously it appeared so sunny, light and breezy. The quiet streets each day so much resembled the utter silence that suffocated Daisy and Joseph each night they lay to sleep.
Each day, after Joseph left for work, Daisy would dress herself and walk down to the market. The grips of silence left her as she quickly jaunted on the cobblestone pathway. Joseph was always naive, never understood that it would have been absolutely impossible to obtain two potatoes on what he gave her each week for groceries, let alone the feasts she provided him, but Mr. MacEnroe was a sweet old gentleman, and Daisy knew every man had a price. She would slip in the back door of his store and undress down to her slip in his office each day to provide the services his old wife was unable to in exchange for free reign through the market. In addition, Mr. MacEnroe would prepare meals and freeze them for her so all she would have to do was pop them in the oven. MacEnroe loved to cook, although to admit so would imply a level of homosexuality no one in the small town would have been capable of appreciating. Furthermore, Mr. MacEnroe was a simple man, unable of appreciating the untouched softness of her skin, unable to hear the pleasure he afforded her by the simple act of closeness, but he did enjoy the five minutes of sex she brought him each day.
But today, and for almost two weeks, none of this had transpired. While walking home from the market earlier that month, the wind blew down the corridor, up the telephone pole, through the lines, and down came a squirrel, hitting Daisy in the face which startled her into the street where she was run over by some Italian on a motorcycle passing through the town.
Joseph would come home from work immediately that day, but never shed a tear for his deceased wife. The injuries she had sustained must have been internal, because she did not have a scratch on her. Curiously, there was little difference between dead Daisy and the walking corpse of a human being she had been in the five years of their marriage. Sure, he had no one now to dress him and resorted to eating his meals from cans, but ultimately silence continued to permeate the house and sometimes the cat would brush up against his leg, providing as much affection as Daisy ever was capable of exhibiting towards him.
The Mountain, Submission 8 by Lee Martin
“I don’t like going there,” said Maria Anna, pointing at the mountain with her head bowed. She tripped along barefoot on the cobblestones lining the street of Heraklion.
“Why?” asked the tall man limping next to her.
“I don’t like seeing the dead ones,” she replied, “but we have to. What’s you name?”
“George.”
“Jor?”
He laughed as he took the hat off his head and wrung it out like a washcloth, leaving small puddles of salty water on the road. “George. Frederickson.”
Maria Anna laughed hysterically while she spun around in the street holding the waist of a small doll.
“Is this Nags Head?” he asked.
“What?”
“Or the Cape? I was just off Cape Hatteras. I think this is Nags Head.”
“We live in Heraklio,” she said, with an air of authority that belied childhood. “I better take you to George.”
“Huh?”
“Oh!” she giggled behind her doll. “Not you, the other George. George Carow. We all know him.”
“Where is your father?”
“The mountain. Everyone is there. It’s the Day of the Waves. It’s my sixth.”
They walked down the narrow road for a few minutes before coming to a small blue house. An old grey bearded man sat outside in a rocking chair, and he stood when they approached.
“Who have you there, Maria Anna?” he asked.
“This is George. Another one! And he’s like you!” she replied.
George Carow walked toward them, his left arm in a white sling.
“Which ship?” he asked.
“Sir?” said George Frederickson.
“Which ship?”
“Uh, Monitor, out of Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn…nationality?”
“What nation? The United States of America.”
“America…incredible. What year?”
George Frederickson stood in disbelief. The girl had taken him to the town lunatic.
“My good sir, 1862. Well, it should be 1863 by now…”
“1863…incredible. My son, I am Sir George Carow, of King Henry VIII’s navy, from Portsmouth, England. 1545.”
The two men stood and stared at each other. Finally, George Frederickson turned to the girl.
“You better take me to someone in charge,” he whispered.
“We will. But we have to go to the mountain.”
“Oh, there, there young Maria Anna,” said Sir George. “You understand why we do what we must. The kids will find any others down here…your father will be so proud you found this man!”
“Yeah…” she said.
“She found me,” said the old man, winking at the younger.
At the foot of the mountain the three found stone stairs. With a sigh Maria Anna took the hand of the younger man, and the older George followed slowly. They made their trek up the mountain until they reached a clearing full of people. A small stream trickled out of a fissure in the rock mountain face.
“Pateras!” called Maria Anna. “I found another one!” The people turned to face them.
“Wonderful! Is this him? Hello, and welcome! I apologize if she hasn’t been very friendly. My little girl does not like seeing the dead men.” The man pointed to a row of men, all in similar uniforms, all soaking wet.
“What is this?” gasped George Frederickson, running toward the row of corpses. “Campbell…Lewis…I think that’s Cook…my God.”
A bright light began to grow within the rock face. The onlookers turned to face the light as a tunnel appeared and the small stream became a river pouring out, soaking the feet of the audience. A man was washed onto the ground, face down. The water subsided and the townsfolk stepped forward to carry him to the row of fourteen others.
“Will Allen,” said George Frederickson, closing his eyes as the body was turned over to reveal the face of the drowned man.
The light faded and the water stopped flowing all together.
Maria Anna’s father walked forward to address the crowd.
“Friends! The mountain has brought us these men, valiant all, who perished in the waves.” He spoke as though he had spoken the words countless times, but his emotion was still strong. His arm raised toward George Frederickson, and he beckoned him forward. “Your name?”
“U-uh, George Frederickson, acting Ensign, USS Monitor.”
“MON-EE-TOR!” repeated the crowd. They bowed and walked forward.
“My friend, welcome,” said Maria Anna’s father as the crowd began picking shovels and started digging graves. “Tonight is the feast for the memory of your friends. You will be the guest of honor. You are the last of the Mon-ee-tor, and this site will always be remembered as the resting place of your friends.”
It's Far Too Early For This Kind Of Thing, Submission 8 by Jay Johnson
"I won't deliver."
"What do you mean?"
"Just that: I… will… not… deliver… your expectations, I mean. It isn't that I don't want to. Nothing would make me happier than to live up to your fantasy – I want you to know that I will not, cannot deliver the construction you've built. And just so there's no confusion, I want it to be clear that nobody can deliver your expectations. It's not a deficiency in me… it's just an impossibility."
Just for a second there, just a second – something slid off her face and she looked, I don't know – flat. Like soda-pop gone stagnant in a sticky cup, abandoned on the counter. Her eyes were glassy and hollow, instead of sparkling and full. Her smile was plastic and forced instead of genuine – as if it never had nor ever would, reach her eyes.
And, I feel so much. I feel myself splintering, like a tree caught in an ice storm – sap frozen and expanding until the trunk bursts. I don't know how to handle my splintering. I am too many shards. Before a tree and now only tinder.
And, God, I loved you. I loved you so much. Too much. I don't think a person can handle that much love. I 'm not even sure a person deserves to be loved that much. I'm not sure that we fickle, oscillating, petty people deserve to be loved like that.
It's chilly and the breeze off the Pacific chases rubbish down the street. It's too early for much in the way of signs of life. There is a motor scooter parked on the street, only now revealed because your car has pulled away from blocking its view.
Conditions, Submission 8 by Ryan Wrenn
He reaches behind the bar, searches for a moment and finds the bottle opener. He lets the cap fly, arc in the air, and fall on the hardwood floor.
“The key to any relationship,” he begins, his voice sounding unfamiliar to his ear, “whether it is among friends, lovers, family, whoever.” He pauses to swig his beer and look across the empty tables and chairs of the lounge to the couch where his companion, half asleep, peers at him listlessly. The beer tastes musky but so had all the rest. He winces and swallows. “…is that there needs to be one thing…one singular phrase, word, utterance…that could end it all. At any moment. You might be in the middle of an embrace, passionate, alive,” he says and mimics the act weakly, closing his eyes, “and these string of words will end it.” He breaks and cuts his hand across the air wildly, almost losing his balance in the act. He stumbles back into a plush red chair, finds himself satisfied and sets his beer down on the floor beside him.
“It’ll end that and everything after it, everything before it. Which isn’t to say that those words existing is reason enough to say them. No, no, no. God forbid one should ever have to say those words. The point is that they’re there. Idle, ready, waiting,” he slurs and drags his fingers through his long hair, getting caught in knots along the way and pulling them loose.
“You can’t have it be about dependence. You can’t…you can’t have it be unconditional. Conditions. Conditions are what we need. A list of things that one will not stand for, from whoever it’s coming from. And too many people believe,” he stops and turns suddenly in his chair toward the open front door, as if expecting someone. Nothing. Outside a black motorcycle sits parked. “Too many people believe that we live in a world…lived in a world…where the ideal is unconditionality. Where if we are ever to succeed we must have blind trust, blind faith, blind dependence on some…someone.”
His hands lazily search for the beer next to his chair. Not finding it, he stands and walks behind the bar to the ice box, dark and warm.
His companion sits up and stares at him expectantly.
“I know what you’re thinking and the answer is no, I won’t tell you what I know will make you walk out that door.” He points to the door and the empty street beyond. “You’re all I got left. But maybe that’s it? Me saying that? That you’re all I got left? Pity’s as good a reason as any to leave I suppose. Do what you gotta do.”
Jumping down from the couch, his companion waddles on stubby legs over to the bar and behind it, sitting gently at his feet. It lets out a low growl and then begins to pant.
“I don’t have any food, boy. Well I got what we need, and you don’t need it now. Thought whoever owned this place might have left some food back in the pantry, but nah. Nothing. Guess they were in a real hurry after…well no use digging that up again. Curious thing to do though, leaving the beer. You’d think that’d be the first thing they take.”
He steps over his companion and moves toward the balcony that runs the length of the back wall. Beyond it the town spreads over the valley floor. Unmoving, breathless. Flooding with inky shadows from the growing dusk.
“So where to tomorrow? North? East?” He turns around and leans against the balcony. The room is empty.
“Boy?” he says and leans to peer behind the bar. Nothing. He grunts softly and stares down at the floor.
“South then.”
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