Owen's Writing

Skipping this week

2009-10-10T22:27:00.002-05:00

My original intent was to review Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451. It's not a novel I had read before and is on ye olde list of books to read. However, by the time I finished I found that I had nothing to say about it. It's just a very well written book and I am glad that I did read it. So, in lieu of a review this week I am going to take a break. I expect to return to reviewing books next week.

Review of Mari Strachan's The Earth Hums in B Flat

2009-10-03T22:40:00.003-05:00

I have read very few novels that successfully develop the unreliable narrative voice. For the most part this style of limited and sometimes actively misleading narration is relegated to short stories where it is easier for the author to keep everything moving fluidly and for the reader to really understand what is actually happening. Mari Strachan breaks that tradition with the young and naïve Gwenni Morgan in the novel, The Earth Hums in B Flat. With a Welsh background and a small town setting this novel involves a poor, but highly driven and close-knit village that is motivated equally by tradition as it is idle gossip. Seen through the eyes of twelve-year-old Gwenni, who still clings to her childhood mentality of simplistic imagination and a dislike of boys, it quickly dawns on the reader that what she says can neither be called truth for a lack of rationality nor can it be called lies for its earnestness.

As rich as the setting and characters get, along with the (mostly) natural story progression, Ms. Strachan approaches an interesting and moving story. However, she falls into a few traps that prevented me from ever truly liking The Earth Hums. For one –and this is not entirely Ms. Strachan’s fault - the novel’s cover synopsis sets the stage for an investigative story with very perceptible and intense consequences for Gwenni’s town. While there are influences of this throughout the story it is neither as important, nor as direct a topic as the synopsis would have you believe. In this way I spent more than half of the story waiting for it to pick up, only to realize, within the last few pages, that it already had. That isn’t to say Ms. Strachan chose a poor pace for her novel, simply that the expectation introduced by the synopsis was a bit misleading.

The other major issue I had with The Earth Hums was that Ms. Strachan withheld a bit too much information from the reader. With a firm intent to keep gossip in the back of her mind so that actual revelations wouldn’t blindside her, Gwenni otherwise ignored the idle talk of her best friend and the rest of the town, and asking for answers could possibly cause more trouble than it might have solved. In this way no one spoke of the underlyng issues that ultimately drove the story until the very end, where answers were presented to the reader for questions that hadn’t yet been asked openly.

The Earth Hums in B Flat’s kind and sometimes sad look at Gwenni and her family initially charmed me with Gwenni’s unusual and simplistic view of life around her. However, once that initial charm passed, I found that there was very little to support the story’s momentum. It seemed as though Mari Strachan was unwilling to let her readers in on the little secrets, for whatever reason, and the story as a whole suffered for that with a slow moving plot and periods of distraction that didn’t support the story’s eventual climax. Even though it had the making of a great novel with well developed characters and setting I find that I cannot recommend this book.

Strachan, Mari. The Earth Hums in B Flat. Edinburgh, Scot.: Canongate, 2009.

And Now For Something Different...Part 2

2009-09-26T21:34:00.003-05:00

If you were at all interested in my article, City of Heroes: Choosing your First Archetype, but are more interested in City of Villains then check out my follow up article, City of Villains: Choosing your First Archetype.

Review of Erick Setiawan's of Bees and Mist

2009-09-26T21:29:00.002-05:00

The fairy tale genre was never one that really caught my attention, and though I don’t dislike it I don’t really understand it either. So when I picked up Erick Setiawan’s novel, of Bees and Mist, I did so because the story sounded interesting, not because I considered it to be an adult’s fairy tale. Gradually it dawned on me that there was more to this novel than simply the story of Meridia’s fight for love in the face of a selfish, influential, and (mostly) heartless mother-in-law.

Of Bees and Mist is, most probably, the perfect title for this wonderful and elusive story, as they represent the two of the influential and magical aspects of the novel. Though never directly associated, they are a part of a greater vortex of troubles that plague Meridia and her desire for a contented and happy life. With winds that at times attempt to consume her entire being, it is only with careful steps and open eyes that she can continue to move forward. She does not, thankfully, travel without missteps or the need for other’s assistance. With a well rounded and impressively diverse collection of characters, there are no easily discernable gaps in the story’s progress. Even minor characters, like the young and hesitant servant Gabilan, fit perfectly within the story’s realisms and even have moments of their own where they are individualized and unique.

My only concern throughout the novel was that Eva, the wicked mother-in-law, was never redeemed and only accidentally punished for her actions. For such a strong and pride-driven character it seemed as though she should have eventually wised up to her wrong doings, or at least driven herself to ruin when she inevitably stepped over her bounds. Instead, Mr. Setiawan relies on an outside and previously uninvolved source for her final punishment which neither justifies Eva’s suffering nor allows for her redemption. It is not a great enough issue to avoid this novel, though it did at times make me put the book down in frustration.

Overall of Bees and Mist delivers one of the most imaginative and creative stories I have read recently. With a rich collection of characters, an even richer world of magic and spirits, and a basic story that is reminiscent of the Cinderella classic, this novel is a must for any fairy tale lover and should not be ignored by anyone.

Setiawan, Erick. of Bees and Mist. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2009

Review of Bonnie Jo Campbell's American Salvage

2009-09-19T23:41:00.002-05:00

Everything that once was clean and nice and new will eventually become tainted and broken according to Ms. Campbell’s collection of short stories. Even the stories that ended happily contained a feeling of loss, a change of perspective with an overall negative skew, or some sort of defiled innocence. In its entirety, though, I couldn’t help but accept this negativity and understand that, though these stories were gritty, they could have been worse. It’s that little glimmer of hope hidden behind the Pandora’s box of life that kept me reading page after page of this collection with an intensity that made me forget where I was and what was around me.

Do not pick up this collection if you are at all squeamish about graphic detail as Ms. Campbell has not held back where she felt description was necessary, and the stories are all the better for it. Do not pick up this book if you dislike people making fun of men, the religiously misguided, or the darker sides of human nature because Ms. Campbell does not leave those subjects alone. Do not pick up this book if you fear helplessness because there are few stories where the subject is not discussed.

If you have, however, gotten this far and are still interested in reading American Salvage, do so. There are very few short story authors who can grab your attention, keep it, and make you unable to put their book down. Short story collections are just not built in a manner that allows for this intensity. It is a great feat to be able to grab hold of a reader and not let go, especially through multiple story conclusions, and Ms. Campbell does it masterfully.

Beyond that there was a decidedly unique perspective inserted into each of these stories that very few writers can manage successfully, a sort of vindictiveness that, on the surface, is presented as a benign rivalry with understandable and organic progressions. Even as I thought about the interactions and tried to determine which ones were unnecessary, I found that each one straddled that cusp so precariously and cleanly that it was almost impossible to tell.

Ms. Campbell has written some incredible stories that anyone can connect to and does so without any sort of agenda or purpose beyond realism. In this way I both respect her work, her skill, and can’t but tell people about this collection.

Campbell, Bonnie Jo. American Salvage. Detroit, Wayne State University Press: 2009.

Review of Anthony McCarten’s Show of Hands

2009-09-12T14:39:00.001-05:00

It’s a common theme, forcing people into situations where there is no easy way out. With this kind of setting the author can create and develop characters easily since there isn’t much else to do. The more isolated the group is, the more easily these backgrounds come about. It’s this trope that keeps Show of Hands moving at a comfortable pace.

With anywhere from three to six major characters Show follows the competitors of Back-to- Back New Cars’ contest to win a new car. The characters’ tasks are to keep their hands on a vehicle the longest. With fifteen minute breaks every two hours the contest is expected to go on for days. Indeed, Terry “Hatch” Back, the car lot’s owner, wants to go for a world record, which is established to be a little over five days. Since there are numerous real life examples of these kinds of contests to build from, the reader can move past this issue quickly and head into the actual story.

The narration is first person and largely shifts between two contestants, Tom Shrift and Jess Podorowski, and Hatch. Tom is a down on his luck Mensa member who has decided this honor does, indeed, make him better than the rest of the world’s population. Jess is a kind at heart Meter Maid who seems to have stresses coming from every facet of her life as people insult her at work while at the same time her home life contains an overbearing Polish mother and a severely handicapped daughter. Finally, Hatch rounds out the perspectives through narration that explains the desperate need for publicity to ensure the dealership doesn’t go under, along with an equally necessitated attempt to figure out who he is and what he really wants to be happy.

Along with the handful of other characters, these three set up a supremely strong beginning to a promising story. However, that’s about as far as it goes. With a largely predictable plot, characters who never really take a chance to look at themselves objectively, revelations the reader isn’t privy to, and poorly developed consequences to decisions that very much drive the story to its inevitable conclusion, Show of Hands plays at cliché when it could have been refreshing and unique.

McCarten, Anthony. Show of Hands. New York: Washington Square Press, 2009.

And Now For Something Different...

2009-09-05T13:08:00.002-05:00

Recently I signed on to the Bright Hub as a writer for the MMO channel. My first article, City of Heroes: Choosing your First Archetype, gives some hints for new players regarding their first character in City of Heroes. If you have any interest in checking out the game, or are even just curious about my article, please check it out.

Review of Castle Freeman Jr.'s All That I Have

2009-09-05T13:06:00.001-05:00

In my ramble I mentioned that the Fantasy genre is not my favorite style of writing, however I failed to talk about what does fit that bill. Well, part of the reason for not naming names is because I’m not sure what exactly to call the ‘genre’ I like besides reflective fiction, or fiction that uses a memoir-like narrative voice. Another reason why I didn’t mention the type of book I enjoy the most is because it’s better to give an example of a story than to simply state ‘I like this.’ This would, of course, give me the opportunity to give specific reasons as to why I found the work so enjoyable. Well, I just so happen to have found such a book in Castle Freeman Jr.’s All That I Have.

All takes place in rural Vermont and centers around the life of Sheriff Lucian Wing. With a history that involves losing his father to a war, becoming involved in one himself, and signing on to become a state trooper, he leads somewhat of a backwards trail towards this low waged, elected, public office. However, it is clear from the beginning that he enjoys the life he lives and doesn’t have too many regrets.

What makes All so good, however, isn’t the path Wing took to becoming a Sheriff, but rather how that path helps him deal with the variety of people he meets and has to live with. Even from the first page it’s clear that Wing has a very laid back attitude towards life by casually introducing the outcomes of fights with his wife by describing her ‘morning back.’ In six sentences he describes what exactly the back means in such a clear and informative way that it instantly holds the capability of becoming a recurring, inside joke which supports, and punctuates Wings relationship with his wife as well as his views on what he calls ‘sheriffing.’ This style of easily introducing the reader to inside colloquial terms and jargon builds, throughout the story, in such a comfortable and unique way that when Mr. Freeman later returns to these descriptions there is no need to re-establish their meaning.

The story itself begins with the announcement of a ‘new’ male and moves on to a breaking and entering case. With richly developed characters that each have unique personalities, interests, hopes, and aspirations, which meld together almost seamlessly, Mr. Freeman writes a tale that attempts at unimportance, and almost succeeds. In the end even the characters you’re supposed to hate have lovably redeeming qualities that keep the story realistically innocent. Without ever overtly trying to do anything in particular, Mr. Freeman accomplishes a great deal with All That I Have by keeping the story simple and straightforward, which all amounts to my recommendation that you read this book.

Freeman Jr., Castle. All That I Have. New Hampshire: Steerforth Press, 2009.

Review of Kristin Cashore's Graceling

2009-08-29T13:54:00.003-05:00

If you’re expecting a long rant and/or rave of Kristin Cashore’s Graceling you will be sorely disappointed (well, the rant/rave part. The review turned out to be fairly long). Yes, Graceling caused me some stress, prevented me from posting two weeks ago, and created a semi-long ramble on how I critique. However, as I mentioned in last week’s post, Graceling was just the unfortunate catalyst for something that needed to be written anyway. Simply put, I have no problems with Graceling. It wasn’t the best book I’ve ever picked up, but it certainly wasn’t the worst. For what it is, a fantasy novel written for teen-aged girls, it was actually pretty decently written.

Graceling’s world is relatively generic in its make-up. Separated into multiple (7 in this case) kingdoms, which are perpetually in conflict with each other, the (mostly) self-absorbed royalty use their followers for personal gain and enjoyment. In other words, they are largely corrupt. Within this world there is a chance for a baby to develop two differently colored eyes which indicate an eventual ability, or ‘grace,’ that can be anything from the mundane, like the grace of holding one’s breath for long periods of time, to more interesting ones, like mind reading. Along with these abilities there is an X-Men like stigma attached to these individuals as well as a claim of ownership by the corrupted leaders over the ‘useful’ gracelings born in their kingdom (though the intensity of these interactions are a little too underplayed in my opinion and get lost in the action of the story).

The novel follows the adventures of Katsa, a feared combatant from the Midluns, and Po, a young prince from the island of Lienid, as they try to discover why someone would want to kidnap his grandfather. Through their adventures they begin to learn more about each other, their own selves, and the limitations of their individual graces. Though fairly generic on the surface, I found that the uniqueness of the Katsa and Po’s personalities supported the story through until the end. Furthermore, Ms. Cashore’s ability to present the necessary information without connecting unnecessary dots allowed for a fluid story, progression without any major reader confusion. That is to say, the twists and turns were clearly planned and the majority of potential misunderstandings had been satisfactorily addressed.

Now, this story is not without its…let’s call them considerations. As I’ve stated, Graceling is designed for teen-aged girls, though any female above the age of fourteen could potentially read this and enjoy it. For guys the suggestion differs just slightly. Due to some female specific descriptions, which include some fairly delicate topics, a teen-aged male might not completely understand the action of the story. For the most part everything is clear, but there were enough moments that I felt it could make a difference. Additionally, and this is where last weeks ramble comes in, it felt like Ms. Cashore tried to achieve one thing with Katsa but the story wanted to do something else. Specifically, Katsa is supposed to be a strong and independent lead female. Long ago she decided that she was not going to get married or have children and there are a few times within the story that Katsa struggles with her grace, her femininity, Po, and everything else around her. There are even times that Ms. Cashore seemingly inserts dialog simply to sustain this feeling of ‘strong womanhood.’ However, and it took a while for me to figure this out, Katsa is rather weak, intellectually and spiritually speaking. She is, in a word, co-dependant, and her actions demonstrate that, even if her words try to hide it.

In the end Graceling is a nice book to read when you’re looking for something fun and ‘fluffy,’ though don’t delve too deeply between the lines, just let the experience wash over you. You’ll have more fun that way.

Cashore, Kristin. Graceling. Orlando: Harcourt, Inc. 2008

Owen's Writing Ramble

2009-08-22T17:21:00.002-05:00

Okay, so here I go with what I couldn’t say last week.

Recently I read Kristin Cashore’s Graceling and had planned to post the review on this blog (as I had been doing for the past few weeks). As I worked through the review in my head and considered what I had just read, the good and the bad parts of the work, and whether or not I would suggest it, I found that I was rationalizing and just spending too much time explaining the reasons for my opinions. Not only is that not the point of my reviews (which are supposed to be concise(-ish) opinions on the quality of the work or works) but it meant that I was struggling with something larger than what Graceling, by itself, was offering.

Originally I thought my struggles were with the fantasy genre as a whole, since Graceling fits that bill. Though I don’t dislike the genre, and have dabbled in it, and will continue to do so, it isn’t usually my favorite to read. There is/was also a decent amount of conflict within Knox’ writing department regarding that particular genre. That is to say, there was a very clear…fissure between the pro-fantasy and anti-fantasy writers and, to a lesser extent, readers. I thought that maybe my rationalizations were because I didn’t want to step on too many toes on either side. As I wrote my explanation and opinion I found that it was not the fantasy genre that was the issue at hand.

So I stepped back and looked at the other works I’ve critiqued. With the possible exception of Close Range I have had at least one issue with each writer’s work. This does not mean I had a problem with their abilities with English. As far as I’m aware every story I’ve read was grammatically correct. Rather, there was something else amiss. I originally thought of it as a sort of ‘sloppiness’ and attempted to re-write what would eventually become this post to reflect that change in perspective. But, again, I found that that wasn’t what I was having an issue with either. What I understood of John Updike’s collection was most definitely not sloppy. Everything he said was meant to be said and yet I still couldn’t remove his collection from the list of ‘stories where something isn’t exactly as I’d like it to be’ (a non-catchy and poorly defined turn of phrase).

So what then? What am I having an issue with? Why do I feel I need to rationalize my opinion? At Knox there was a class that I was unable to take called “Ways of Reading.” A friend of mine had taken the class and explained it to me. To her the class taught that there are three aspects to a story: there is the writer, the reader, and the story itself. If you’ve ever talked to an author you might have heard them complain that a story ‘just got away from them’ or that they were surprised by a revelation they hadn’t seen coming or that they just simply couldn’t get the writing to do what they wanted it to. Ultimately I think that that’s what the issue came down to. There was something about Graceling (which I will expand upon next week) that didn’t seem to fit with what Ms. Cashore’s vision of her story suggested it should have been.

So here’s what it boils down to, and something to keep in mind when reading one of my critiques. I, as a reader, will try my best to avoid placing themes and imagery into a review of a story unless they are clearly there. This blog is not a discussion group and, while I would like to hear your opinions on my reviews (hint! hint!), these are my opinions and my suggestions and an arguable statement could possibly set up an expectation that cannot be fulfilled. However, there are themes and undercurrents to most stories that are never actually mentioned outright (and so are more debatable than the overt themes). As a critical reader I do try to find those hidden or underemphasized undercurrents and, when found, they will affect my reading and the way I understand the story. Sometimes these findings will confuse me (as they have done in Graceling) and I will have to try and determine if this undercurrent was intended on the part of the author or accidental. Ultimately, what’s written on the paper is the core of a story, what’s written between the lines can and does directly affect this core, whether the author intends it or not, and my personal opinions are just that. When I review I will try to limit my opinions but everything else is fair game and an undercurrent that might be missed under normal circumstances can and will effect my read and eventual review.

Now that I’ve got that off my chest I will begin writing my review of Graceling sans any unnecessary commentary…

I can't seem to find the right words...

2009-08-15T21:21:00.000-05:00

Something has been running through my head and I've been trying to work it out. Though I've written a few drafts in an attempt to better understand the 'problem' myself so I can better describe my thoughts to you, I haven't yet gotten it right (I'm sooo close). I'll see what I can do about resuming next Saturday with as clean and clear a version as I can manage. Until then enjoy the rest of the weekend and the week that follows!

Review of John Updike’s My Father’s Tears and other stories

2009-08-08T14:19:00.001-05:00

“It has taken old age to make me realize that the world exists for young people” (Updike, 283).

The above quote is just nine pages from the end of this 292 paged collection of 18 short stories. It is not highlighted as important or even necessary within its parent story, The Full Glass, but is rather there and then gone. Yet I find that this quote is the closest-to-accurate descriptor for what it was that I came away with from Updike’s last collection (he passed away earlier this year). These stories are about the reflections of older gentleman on times gone past and the lives they lived (and have yet to live). Even the progress of the collection reflects this ‘on times gone past’ mentality in that each story further matures the narrator when compared to its predecessor. From start to finish this collection travels with aging humanity, beginning at a peak just shy of that past-prime cusp (Morocco) and ending with an 80-something trying to remember the times of a ‘full/filled’ life (The Full Glass).

For me, though, it’s hard to take this collection much beyond these understandings. Don’t get me wrong, My Father’s Tears and other stories holds gem after gem after well written and beautiful gem. There were even times that I could only hope that, in 30 years, I was writing things as good and moving as these works. However, today as a 22 year old, many of the most important aspects of these stories went right over my head; I’m just too young to adequately understand the things Updike wrote. From what I could understand it seems that there needs to be a near equally aged knowledge of the world that a 20 year old simply could not have, and I would even go so far as to say that this book might be unapproachable to the average 30-something. Those 40 and up would likely have the necessary life experiences and aged mentality to both understand and deeply appreciate what Updike writes and says and, as such, I highly recommend this collection to them.

As a final note I will mention that one of the stories that I did understand, titled Varieties of Religious Experiences, is one of the few stories that I simply could not finish in one sitting. This work, a traveling narrative that expertly jumps between four different perspectives, centers itself around the events of 9/11/2001. Though I can’t honestly say Updike writes a perfect story, it does what I feel a lot of artists would like to have done with that horrible experience. That is to say, Updike humanizes the event while, at the same time, avoids diminishing its short term and long term consequences, a feat that I have only seen (or rather heard) done better once.

Updike, John. My Father’s Tears and other stories. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2009

Review of Thomas Hardy's Jude the Obscure

2009-08-01T13:53:00.001-05:00

The book I am reviewing this week, Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure, was originally published in 1895 and, as such, has aged considerably. Some of the plot points throughout the story could be considered cliché to a modern audience (though certainly not cliché for 1895) and the setting will certainly be unfamiliar to readers who are not used to England during this era. That said I found that the character interactions and themes of the novel were universal enough such that I could easily associate with the action of the story.

Straightforward is what I would call the story of Jude. With very few exceptions it avoids unexpected twists and turns which I think strengthens the work as a whole. There are also no attempts to hide character action and motivation from the reader (with one notable exception that I will return to in a bit) which allows the novel to progress and develop in a natural and uninhibited manner that is not commonly matched today. Though a bit slower than the vast majority of contemporary pieces I found that I wanted to keep reading, if only to better understand why exactly Jude was both the focal point of an entire novel and yet still considered obscure.

The major issue that I had with the novel was that Hardy couldn’t end it. That isn’t to say the story has no end, it absolutely does, but that the ending was…forced. Though certainly there were a lot of reasons for this, the one that I felt caused the biggest problem stems from Jude’s main love interest, Sue. Through a variety of story action the reader learns that Sue has doubts about the Christian religion and is wiling to discard tradition if it fails to suit her happiness. Unfortunately the reader is never informed of why she doubts, and there is no real explanation of her religious history or her exact opinions on the subject. So when she begins to backtrack on previous decisions she had made, which separates the two lovers and generally causes discord in each of their lives, the reader has no real explanation as to why. To me it felt like Sue was simply rubbing salt in an already deep and painful wound, which I could accept under certain circumstances, but which did not feel earned in this instance.

Overall Jude the Obscure is an honest and forthcoming story about the possible resistances a normal English citizen of that time might encounter. It is a story about how social status and religious doctrine intermingle to prevent Jude’s desire for betterment and contentedness and, with a few exceptions, this quiet and slow moving novel pretty much accomplishes what it sets out to do. Though I can’t suggest this for the average modern day reader, largely due its slow pace and forced ending, its universal themes of love, the desire for happiness and fulfillment, and the mortality of man intermix to make a successful and thought provoking read.

Hardy, Thomas. Jude the Obscure. Ed. Irving Howe. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1965.

Review of Gabrielle Zevin's elsewhere

2009-07-25T20:05:00.002-05:00

There are two things that must be said about my reading of Gabrielle Zevin’s elsewhere. First is that I could not finish the novel. Second is that I am not the target demographic (that being middle school to early high school girls). With that in mind I begin my review with the understanding that, in part, the reason I disliked this novel was because I wasn’t necessarily supposed to like it and that I may not have a complete picture of the story.

The story of elsewhere revolves around a girl named Liz who is, herself, only fifteen years old. She has also recently died and must deal with the prospects of being dead. It’s a pretty decent beginning to a story that holds promise. There is a great deal of exploration available regarding this topic including, but not limited to, how she died, what the after life is ‘actually’ like (as a work of fiction/fantasy the after life can legitimately mean just about anything), and how she and the people she left behind will proceed with their (un)lives. For the most part Zevin manages to explore these ideas to a greater or lesser extent.

My problem with this novel, and why I eventually had to put it aside, is mainly due to the depth at which Zevin develops her characters, their lives, and the world they live in. With Liz’ life prior to death firmly placed in the real world there are a variety of rules that need to be maintained in order to ensure my ability to suspend my disbelief. One such rule has to do with the circumstances and differences of elsewhere’s afterlife when compared to Heaven or the variety of other Heaven analogs found in other religions. For example, how does the afterlife presented in the story reflect the afterlife presented in Christianity? How about Hinduism or Buddism?

It is in the story’s inability to successfully put my uneasiness and questions to rest that it bothered me. To continue with the above question, Elsewhere isn’t Heaven. Unlike eternal life and happiness in Heaven, Elsewhere eventually sends you back to earth as an infant (a sort of limited re-incarnation). However, when the question of religion is posed in the novel, the answer is “Nothing has changed.” (Zevin, 78) which is an entirely untrue response.

Besides the novel’s inability to address my concerns regarding realism I felt that the story was both slow and uneventful, moving sluggishly through Liz’ after life without progressing Liz’ story in any great detail, followed by quick and poorly explored changes that gloss over potential inconsistencies. For instance, Liz initially disliked the idea of being dead, desiring instead to return to the life she once had in order to experience the things she never got a chance to before. It’s a reaction that I can understand and accepted, however, it took nearly half the story to move past. During this time she slowly spirals down into depression (which was too easily permitted) that allows Liz to alienate almost everyone she had ever met in Elsewhere, only to mend these broken relationships with a too easily given, and accepted, apology.

I could continue expanding on the intricacies and inconsistencies of Elsewhere and Liz, but I am trying to limit spoilers should my review pique your interest. In the end, though, I cannot recommend elsewhere. There are just too many issues within the novel, and I find that I cannot suitably suspend my disbelief.

Zevin, Gabrielle. elsewhere. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2005.

Review of Annie Proulx's Close Range: Wyoming Stories

2009-07-18T11:51:00.002-05:00

It’s time for a change of pace. Instead of moving on from my fiction directly into my poetry I thought it’d be nice if I stopped talking about myself.

This week I will begin my reviews of other’s books and works. This can cover anything from the basic novel to a collection of poems to movies (though the farther away I get from my comfort zone the less likely I will review it). Generally they will be shorter than the introductions to my own works and I will try describing the basic qualities of the work, whether good or bad, and whether or not I suggest it for other readers. To begin, I will review the short story compilation: Close Range: Wyoming Stories by Annie Proulx.

You might already be aware of Annie Proulx’s work (or at least one of her short stories). Made into a movie in 2005, the final work of this collection, Brokeback Mountain, is the story of two sheepherders who share that bond which could never be accepted by the society they lived and grew up in. However, there is a great deal more to this compilation and it would be an error to talk only about this one story.

Close Range contains eleven works of varying length (anywhere from 2 to just over 40 pages) that each present a picture of the harsh and unyielding life that seems to encompass everything in Wyoming. From the almost ironically named Pair of Spurs to the appropriately titled People in Hell Just Want a Drink of Water each story explores the solitude of Wyoming life that seems only to be relieved by the temporary pleasures of the flesh. This pleasure is not, however, just about sex, though that is certainly one of the methods, but includes the eight seconds spent bull riding and the feel of a pair of good boots. But temporary is temporary and there is always a looming inevitability in these stories, that even fulfilled lives are not necessarily pleasurable and that pleasure is the one thing universally missing and that, if done wrong, the pursuit of pleasure will ultimately prevent fulfillment. A depressing, yet generally accepted, outlook on life from each of the characters’ perspectives.

If you aren’t familiar with the Wyoming life (as I am not) Proulx takes care of you. In The Half-Skinned Steer, the very first story, the reader is taken out of whatever comfortable and familiar life they live in and is introduced to the harsh realities of Wyoming: that one mistake or underestimation can lead to dire consequences. Overall Close Range depicts a, at times tender and at others disturbing, look into the uncertain, though unrelenting life of Wyoming residents, while pulling at you with the undercurrents and unwritten rules that have very little room for variability. If you are at all interested in short story collections or stories about the western United States I highly suggest this one.

Proulx, Annie. Close Range: Wyoming Stories. New York: Scribner, 1999.

Owen's Writing Week 10

2009-07-11T20:55:00.001-05:00

There’s a lot that I find I want to say about One Man’s Death/When I Woke (which, of course, means I can’t put these thoughts into words). It is, after all, the piece that I have spent the most time with and the one that will probably take the longest to ‘complete’. The original draft of One Man’s Death was written during Beginning Fiction Workshop between Claustrophobic Spelunker and A Regression of Thought. A second draft was written shortly before Polyester Tears. And, with the help of my poetry and Senior Portfolio professor, I began the story over as When I Woke and submitted the first chapter(s) to my final workshop at Knox.

The story has taught me a lot about the basics of writing. From description (something that continues to be difficult) to the merits of planning out your story a bit beforehand (I think the main character, Chuck, was bald and yet still managed to have hair down past his shoulders in the first draft). It was the first time I played with the third person narrative and the present tense (the former I kept for subsequent drafts, the later I removed). It helped me to define the differences between a story and a character sketch. It is one of the examples I use when in a debate over the merits of fantasy plots for literature pieces (a huge debate within the Creative Writing department at Knox). It is in this story that I hope to accomplish what I couldn’t with Flat Planet. This is also the story I still think about when I let my mind idle and drift.

In the tentative plot that I have running through my head there are four characters: Chuck, the main character; Kelly, his sister; Jasmine (or Jaz for short), his niece; and a fourth character that has yet to be introduced and named. Beyond that there isn’t much to say about the overall plot of the story, I’m sure I’ve read my basic description on the backs of hundreds of books over the years: ‘When [event] hits Chuck’s life he thinks nothing of it at first, just another day to be noted and forgotten. As he goes through his normal routine with his sister, Kelly, and Kelly’s daughter, Jasmine, he is surprised when [character] comes looking for closure. The story, When I Woke, is an [adjective] look at a family with [a strange/unique interaction that is normal on the surface] whose lives are turned upside down and their attempt to [verb/cliché] it.’

That’s just the three sentence description though. Like I said early in this blog I’m not a fan of those short synopses, they inadequately differentiate between a perfectly ordinary story from a fantastic one (which isn’t to say When I Woke is fantastic, but I have read books with a similar three sentence synopsis that are). There is, however, something unique about this story that I have tried to explain to other people and that the three sentence synopsis doesn’t even begin to explore. A sort of fantasism that I know I haven’t seen in too many other stories which utilize a fantastical event in an otherwise mundane world to explore the characters’ reactions and interactions with each other.

All that and more are is the reasons I am so interested in this piece and keep returning to it time and time again.

When I Woke

2009-07-11T20:40:00.003-05:00

It was the slow creak of a bent timber breaking under its own weight that first caught Chuck’s attention. He knew the accident had happened even before he opened his eyes; splintered wood and bits of broken glass pressed against his skin. Bright light passed irregularly through his eyelids and when he opened them to look at the damage he saw the ornament of a Mercedes-Benz glinting in the winter’s afternoon sun. It sat upside down and chipped in places. The car it had come from was sticking halfway out of what had been his house.

Two people, Chuck thought as he spread his hands cautiously across the debris in an attempt to clear a space big enough for his palm without cutting himself. Eventually, his left hand found the smooth flesh of one of the victims and his right found the cold plastic of a tape recorder. After ensuring nothing would move unexpectedly he pushed himself back onto his feet. Please, let it only have been two people.

It was clear the house would be condemned, Chuck was already standing on half the building and the other half seemed only to stay up through sheer force of will. Cracks had formed in most of the walls from the impact and trash from what remained of his kitchen was being blown through the open and broken back door by the chill January air. Piles were already collecting in the corners of his back fence.

It had all happened too quickly. He’d been thinking about his niece and hadn’t noticed the car until it was too late. If I hadn’t stopped paying attention maybe I would have noticed soon enough. Chuck closed his eyes and tried to think of what he could have done differently and how he could have saved Dr. Worth. The Mercedes-Benz had crashed through the limbs of the Weeping Willow trees that barred the street from house and collided with the front window before Chuck knew what was happening. It was only when the glass of the wall length window began to shatter that Chuck knew what was coming, by then there was nothing he could do but wait and accept what was going to happen. If I had only known what to expect.

The hand Chuck had used for support was already loosing its color. “It was nice to have met you Doctor Justin Worth,” Chuck muttered under his breath. Without thinking he wiped away the feeling of dead skin from his hand. In the end it made his hand dirtier, but made him feel cleaner.

The law required he stay at the scene of one of his accidents to give his report and help identify anyone involved. Chuck stepped inside the remains of his house to find the phone wrapped around the car’s steering wheel. A few muttered words and a sighed passed through his lips before he stepped back out of his house and out the front door. One of his neighbors would see the house eventually and call it in themselves. At least they’re used to this kind of thing by now. They know to call when they see it.

Debris from the crash was strewn almost into the street; the sidewalk was littered with pieces of sharp-looking metal. Ripped branches from the two weeping willow trees covered so much of the winter snow that it was hard to distinguish where the house’s rubble stopped and the tree branches began. The willow trees themselves were nothing more than bent logs poorly shoved into dirt. A natural barrier they called it, Chuck thought, something to keep me in and the rest of the world out. Funny how two tons of car can prove them wrong. Chuck spotted a clear patch of snow at the foot of one of the splintered trees and walked towards it, picking up the recorder on the way.

As he sat on the soft snow Chuck turned the recorder over and examined it. It had been beaten up a bit in the crash, a corner was missing and the tape itself was visible. He pressed rewind just to see if it would work. Worst case scenario, if the recorder was busted enough, the tape would simply break. The spools began to spin slowly, struggling to safely wind the tape back to its beginning. Chuck waited quietly and listened to the low hum recorder. I shouldn’t be doing this, he thought and pressed the stop button. I shouldn’t even have picked it up in the first place. It’s not like I want to hear what the tape has on it anyway. Even as he thought up the excuses he knew there they were empty and meaningless. If anything the conversation that was magnetically coded on the black strips of plastic was the most important thing amongst the rubble. Even if Chuck didn’t think it was important Dr. Worth had died for it.

Chuck hesitated slightly before pressing play and placing the speaker next to his ear. The first few words were slow and unintelligible as the recorder started up. “…must be strange never to have died. I’ve done it so many times now I can’t remember what it feels like anymore.” Chuck pressed stop. His entire body began shaking as soon as he’d heard his voice on the tape telling Dr. Worth about his life. He almost didn’t want to continue. He knew that a recount of his mother’s death was next. Though it wasn’t the first time he’d ever died it was the one first one he remembered.

He let the machine fast forward some before pressing play again. He rested his arms on his knees and let his hands hang loose between his legs in order to keep the recorder out of sight, as if to forget that he was simply listening to the past. “I was on my way to a play date or something. Dad claimed that was what it was. I had only died twice already so I was still considered the ‘lucky’ child; I think that means I was three at the time. Though of course I don’t remember and it’s not the sort of thing we talked about a lot. I was staring out the window of the car simply watching the clouds go by. The next thing I remember was the glass begin to spider web as it impacted with the other car. Everything happened in such slow motion that I could see where the cracks were splitting as they went.

“Shortly after the cracks reached the far end of the window I began to realize that I was going forward. The belt to the car seat I was in pressed against my chest so hard that it began to rip and tear and eventually it gave way. I went flying into the front cushions, breaking my neck. I died instantly.

“When I woke…” Chuck clicked stop, there was no reason to keep going. He knew how it ended, how it always ended. When he woke he was alive and others were dead. He didn’t need to hear it, especially from himself

So he sat, not letting go of the recorder but not really wanting to hang onto it either. The cold January air began to seep in and he noticed the thin clouds his breath made every time he exhaled. “It’s always a hassle,” he sighed to himself as he sat back to lean on the remains of the shattered tree. “They want me to report when I die as soon as I can, but invariably the phone is broken or I’m under something heavy.” He pressed rewind another time and let the tape return to its beginning. “I’m in trouble if I don’t call, but I’m in trouble if I do.” A woman glanced outside her front window with a phone to her ear. Good, at least I know they’re on their way now. By the time the squad cars pulled up with their lights flashing the tape was fully rewound and sitting comfortably in his pocket and the recorder lay somewhere in the rubble.

The sirens were already quiet; it wasn’t a life or death situation anymore. They simply needed to get to the scene before Chuck left. The chief of police himself appeared from one of the cars and slowly walked towards the wreckage. Though he knew what to expect, and tired to pretended there was nothing specifically wrong with the situation, Chuck wasn’t about to believe his. “You know you’re not fooling anyone,” Chuck said without getting up. The chief closed his eyes at Chuck’s voice and breathed in deeply.

Officer Marley was fat. Just fat. There was no getting around it, his neck jiggled when he looked around and his tan uniform stretched against his overly large gut. Instead of a belt he wore suspenders to keep his pants up, his gun; handcuffs and walkie-talkie were all Velcroed up his chest where he could reach them instead of at his waist line. “I see you’ve got an early year this year.” He didn’t look at Chuck but placed his thumbs behind his suspenders and whistled as though he was surprised by the amount of destruction that lay before him and under his feet.

They pretended to be friends, but it was too much for the small fat man. It was, after all, his job to keep this sort of stuff from happening and it wasn’t like Chuck was maliciously causing problems. All the police could do was cross their fingers and hope for the best and, when the time came, mop up whatever mess Chuck caused. The waiting game took its toll on everyone, three chiefs of police had already entered early retirement and, judging by the dark crescents under Marley’s eyes, a fifth would be named soon. “How many this time?” the chief eventually asked quietly.

Chuck walked over to Dr. Worth’s hand. “This was Dr. Justin Worth. I believe you’ll have some sort of paper or form or something about a talk he and I were gonna have today.” Marley nodded and directed the firemen to start clearing the rubble around the corpse. “There was at least one more, the driver of the car. Other than those two I don’t know of anybody else, but that doesn’t mean there weren’t more.” Chuck stepped past Marley on his way into the broken building. “I don’t know when it happened.”

As the firemen started cleaning up the accident police tape was wrapped around the crash sight and neighbors were beginning to gather around hoping to see something. Marley ignored the murmuring crowed and followed Chuck. “I’m sure there’s something you could tell us. It will help with the investigation.” While Marley did his best to do his job and keep everything flowing smoothly, it was always mixed with a fake concern that made Chuck feel like he should be sucking his thumb.

“You mean cover up?” He stepped over open bags of food and dirty laundry on his way to his bedroom. All of it was mingled with pieces of plastic and red metal as well as the occasional pink fluff of insulation or pieces of wallpaper and carpet. “Every year this happens and the city tries to keep the news of it out of the public’s ears as best they can. Care to bet on how many news channels cover this accident?”

“You know I don’t bet.”

“You know I’d win.” Chuck briefly watched the other man shift uncomfortably before opening his closet and pulling out a coat. “I’ll be at my sister’s. You’ll find the clothes I’m in now as well as this coat there. If she kicks me out she’ll let you know where I’m headed.” As he stepped back outside the chief stopped him with a firm grip on his shoulder. “Come on! I told you everything I know. I was in the front room when it happened, I don’t keep a clock in there.” Marley didn’t budge. “Fine. I guess, I don’t know, the school bus had already passed by to pick up the kids for their first day back to school after winter break. That good enough for you?” Marley let go and Chuck pushed open the back door and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“Did you touch anything?” Marley yelled through the closing door.

The first drag was already tickling the back of Chuck’s throat by the time he turned around to see Marley standing in the door waiting for an answer. “I’ve touched everything,” he said blowing out a stream of smoke. “I live there.” He instinctively pressed a finger against the tape resting in his pants pocket. “It’s the house you built to protect everyone around me after all.” He smirked to himself as he turned around and leaped over his own back fence and cut through his neighbor’s yard. They wouldn’t mind, even if they did they’d be too scared to confront him about trespassing.

Owen's Writing Week 9 - Taking a Break

2009-07-04T12:29:00.003-05:00

Happy 4th of July everyone! I'm taking a break this week and will resume next week as per usual. Enjoy those fireworks, the barbecues, and be careful not to blow off a finger while you're at it!

Owen's Writing Week 8

2009-06-27T12:06:00.010-05:00

It has always been my opinion that, as a writer, I should attempt to push myself as often as possible. It’s the reason I wrote Polyester Tears and Flat Planet, has been the influence behind some of my poems, and is why I continuously work on One Man’s Death (next week’s story). However, there is one piece that has made me push myself to my limits, if not past them. Dreams of Children Dancing and Fire was the last story I wrote at Knox and, I think, best represents how far I’ve come.

Two terms before I took my last Fiction Workshop I took a Poetry Workshop. It forced me to flex my writing skills in ways I hadn’t really tried before and, by the time I finished the course, I wanted to incorporate what I’d learned into my fiction. There was one thing that continued to elude me though: the proper uses of repetition. I had seen it used repeatedly in the professional poetry books we read (Marianne Boruch’s A Stick that Breaks and Breaks even had repetition in the title!). Some of my fellow classmates were also able to use repetition in ways that I could only dream about. By the end of the term my only ‘successful’ use of repetition was in a poem titled On Talking about Line, and even then it was clunky and minimal. So when I sat down to write what would become Dreams I had it in the back of my mind that I still wanted to ‘learn’ how to use repetition in my works.

Besides that I also wanted to try using an unreliable narrator. I am told Stephen King’s Deloris Claiborne is a good example of this style, though I have never read it myself. I’m also aware of a number of other titles including Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s short story The Yellow Wallpaper and even aspects of J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series. It’s a style that can be used in a number of ways including the mentally unstable, children, and even animals as narrators. These goals worked together very nicely, the mentally unstable Fred easily allowed for repetition which then further enhanced Fred’s voice.

However, that’s not why this piece pushes my limits. It’s a bit more difficult to get into Fred’s mind without making myself a bit crazy as well, but it’s the why Fred went crazy that’s the problem. Unfortunately I can’t explain exactly what the situation was as it’s a major driving point of the story, but I can say that the trauma that I imagine Fred going through makes me fearful of the story and almost causes unwillingness on my part to continue writing it. The main real reason I am spending time on Totally Useless Guy at present is because I’m not sure I can handle Dreams despite my desire to dive back in. Eventually I will finish it, but for right now all I can do is think about it.

A little bonus, Waiting for Genies:
During the same term as I wrote Dreams my class did an initial exercise to get into the writing and critiquing spirit. The task was to write a flash fiction piece, an entire story in 500 words or less (to give perspective, what I just told you about Dreams comes in at 496 words). Rather than spending a great deal of time talking about Waiting for Genies (it’s only 500 words!) I’ll state that this story is really the first time that I became aware of what it meant to write a ‘story’. I know that sounds silly, but it’s true. It took trying to compress an entire story into half a page to force me to come to grips with the definition of a story. In this case I can only describe said definition as it’s been described to me. A story has two things: a cross or an X where two separate things meet (people, ideas, times, etc.) and a change.

By the way, thanks for the help Alissa.

Dreams of Children Dancing and Fire

2009-06-27T12:06:00.009-05:00

You are my wife and that is my son. There are children dancing and fire.
I know honey. There was nothing you could do. The fire spread too quickly.

There is a corner of my room I enjoy more than the others. It is in this corner that I think about sentences. Not just any sentences, my sentences, or, at least, sentences that I have thought about. There isn’t much else to do, not that I mind. I’ve thought of a sentence with three Buffalos, three buffalos, and two buffalos. I’ve thought of a sentence with eleven hads in a row. I don’t know if I’m the first person to think of these sentences, I’m sure I got them from somewhere, maybe the Voice told me once.

Sometimes I think thinking of sentences is like waiting for paint to grow or grass to dry, though why people grow grass colored paint is beyond me.

I prefer my plain concrete walls.

I like this corner because it’s the one that protects me the most. The rip is at the other end and the man in the wall cannot see me here. Mind you, I have nothing against the rip, nice people step through when it opens wide and food plops in when it opens narrow. I was even allowed through it once, though I don’t remember much. There were people I didn’t know and the room was bigger than mine and there were tables and people and space.

The Voice told me I would be spending more time in that room, the one through the rip, but then I wrote on the walls with a metal knife and the Voice changed Its mind I guess. It told me not to stab things, though I insisted I was simply writing.
I like it in my room because it’s comfortable and safe and small and lonely.

I think of sentences that I have heard.

One is of a girl with brown saucer eyes that sits in the corner away from the window. She looks and looks and sees but doesn’t. Something blocks her vision and I want it to go away and I want her eyes to be clear but they don’t.

I don’t really want to hear why.

No, it’s not the rip I stay away from. I stay away for the corner by the rip simply because the tray hits me and scatters food which must then be cleaned by Candice, who claims to be Janet, who dresses like a nurse and is always clean. I stay hidden from the man in the wall. He’s thin and dresses in a white robe that hangs loose over his shoulders. He looks sick, though I don’t know for sure. I think he wants to talk to me; he’s always looking at me. I don’t think he ever looks away. Sometimes I think he’s old, but maybe that’s just because he’s sick.

He has a white wristband like mine, though I don’t know what that means.

Mine has my name on it in small, blocky letters: FRED BECKS.

It’s in this corner that I can see the tree. When the wall opposite the man who watches me disappears, I can see it. It reminds me of something, though I can’t remember what exactly. Something about an open field and trees like the one opposite the man who watches me. There are others not like that one as well. They have broad leaves and long trunks. I think this one’s leaves are thin and prickle when I touch them, or maybe it isn’t those that prickled but the ones on tree in the playground. Tress like the one opposite the man who watches me were good places to hide because its branches hung low and the needles kept others out, though I’m not sure if that one’s the same, though it might be.

The tree people hid under hung over a neighboring yard.

A dog would get upset and complain.

Waiting for Genies

2009-06-27T12:06:00.006-05:00

The night sky spread wide overhead with its white speckles shining through the dark navy infinity of space, buffeted by atmosphere and air. As Harold’s eyes slid down to the horizon, the white starlight dulled as the navy turned purple, only to disappear completely behind the black smoke that extended into the air as though from a magic lamp releasing its genie. Harold could see the warm red glow of fire hugging the horizon. “It sure is pretty tonight.”

Debbie stepped out rubbing her hands on the soot-covered smock she wore when it was time to make supper. “It sure is, now come in and have some food while there’s still time.” They’d been told they were safe, that the fire would pass by without any problems. They’d been told that there was a strong breeze and it would be taken right out to the ocean where it would die, if not by the expanse of sandy beaches, then by the very water itself. Nothing had stopped them from moving right then and there, but nothing had really given them the inclination to leave either. Most people did move, afraid of the fire’s potential. They took what they could and left what they couldn’t. Half filled houses of cheap furniture and forgotten memories lined the streets as though to remind the ones who remained of the decision they’d made.

When the winds changed, and it became clear the sands of the ocean’s beaches wouldn’t be the end of the fire’s blaze, there were only a handful of people left in the city. By then it was simply too late. By then there was nowhere to go and no way to leave. “Think they gonna send us help before the blaze hits?” Debbie shook her head as she placed a slab of pork on Harold’s plate, taken from the Butcher’s shop for no other reason than it was the most expensive thing there. She nodded when he asked if she thought they were going to come look for survivors and pick up the pieces. “I’m sure you’re right. You usually are.” Debbie nodded again to herself as she moved the cut up pork around her new china plate before standing up and walking outside, leaving it uneaten.

Harold followed shortly and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “You’re thinkin’ ‘coulda’ thoughts again. What’d we talk about when it comes to them ‘coulda’ thoughts?” Debbie sighed and leaned into Harold as though he would engulf her completely and protect her just as well. “I aint’ thinking ‘coulda’ thoughts no more, and I ain’t never gonna again Harold. I promise,” She whispered to him as they watched the approaching glow disappear behind thick smoke. Harold patted Debbie’s elbow. “That’s my girl.” The night wore on and the fire continued. The cool air warmed and burned. They stood and watched, silently waiting.

Owen's Writing Week 7

2009-06-20T14:13:00.006-05:00

Well, I’ve exhausted my list of ‘unpublishable fiction pieces’ and, as I move forward, I find that I want to further clarify what I mean by ‘unpublishable’. I mentioned last week, with Flat Planet, that some of my decision is based on how much time I’m willing to spend on a given piece. If I find my time would better be spent on a different piece, then that story gets put aside. Usually that means any future edit will substantially change aspects of the story (for instance, The Six and Polyester Tears) to the extent that I would be better off starting over, other times it means that I either don’t have the ability or life experiences required to fully realize the story’s potential (Flat Planet, Special Education), the ‘message’ that I originally wanted to convey is no longer something I want to write about (A Regression of Thought), or I’ve found an easier and/or more appropriate way to pursue the subject (Claustrophobic Spelunker).

In the end it’s all fluid. While I have reasons for calling something ‘unpublishable’ I don’t really have any reason to call something ‘publishable’ besides stating: “this is something I am willing to spend time on right now or in the near future.” What this basically means is that I could be writing and editing a story that is weaker than any or all of the ones already posted, but that I am currently enjoying it and so I feel it is worth my time.

So the next logical step is to post an example of something that I consider publishable, but first the ubiquitous legalize:

All works in this blog are property of me, Owen Newberry. Some rights reserved. These works are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License. Don't steal it or sell it. If you want to publish it let me know.

With that out of the way I can now move onto introducing this week’s piece. Totally Useless Guy started at a decently stressful point in my day-to-day college life at Knox. Written at around the same time as Flat Planet it was intended just to be funny. I didn’t really care if others understood its humor as it was mainly written for me (I really needed a laugh…and a second story for the Workshop).

I started off with two different points in my real life: an audio story I had overheard a friend listening to and an improvisation game I participated in while I was a Boy Scout. In both cases super heroes, ineptitude, and humor were involved. The name “Totally Useless Guy” came from the improve game specifically. We were doing the Unlikely Superheroes scenario commonly used on Whose Line is it Anyway? and that’s the title I was given. To demonstrate my uselessness I ran around yelling ‘WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?!’ as loud as I could, eventually tackling the ‘main’ participant and slamming him into the ground repeatedly much to the amusement of the audience.

In the end the story totaled five pages, its humor was likened to Woody Allen’s movies (which was a pleasant surprise), and everyone was in agreement that it felt rushed (which it was). So I began my edits; the humor died off a bit, the story expanded, and I paved my way towards the first piece I would consider publishable (a year after I started writing ‘officially’).

I don’t plan on posting the entirety of any of my publishable pieces as it would defeat the purpose a little, but I think the first section of Totally Useless Guy will begin to demonstrate the basics of the piece.

Totally Useless Guy

2009-06-20T14:13:00.004-05:00

High school was a time of carefree days and friend filled nights. During the week we’d hang out at each other’s houses and talk while we listened to music, watched TV, and ate whatever we could grab. Our long weekends were spent camping miles away, in forests with names I could never remember a week later. We played games and drank Coke around campfires while the adults sat around drinking beer and laughing at jokes we didn’t really feel the need to pay attention to.

It was on these trips, when we’d gotten bored with the fresh air and dirt, we’d stay find ourselves in camp around a fire roasting marshmallows. The evenings that were the best were fire warm and bright and the adults were too relaxed from alcohol and exhaustion to pay complete attention to what we were doing. On those nights we told stories and played games based on the stuff we’d seen on TV. One of our favorites was called superheroes, where the audience thought of a crisis for unlikely heroes to fix. Funny names and strange scenarios were presented to befuddle the actors and amuse the audience. It was during on of these games that I was given the title 'Totally Useless Guy.'

When I heard the name I froze and stood under the gaze of my audience. They were waiting, wondering how I would react to the title they had given me. They wanted me to be crushed in under the weight of their suspended gaze, held over me by a string of courtesy, fraying with time. They anticipated that they were the only ones who knew what it meant for me to be totally useless. They were right.

The string frayed and their expectations descended on me to crush any chance I had of proving them wrong. Their bright eyes waited for me to become what they already thought they knew I was, but I turned on them at the last second. I took them by surprise and did the last thing they expected.

I asked them for the answer.

Owen's Writing Week 6

2009-06-13T12:25:00.001-05:00

As a writer (as a person really) I have a few goals for myself. The first important one is to be published. Another one has more to do with the content of my writing. Specifically I want to incorporate religion and/or politics (with some measure of success of course). The volatile nature of these two subjects continues to confuse me. Simply put, I’m not ready for the expected and unexpected reactions I may or may not get by writing about these subjects. That said, my insecurity doesn’t mean I haven’t tried before. This week’s piece, Flat Planet, is my most ‘daring’ attempt at writing about religion to date. I started Flat Planet with the hope that I would be able to pass this religion/politics block and, in doing so, ‘learn’ how professional writers do it. Of course that was a silly expectation; writing about religion successfully once doesn’t necessarily mean I can do it again.

From my perspective there’s a lot to be said about this piece, both good and bad. For one, it’s a novella that really wants to be a novel. I make comments throughout the piece that really should be expanded, but I never got the chance. Additionally, the setting of the work is different from Earth, enough so that I should spend a great deal of time explaining ‘how the world works’. Any further edits I make would require that I slow down my writing to allow for the proper pace and exposition. This very need prevents me from returning to it for the time being as I currently have other works that I would rather spend my time on, and because I’m still not entirely ready to tackle the subject matter. In this sense the ‘unpublishable’ nature of this piece is slightly different from the previous works; I currently intend to return to it and that the final story will contain many of the same plot points as it does at the moment. Any eventual edit/publish, however, will be so far removed from this blog I feel that it’s okay to post it now.

The voice of this piece is especially interesting (to me at least). I wrote Flat Planet while I was taking a mythology class and so was interested in the oral tradition of story telling. This idea was then incorporated into my own writing via a ‘myth’ that I inserted throughout the piece. The myth is intended to explain some of the taboos associated with certain specific actions, specifically traveling over the Edge of the planet (a driving point of the story). This myth was not a part of the story proper, but rather was meant to enhance the reader’s understanding of the characters’ interactions and decisions. In this way I ran into one of my largest stumbling blocks to date: the two voice narrative. Part of the issue with the two voice narrative is that, at some point in the story, the two voices need to be connected. Unfortunately, the way I had set everything up, I was forced to bend over backward to accomplish this and in the end I, literally, Dues Ex Machinaed by adding god. When I expand Flat Planet into a full novel I plan on playing with the way information is presented so that the two voice narrative is removed.

It must be said that Flat Planet is, though not unique, different when compared to my other writing in that it is an ‘adventure story’. Its plot is mainly driven by characters’ action rather than their thoughts and characterization. Of course, the other example I have of this plot driven adventure story style of writing is The Six. Neither story is necessarily bad given adequate attention, but they don’t fit very well in the workshop environment where short, character driven stories are almost required. Additionally, while I enjoy writing them, sometimes I find that my ability to create a good adventure story is a little loose. In the past I haven’t outlined well enough in advance, which has limited my ability to keep up with the overall flow of the piece (another side effect of concept writing, which I talked about last week).

As a final note I have finished this piece, though I won’t be posting it in its entirety. The last 10+ pages don’t work in a variety of ways, including an overly dramatized reunion and, of course, the (unnecessary) addition of god.

Flat Planet

2009-06-13T12:06:00.002-05:00

He created a flat world so that we can look out at the heavens above us and never see the fallen below.

Mark leaned closer to Damien’s ear as a tourist walked slowly by. Her left arm rested gently in a young man’s elbow while her right held the tiny hand of a girl. “Are you sure this is a good idea? What if you get caught?” Mark whispered. The little girl blinked her deep brown eyes at them; they both immediately lowered their own and continued sweeping the back porch of the shop Mark’s uncle owned. It had to be ready for the tourists who would come for breakfast to watch the sun rise over the Edge the next morning. “We can still go home.” Damien waved away the suggestion briefly letting the large black splotch of a mole show as his shirt rose over his elbow. He looked over the fence next to the sidewalk. They were nine, lived in the closest town to the Edge of the world, and Damien had been dared to see what was on the other side of that Edge. “Come on, this is stupid. What if you get over the side and find that gravity still pulls down. No one is certain that there is even another side to the world.”

Most of the town they lived in had been placed on flat ground of the lowest of the six steps of God. Before cars it would have taken a full day to reach the next step. In many ways this town didn’t really exist before traveling allowed for two-day trips, one to get here and one to get back. “If I don’t go over that Edge, Timmy is going to make fun of me forever. He double dared me after all, and he’s going to even help. I wouldn’t be able to get to the Edge if his dad wasn’t in charge of maintenance of the wall.” The other half of the town, the part where the tourists went and spent their short trips, was not on the ground. Shortly after quick travel from step to step was available, a large platform had been built that extended from the last step to almost the Edge itself, only a few hundred paces seemed separate the restaurants and hotels from the view they were built for. It had been praised and heralded at the time as the next biggest step to reaching the sky itself. The town boomed and people moved there simply to make the visitors’ trips more comfortable. Mark didn’t know this, of course, he wasn’t even born when his parents moved into his house three blocks from the end of the lowest step. Even now all he could think about was the plan Damien and Timmy had made so that Damien could fulfill the bet. “Besides, there’s that tree that grows next to the Edge, I’m gonna tie a rope to it, if I do drop it will catch me and you can pull me back up.”

Mark shrugged. “If you say so.” His voice betrayed his uncertainty, but Damien seemed to miss the hint. Instead he looked around. The little girl and her parents walked into one of the hotels for the night leaving the two boys alone. Mark’s uncle was in the kitchen cleaning and didn’t notice the boys as they ran down the sidewalk leaving their work unfinished running their hands across the smooth metallic guard wall as they ran.

The wall was the safety net of sorts that everyone had decided on to keep people from falling off the Edge. Everyone knows that gravity pulls us down. If you walk off the Edge gravity will just pull you right off the world. Mark’s grandmother had told him and his friends when they asked her if anyone had gone over before. She died shortly after that, four years ago, from a brain aneurysm; Mark hadn’t been sure if what she had said was true or if she was crazy like the people on TV who have brain problems. After asking around for other people’s opinions on the subject the general consensus had been the same as his grandmother’s. “Timmy says the wall is over thirty feet high. Taller than his dad. Taller than my dad!” Everyday a team of the town residents would go out and ‘inspect the integrity of the wall’s structure.’ Mark had heard that phrase so many times from Timmy who had heard it so many times from his father that he could recite it in his sleep. “Timmy said he was going to meet us at the door to stairs his dad takes to the surface.” After a brief pause Damien jumped slightly. “It’s almost like we’re going to another planet!” Mark smiled weakly as he looked around, making sure no one could see them.

When they reached the door Timmy was there and as they waited for him to appear Damien paced and talked about the plan, going over everything to make sure he had it right and that Mark knew what his job was. Every few minutes he laughed nervously, drew his hands through his hair and equated the two them to some sort of explorer pair; he was always the leader who knew what he was doing and Mark was the stupid side kick who stared off into space and messed up his end of the deal only to have Damien fix everything and save the day. In some ways Mark thought this was true as he stared up into the night sky forgetting that he was supposed to be waiting for Timmy, Damien saw him first. “There he is!” Timmy quietly rounded a corner looking around and almost ran away when Damien pointed at him and yelled. “Where were you? We’ve been waiting for you. I was starting to get scared Mark’s uncle was going to start looking for us. If I can’t get over the Edge because you were late I still win the bet.” Timmy scoffed but had no real response other than ‘nuh uh.’

From his pocket Timmy pulled out a large silver key and placed it in the lock of the door. “Last chance to back out.” Mark said as Timmy opened the door to the staircase down. “We can still go home, I’m sure Timmy won’t do anything bad if you don’t go over the Edge. Will you Timmy?” Once again Timmy scoffed but paired it with a ‘yuh uh’ instead. Damien didn’t seem to hear the confirmation of a prank as he started descending the staircase; a rope Timmy had brought for him was swinging loosely from his shoulder and a second key hung from his wrist and swung with each step down. When Mark asked about it Timmy told him it was for the second door, the one that allowed the work crew get to the far side of the wall if they needed to.

The planet this close the Edge was steep, rocky, and incredibly unsteady unlike the steps which were all flat where there was land and deep where there was water. Mark refused to stand up straight and kept his weight on at least three hands and feet if he could help it. It was slow moving towards the tree that had somehow found its livelihood right on the Edge. Damien didn’t seem to have the same hesitations and was tying the rope around the tree when Mark finally sat down on a rock a few feet away, the other end was already tied around Mark’s waist. Mark suppressed the urge to turn around and return to house, staring out at the sky extending beyond the ground made his muscles feel like jelly and sweat. “Are you really sure this is a good idea? What if the tree falls?” Mark asked as Damien checked the two knots just in case. “I can’t lift you and the tree.” Mark looked at Damien and thought he could see a hesitation in his actions as though he were considering the offer to return home. Eventually Damien shook his head and instructed Mark to check the knots. He complied by crawling to the tree and re-tying the rope and then crawling to Damien to check that one. He was unhappy with how loose Damien had tied the rope and set to re-tying that one as well. In one quick jerk he tightened the make-shift safety rope as much as could and tied it with as good and intricate a knot he could think of. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Damien said, desperately trying to breathe as his organs readjusted around the pressing rope.

“My brother calls that a ‘famous last words’ quote.” Mark said under his breathe.

Since He only desired people to live on the top of the world there was no reason to create anything below. So a void of nothingness was allowed to remain where His followers couldn’t look.

Mark watched as Damien descended towards the goal of his bet and slowly gave Damien more slack, always ready to tighten his grip and brace his legs if Damien fell. There were rocks jutting out of the surface of the Edge and enough dents and depressions that Damien could easily find places to put his feet for support, still Mark worried ever eyeing the tree next to him. It looked like any other plant of its kind, tall wide and spreading apart the taller it got. A few roots could be seen breaking the ground’s surface before disappearing into the rubble of stone and debris as it looked for a water and food like his teacher told him they did. The leaves didn’t move because there wasn’t any breeze here to make them, they were so still that Mark thought they were all turned in the same direction: upwards towards the sky waiting for the sun to rise each morning just like the patrons at his uncle’s restaurant.

Mark felt a tug on the rope and tightened his grip so it wouldn’t move. Spreading his legs apart he waited, ready to hold Damien’s weight from falling off the planet forever with all the strength he could muster. A second tug soon followed and he let his grip loosen, allowing the rope to begin moving again; Mark was too sacred to look at Damien’s progress and instead did what he could by making constellations in the stars he couldn’t see from his house, the new ones that hid below the Edge.

Of the people who lived many wondered what marvels they could not see or understand. Most looked to the Heavens for answers examining the stars and finding meaning in what they saw. A few, however, looked to what they could not see with their eyes and the void below began to be filled.

“Hey, where is he?” Mark jumped at the sudden voice. Timmy was jumping from rock to rock heading towards Mark and the tree. “That rope connected to him?”
Mark turned back to his task and ignored Timmy’s question, the answer was obvious anyway. “Why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be making sure no one notices us or closes the door or something?” Mark thought that maybe the adults had told him to come get them and that all three of them were in trouble. He turned around to see if he could see anyone else coming; he almost forgot what he was supposed to be doing and let go of the rope a little.

Timmy stepped forward and grabbed the rope from Mark in case he dropped it and laughed. “You have any idea what time it is? No one’s gonna miss you this late. ‘Sides, your uncle thinks you’re at Damien’s house, my dad thinks I’m at your house and Damien’s grandma thinks he’s at my house.” Timmy paused for a second. “Didn’t you know that? Damien said he told you.” Mark shrugged. Damien only told him what he needed to know; eventually it would have come up to make sure the lie worked. “I just came to check on him, see if I owed him that dollar. Besides, he has that key doesn’t he? I need it back if we’re to make sure no one knows we came out here.” Mark mentioned that it was still in the door, he had to have seen it on his way here. Timmy shrugged and started walking back without looking over the Edge. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He said casually over his shoulder.

Mark wanted to follow, unsure of Timmy’s motives. Timmy was known for his pranks and Mark could see him locking one of the doors in order to make them wait until someone came so they would get the in trouble and he wouldn’t have to pay Damien a dollar. He’d have a laugh and they’d be without TV for the rest of their lives.
A sudden succession of tugs brought Mark’s attention back to the rope in his hands. He began pulling up whatever slack he could and braced for Damien to fall. He thought briefly about placing a foot against the tree but decided against it, he still didn’t feel it was very sturdy. Mark forced himself to hesitantly look over the Edge to see what Damien was doing when there was no more slack. The rope hadn’t moved, no more tugs or sudden jerks, it was as though Damien had simply stopped moving.

Mark caught a single glimpse of what was happening; Damien had gone limp and was in the arms of a second person. The newcomer was of a darker complexion than anything Mark had seen before and there wasn’t enough cloth on him to cover his upper body. Below the two of them, at the other Edge, Mark could see the silhouettes of more heads looking up at him. The sun sat in the air above them lazily preparing for its sunrise.

Immediately Mark stood and ran, not caring how rocky the ground was or that Timmy had indeed tried to lock them out of the town but hadn’t quite closed the door entirely. He ran straight for his bedroom and didn’t come out for two days, never once telling his parents what was wrong or why he wasn’t at Damien’s house or where Damien even was. He didn’t even confess anything at Damien’s funeral months later when the empty casket was lowered into the ground; instead he buried himself in whatever he could trying to forget what he saw or to somehow explain that they weren’t real.

Those that looked for answers where nothing was began to create truths in this nothingness. Those that traveled below claimed to see a brighter more beautiful heaven than that of the one above. They became so engrossed with the false heavens that they began to stay longer and longer always speaking the beautiful sky that shown brighter than the brightest day but darker than the darkest nights. They became so engrossed in this world that everyone that went eventually stayed and never returned.

“Hello, my name is Professor Mark Kotch. I go by Professor Kotch, Professor K, and, behind my back, Professor Crotch.” Mark wrote his names on the board for his newest students, a few of them laughed at his joke though everyone knew it was true. “I am this campus’ religion studies professor with a specific focus on the mythologies associated with the creation of our world. That is to say I, and this class, will focus on the mythologies about why our world is flat, what is on the other side of the world, where our God is now according to the mythologies, how our mythologies can be incorporated in today’s world, when and by who the mythologies were created…” A hand in the back of the room appeared above the heads of the students close to her before he could even finish his sentence. “Yes, you in the back, what can you possibly question at this point? I haven’t even finished the list of what we will be doing; you can’t possibly refute what hasn’t already happened.” The student stood up, ignoring the question, and stood in front of everyone’s eyes. Hesitantly her mouth began to move and form words. Mark heard a vague mumble but couldn’t understand what the words were. “I’m sorry? I can’t hear you, you have to speak up.”

The girl blushed and looked away, here eyes were covered by long bangs and Mark couldn’t see them. She looked the tiniest bit old to be in the class, but then again grandmothers had spent their last years earning an undergrad simply because they could. “S-sorry, but I wanted to know something about what is on the other side of the world.” The voice was incredibly breathy and Mark barely suppressed a grimace at its nasality; yet once she got over her embarrassment of all the eyes on her she held herself tall and spoke with an authority that rivaled Mark’s casualty. Every eye was on her and he blushed again but remained standing. “Is it true that you think people live on the other side of the world?”

To this Mark could only sit down and stare at the girl thinking of an answer, it was the exact thing he wanted someone to ask, only he wanted them to ask it farther in the term instead of on the first day. Grabbing the two stacks of papers on his desk he handed them to two students to pass around. “One of those papers is your syllabus; there isn’t much to say about it, if I change anything I’ll let you know beforehand if I can. The other is the oldest known myth. Your homework tonight to read this myth and come back with responses focusing on that lady’s question, you are dismissed for the day.”

A chaste woman lost her betrothed to the lower side and wanted to know what wickedness took him from her. She traveled over the Edge to see what God would have created to entice His people and split them from their intended. Instead of bright days and starry nights she found nothing. All the men and women who disappeared simply stared down at the blackness that God had left and saw the images they wanted. She wandered amongst the crowds of people trying to find her intended; when she did she could only weep at the deadened face turned down at the sky.

Principle Tim Grebe’s office was the only administrative office that no one could find. He liked it that way; he didn’t desire the lime light and only wanted the people specifically searching for him to know where he was. Mark knew this, and also knew where his old friend’s office was from the many trips to see him since he had been hired a few years ago. “A student has complained that you teach nothing but outdated false stories about the origin of our little planet.” Mark couldn’t suppress a smirk as he lifted up the left corner of his mouth, he let nothing else move. Principle Grebe leaned back in his chair and let the tension in his body fall, Mark knew that confirming the complaint wasn’t what the other man wanted. Before speaking again Grebe’s composed his face so Mark couldn’t discern depression from anger or any other emotion. Mark was aware of the ploy and waited for the other man to speak, the smirk worked itself up his cheek until his muscles were straining at the effort. “Why do you always smirk when I bring you here? Am I never anything but serious?”

Mark shook his head at the principle. “Yes, you and I both know that you are always serious. You and I also both know that I am tenured. Even if you wanted to, as long as I didn’t do anything illegal, you can’t fire me.” Mark paused for the briefest of seconds before deciding that he did, in fact, want to keep talking. “I also believe that you don’t want to fire me.” Principle Grebe’s face remained straight; there was only a slight hint at real agitation this time, no red reached the man’s face in acknowledgment of the truth but a tiny vein started to pop out of his neck. Something had changed, either he didn’t want Mark at the school, had a way to get rid of him, or some combination of both. “Look, you and I both know where my interests lie, you knew that the moment my name came up as a possible hire, like I’ve told you before: myths are simply the rationalization of something that we as humans don’t understand. It doesn’t mean they are true…”

“But you believe they are.” Dr. Grebe interrupted. “Ever since that unfortunate incident when Damien fell off the planet you have been convinced that he did not, in fact, die.”

Mark could only sit back, wondering what part of this conversation was different. What did he know that Mark didn’t? His apprehensions of what Principle Grebe could be holding over him made him want to explain his actions that night, re-live the fear and panic of seeing people that lived and survived on the opposite side of the world. He wanted to yell and scream at the man like he had done for years, but it had gotten him no where and there was no reason that was going to change now. No one believed him anymore now than they had when he finally broke down and told his parents what happened. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see what I saw.”

Dr. Grebe chuckled at the argument Mark was trying to start. “I’m not here to fight you. I’m here to give you an opportunity. You have asked us for years for the permission to venture to the other side, always saying that ‘if you could just prove it’ or ‘Damien might still be alive, we could still save him.’ If you say people down live there you should be fine and be able to come back and tell us everything of your discoveries.” Mark didn’t pay attention to the coy, insulting, temper of his bosses’ voice; the shock and excitement that filled him made him forget his childhood friend was no more on his side than he had ever been.

The woman attempted to reunite with her betrothed by gaining his attention but he simply stared into the black nothingness of a sky. “Why do you stare into the sky below! There is no day or night to distinguish. Please, return home and let us wed under the joyous eyes of our God who created everything above.” No one heard her pleas at first, but as she grew more frantic and hysteric in her wish to return home she began to sob and pray. “Dear Maker of all things please show these people the illusion they have made for themselves.”

All the preparations were set; Mark had everything he needed in order to live on the under side for a week of observations and experiments and whatever the chemists or physicists or biologists wanted to pile on, simply because they were to scared to come themselves. A few initial safety precautions were made so that, if gravity did indeed keep pulling him down as everyone thought, he wouldn’t die immediately and people topside could pull him to safety. Otherwise everything else was up to him; weeks and months of wilderness training and first aid were crammed into his skull so he could survive and return home healthy and active. That is, if he was even able to return at all.

Most of the tasks Mark wanted to do wouldn’t happen until he had gotten to the underside; the technical and preparatory work had been given to a team lead by a man named Kyle. The man wandered around calmly giving orders to some of his former construction-turned safety crew while others received only sharp clean remarks in what might have been his loudest voice; it cut through the air and even the tree seemed to shudder from fear of it. Through the bouts of anger and frustration Mark couldn’t hate him; he was doing his job and loved it. His rural, fourth step, accent made it all almost comical and his advanced age made it wonderful to watch. There was only one person that he never seemed to need to instruct: Miss Hannah, as she was called, always seemed to know what job she needed to do before Kyle did. She never spoke and her pale face was always behind a book or staring at something too important to give any notice to Mark. He never quite figured out why she wasn’t in charge, he never quite asked either.

It had been a few days since his last training class had ended, which meant a large portion of his time was spent watching the safety crew secure lines, acquire materials for him, or get yelled at by Kyle. He could also wander his old town and see how it had changed since he had left.

What he saw didn’t shock him too much. Most of the shops and restaurants and hotels had been closed in the years since he left. Shortly after Damien’s death fewer and fewer people wanted to look up to the stars or watch the sun-rise when someone had died falling off the Edge. The town had become a ghost town; the wall was beginning to show its age and wear and the only people that still felt it necessary to remain did so because they couldn’t go anywhere else, not because they didn’t want to.

Mark was pleased to find the tree he had originally tied Damien’s rope too was still standing against the universe. He still wondered why it seemed to be reaching for the sky when every other tree of it kind seemed to just sit where they had been planted. “Hey, professor.” A gruff voice interrupted his thoughts and Mark turned to find Kyle walking slowly up to him, taking one unsteady step at a time. “You sure you don’t want no one to go over with you? It seems mighty stupid to go on over alone. Even if you find it livable down there that buddy system is still a mighty good thing.”

Mark had been scared for the briefest of seconds Kyle had come to yell at him for just standing around staring at trees or that the entire plan had been called off in the last few minutes. “I don’t believe I ever argued with that. No one ever volunteered and I certainly can’t pass this opportunity up simply because everyone else is scared of what I might find.” Mark started to lean against the aged safety wall but decided against it and cleared his throat trying to decide what to do. Eventually he sat on a rock and looked up at Kyle’s face, never once actually seeing it as the stars twinkled down at them. “I always thought the night sky was better than the daytime. The sun’s way too bright this close.” Kyle nodded without any expression on his face, Mark wasn’t sure what he was thinking but didn’t really care; nothing was going to convince him it wasn’t a good idea to go over. “I’m going over tomorrow night right?”

Kyle nodded. “That way you can be sure the sun ain’t gonna burn you to a crisp when you’re on the other side; in case it’s closer to that side ‘r somethin’.” Kyle looked up the wall’s height and stared at the something Mark couldn’t quite see. “If no one else is comin’ with you I’ll volunteer me time. T’aint got nothin’ better to do.”

Mark smiled at the old man. “Sure, I’d love to have you come along, though I’m in charge when we get over there.” Kyle agreed to this and immediately went to his superiors to work out the details. Mark was sure Kyle could handle himself if the situation got bad, maybe the trip would have to be shortened because the supplies, originally meant for one, would have to be shared between two people, but that was fine. Better to have a buddy than go it alone, so everyone said.

When He heard her plea He came from His resting place and saw that some people had discovered a land below. The land He had not intended them to inhabit. He looked through their eyes to see what kept them there rather than in the paradise He had created.

Through each man’s eyes He discovered the corruptive desires they saw and began to weep at what He saw. He wept great tears of sorrow that fell into the sky and slowly created many more stars that had not been in existence before.

The stars shone brightly and honestly through the people’s illusions and the people became confused and angry at the interruptions of their paradise. They searched for the interrupter and upon seeing Daw they placed blame on her immediately; even Amir scorned and yelled at her for destroying their paradise.

It was only when everything was ready and all the cranes were in place that Mark really truly believed he was going over the Edge like Tim had told him he would. There had always been an apprehension that this whole setup was just a cruel trick his department was playing on him simply so they could laugh in his face when he came back to work with a bruised ego and deflated ambitions.

Kyle was all ready and giving his last instructions to the crew as the sun disappeared behind the planet’s crest on its way to the opposite Edge. “It’s ‘bout that time Mister Mark. Miss Hannah there will help ya into your harness. Everything else is set.” A mousy woman with straight brown hair that couldn’t have had the strength to carry a bag full of books helped Mark pull on a harness that was designed to prevent anything from moving. When Hannah walked away Mark couldn’t quite figure out how she had gotten the straps so tight so he could hardly breath, even his arms and legs were a little constricted by the tight harness. “You’ll be goin’ first, then the supplies, and I’ll be following. You still remember how to get them to pull you back if you need it?”

Mark nodded absently as he stared at the darkening sky. He imagined he could see a line of darkness pass over the sky allowing the stars to appear as the sun went further over the West Edge. “Yeah, tug on my safety rope twice, they’ll pull me up. Tug once and they’ll stop, tug again after counting to ten and they’ll start letting me down again.” He said just loud enough for Kyle to hear and be satisfied. Hannah came back and escorted Mark through the temporary wall.

As they stood with their backs to the city staring at the place where rock meets sky Mark imagined what it would be like to run forward and leap. Hannah turned to him and began readjusting his harness once more to ensure it was a tight as it could be. When she finished she stepped forward, between Mark and the Edge, and held up and ear piece for him to take. With hesitation Mark grabbed it and placed it in his ear. He waited for someone to say something but all he heard was silence. Hannah stepped back through the temporary wall’s door and disappeared.

As he waited for Kyle to appear so they could start Mark sat down and stared at the only place on in the planet only a handful of people had stepped foot. It seemed silly to be scared of a place like this; it was so calm and unassuming. Like so many years ago the air was still and the rocks were strewn about in chunks. “Quiet, desolate, and ready to kill if someone takes a wrong step,” Mark mumbled to himself. He could see the rope Damien had used to climb over the Edge was still there, being absorbed by the tree, its bark gently overlapping the thick strands of Manila hemp that he had forgotten when he ran away, and which no one else had the desire to even think about. With a quick, fluid motion, he stood up and approached the rope to examine it, but the cable attached to his harness hadn’t given him enough slack yet and he came up just short of reaching his quarry. “Slack!” He yelled to whoever cared.

Kyle walked up and placed his palm on Mark’s shoulder. “I’m sorry buddy, but we have somthin’ else we gotta be payin’ attention to. We aint got time to be reminiscin’ ‘bout past mistakes simply to forget about what we’re tasked with now.” Mark nodded and allowed the old man to direct him back to the temporary wall. They were going to head over ten feet from the tree. “That’s where new mistakes happen.” Mark briefly thought of walking to the tree instead of climbing over the first chance he got.

Daw ran. She ran as fast as she could. It was not fast enough. The mob of anger and resentment followed too closely and too quickly for her to escape. As she approached the Edge she knew that she would not have the time to climb back home. God also knew. He saw the distress of Amil’s betrothed and became enraged. He thought of what He could do to protect the maiden who He had endangered. He watched her run towards the Edge. She was prepared to jump. She was prepared to put her life into His hands because that was all she could do. He knew she wouldn’t live if she flew; either space would envelope her or the ground would take her. So He caught her. As her foot touched the Edge of the world he wrapped her in His hands. The mob saw this and ran in fear and pain, scattering across the underworld. When God was satisfied they were of no threat to Daw, He removed His hands and let her free. She didn’t move, as a testament to God and fear of man, in His embrace Daw was changed. In her place stood a tree to remind those of the world under of God’s power.

It was with the briefest hesitation that Mark abandoned his idea to approach the tree. He could see Hannah’s eyes in the closest crane staring at him. They’re big brown circles boreing into his thoughts and ambitions. He shivered under her gaze and for the first time feared what she was capable of if something didn’t go her way. Mark understood why Kyle never had to yell at her now.

Starting the decent wasn’t hard at all. All Mark and Kyle had to do was keep their feet between them and the rock wall of the planet, every few minutes one would look at the bag of supplies swollen with the extra supplies stuffed into it for Kyle. As they descended Mark watched the brown color of the top soil dissolve into a white powder that crumpled to dust when his feet hit the surface. “How ya doin’?” Kyle asked when his feet first hit the powder. A small pile of what looked like dandruff was collecting on his shoulders and he kept his mouth closed to try and prevent too much of the fine dust to enter his lungs. He stuck his thumb in the air and thrust his fist up at Kyle.

‘There are not thumbs signs for scared,’ Mark thought. Everything he understood and knew of the world had been thrown upside down when Damien was stolen by the shadows. He had spent his entire life trying to understand what he saw and where they had come from. Now was the time he got to test all of his hypotheses. He drew his thumb sideways across the next layer of rock; its color was that of an egg yoke.

Mark knew that his classes on geology in grade school told him that the many layers of rock and clay found on the steps were from the layering and aging of the planet. They never could explain why the steps existed or why there were even layers instead the teachers always changed the subject by giving the clay from the lowest step to play with. Damien always had created towers with the intention of breaking them down. Mark built the duplicate towers but never wanted to knock his down when it was time to put the clay back at the end of the day. Damien would knock both their towers down and Mark would cry. ‘If all the steps were made up of layers, how come the Edge is also layered?’ Mark thought on this for a bit but the explanations and rationalizations those justifications spiraled out of control and made him turn back to the chocolate layer that was now in front of him.

In an attempt to prevent the thought of the layers in front of him Mark remembered his relationship with Damien before that day. They were inseparable buddies who spent their time playing games Damien chose and Mark never liked. Timmy moved to the city when they were six and Damien immediately liked him asking him to join their games of cops and robber. Damien and Timmy always played the good cop/bad cop pair who went to apprehend the evil robber stealing everyone’s money. Being the robber never bother Mark, even before Timmy moved in that’s the role he played. It was the fact that it was two against one and Timmy, the bad cop, never seemed to care if he got Mark into any real trouble. Mark realized he never really forgave Damien for allowing it to happen.

The surface of the Edge changed from pale purple to grey to a painful pastel green back to the powdery white from closer to the surface and Mark stared at it lot really seeing nor caring. His interest was one the other side among the shadowed heads and, hopefully, a grown up Damien ready to reminisce and remember the days before he ‘died.’ Mark had read too many stories and seen too many TV shows to really believe that was going to happen. In truth he hoped the worst Damien would do is demand a dollar, give him a titie twister and a black eye, and then demand to return home. Even that seemed a little light.

There was no indication of when they would get halfway. No plant lived on the Edge of the world. The various layers Mark stared at absentmindedly as he thought about his reunion with his childhood friend weren’t uniform enough to gauge their progress by. Mark was too preoccupied thinking of the eventual hugs and tears and profuse apologies regarding everything wrong they had done to each other within the first eight years, including that fateful day. So it was a complete surprise when Mark stopped. Damien was beginning to introduce Mark to the shadowy heads of the people who stole him when his slacked legs got pulled to the ground. He didn’t have enough time to react before he was laying face down on the dirt and rock that he seemed smooth yet spongy under his face, the rust color mixing with rocks and dust from the above layers that had fallen during the centuries. “What on the world…?” He muttered as he spit dirt out of his mouth. The cable, which was still being giving slack, was lying on the ground awkwardly as it tried to coil at his feet but couldn’t quite bend enough to do so. “Kyle, get ready to stand,” He yelled to the other man. Mark tugged his cable once before anymore slack could hit him across the shins as it bounced mindlessly, fighting against gravity and its own freedom.

Kyle gazed downward he descended closer to Mark. “What’s happenin’ mister Mark?” As he reached the middle point he fell into the dirt and splayed around while he tried to stand back up all the while sending dust into the air. Mark quickly felt all his pores fill with grime and sneezed from the small particles that made it past his fanning hand into his nose. “Ah,” Kyle said as though he understood what was happening completely but didn’t really and tugged once on his cable and that of the supply bag’s. “Well, we aint over yet. Why’d we stop?”

“I think we’re halfway. The gravity is pulling us in.” Kyle looked at Mark, his mouth was slightly open and his eyes stared without really seeing as he tried to figure out what Mark just said. “That downward pull you feel up top? Well, the other side has to feel it too. This is the middle point, where neither down nor up has more pull, so we get pulled in instead.” All of Mark classes and training time learning to talk and explain new information to students didn’t exist at that moment while he attempted to clarify the simple facts of life to an elderly gentleman who should have, by all rights, known them already.

Kyle’s face never quite showed understanding of Mark’s explanation, but he shrugged anyway and looked at the layers of rock and sediment from where they had come and where they needed to go. “I don’t really care ‘bout all that. All I care ‘bout is that this means we got to climb the rest of the way.” He reached into the supplies bag and pulled out some climbing gear we had been given: Mark could see a hammer, some lockable and non-lockable carabineers, as well as some bolts. “You first, you remember how to keep us safe?” He handed Mark the bolts and hammer.

As he secured the cable to the rock wall by hammering in a bolt, Mark pulled on the anchor to ensure it wasn’t going to move if pressure was applied in case he fell and jerked his safety line. He climbed the Edge scanning for handholds and footholds allowing his excess slack to run out before turning back to Kyle. “What are we going do about the bag? Neither of us can pull it up alone.”

Kyle handed Mark the cable connected to the bag. “We can pull it up when we get there. No use worryin’ about it now, not like somethin’s gonna come by and eat it.” Mark briefly thought about it and decided Kyle was more right than any suggestions he could come up with. After he tugged on the chord once more he climbed as fast as he could to ensure the slack given to him didn’t grow too large; very few feet he placed another bolt into the rock and made sure it was set. The cable was a little too stiff and limiting for this sort of climbing but the layers of rock and harder substances allowed for an easy enough climb that Mark thought it all balanced out well.

While Kyle waited for Mark to gain a decent lead on him he stared out into the night sky craning his neck to look at as many stars as he could; he too pulled on his chord to begin his slack. It was as dark as it ever could be; the sun was still setting on their side of the world and had yet rise on the other. “My wife always hated livin’ with the city folk. ‘Twas the only place I could get a job with my talents, the rise before the sun simply to fall asleep well after it’d gone to bed itself never felt good on my bones. I had to go work in the factories and construction yards in the city where the lights challenged the brilliant light of sun even in the night. We could never see the stars.” Mark saw him tug the chord again but couldn’t say anything before the little slack Kyle did have began disappearing over the now far Edge. “God, if she could see this now.”

“Kyle, I think you told them you’re in trouble.” Mark spoke hesitantly, scared of bringing Kyle back from his memories of life past. Even as he did so Kyle began rising up into the air back from where they had come, his feet dragging along the middle layer of earth.

“Dag Nabbit!” He began tugging on his rope to try and get them to stop, but that only made them pull him up even faster. “I’ll come back when I get everything all sorted out. You might as well keep goin’. Leave the bag. Like I said: ‘nuthin’s gonna eat right?” He gave a jovial wink and Mark turned around to do as he instructed, climbing a few feet and placing a bolt wondering why no one thought to bring him back as well. He eventually decided he didn’t really care, Kyle wasn’t part of the deal for most of the planning and he didn’t have to be part of the deal now. As long as he made it to his destination he was content.

We God saw the sacrifice Daw had made he thought about how prevent this from happening again. He thought about all the people who now lived on the under side of the world and decide something. He decided to stay. He decided to stay and watch the people and try and understand what they would become without his direct guidance. So He took the form of a human and lived on the underside of the world and watched and waited.

***

Owen's Writing Week 5

2009-06-06T12:12:00.006-05:00

I recently had the pleasure of attending the release party of Helen Degan Cohen’s newest poetry book: habry. It was the first time I had attended a reading of this sort since graduating from Knox, and my first ever in the Chicago area. This week, however, is not about reviewing habry as I didn’t get to spend much time with the work (and so would not be able to accurately describe the book’s merits and/or failings). Instead, I’ll continue with an anecdote about the event. After the ‘formal’ portion of the reading (including three poets and a folk singer/guitarist) Dave Gecic, the editor-in-chief of Puddin’head Press, the publisher of habry, began an open mic session. Of course, I read one of my poems: Death is Second Only to Public Speaking. Though this isn’t the piece I’m posting today, I suspect that the title alone reveals some of the poem’s humor.

The experience as a whole made me reflect on my writing and I came to the following conclusion: when I’m writing something, I take myself too seriously. That isn’t to say that I think of myself as the best thing since sliced bread, my mother has stated multiple times that my non-fiction is self deprecating (I prefer ‘humble’ myself). Rather, when I’m writing, especially something new, I find that I put too much pressure on the piece. I expect my writing to be ‘meaningful’ and ‘worthwhile’ without ever asking myself what those two terms mean. Death is Second Only to Public Speaking is an example of this, and I have a few others, but I think that my short story Polyester Tears is the most (painfully) obvious. Simply put, when I wrote Polyester Tears, I came to the piece with the understanding that I was writing something serious. In retrospect, that was a dumb expectation.

As a beginning writer I commonly went the route of concept writing, or writing a story with a specific concept in mind (hence the name). To date, fully 6 of the 8 fiction pieces I wrote at Knox could be considered concept pieces and The Six contains elements of this style as well. As I continue to grow as a writer I’ve found that I am gradually moving away from concept writing and am beginning to see many of the flaws in this style. Basically, it comes down to the difficulty of properly fleshing out a concept piece. For example, Claustrophobic Spelunker never fully grew into a real story and A Regression of Thought’s reason for existing turned out to be its greatest flaw.

So I come to Polyester Tears, a piece that I wrote during my first full writer’s workshop. The concept behind this one was based on a backpack that caught my attention during one of my more boring classes. As I stared at it I noticed that, with its zipper open, it looked like it was crying. That’s it, that’s where the beginning of Polyester Tears came from, a backpack that looked like it was crying, a concept that should have obviously been a humorous one.

There is something else to note about this story; I wrote it during a time when I was actively exploring stylization. That is to say, I was playing with the perspective of my pieces, the style of writing, and other things of this sort. For Polyester Tears I decided to try two things. First, I wanted to write it from a female’s perspective. Besides The Six, where I sometimes wrote from Abigail or Frieda’s perspectives, I had never actually tried writing something exclusively from the opposite gender’s point of view. This seemed as good a time as any to try (it helped that the backpack in question was, in fact, owned by a female). Second, I wanted to play with the journalistic style, Dear Diary type of stuff. It’s a style I’ve never really been fond of and my thought was that, if I played with the approach a bit, I might better understand the merits of it.

Beyond that I don’t really know what to say about Polyester Tears, so I guess I’ll end with this disclaimer: this piece has a bit more language than some of my other works. Not enough to merit an adult warning label or anything, just don’t be surprised if an expletive is thrown out every once in a while. Also, don’t be afraid to laugh (with me or at me)…I won’t take it personally, I promise.

Polyester Tears

2009-06-06T12:12:00.004-05:00

August 13:

OH! My! God!

Mom and I went to the mall, which was soo embarrassing. (you have no idea). She wanted to look for clothes for school with me. Of course all I could do was shriek that she was a bitch, anything less wouldn’t have done anything. It’s even worse since she claims she has a new guy, I don’t believe her.

Anyway, we did go looking at backpacks, she refused to leave the mall without something. I wanted to go check out that store in the middle next to that store that sells pretzels, the one with the really hot Italian Guy. She took me to the lame store that opens the month before school starts so there’s an easy place to get school supplies. Worse, she wanted me to get the ugly green one with all the pockets. I managed to convince her the purple one was better.

August 20:

Go figure, that she was telling the truth. Mom’s new guy picked her up for their date tonight. That means I have the house to myself! I got some girls coming over for a sleep over. I’m going to drop Johnny’s name into the conversation at some point and see what the girls say.

THAT WHORE!

Julie totally has the hots for my Johnny. When I mentioned his name she got all quiet, but I know she likes him. If she makes any kind of move her hair is going to be all over the school.

August 28:

Nothing is happening. Everyone’s too busy getting ready for school to have any decent parties. Mom’s guy picked her up again tonight and no one wants to come over. All I could do was sit around and watch movies and, of course, nothing was on. Even the shopping channel sucked, they had some lame makeup that was supposed to match your skin tone perfectly. I think it was Powdered Skin or something like that.

September 1:

It’s the first day of school and I already hate all of my classes, professors, and schedule. To think that Mr. Finnel wants me to run laps everyday in gym! I don’t sweat! I made this quite clear to him but he wouldn’t budge unless I had a doctor’s note. I tried to get my mom to get me an appointment but she’s too busy trying to look good for her guy. She even thinks that working out would do wonders for my figure! The bitch! I don’t throw up my breakfast everyday just to be called fat!

Oh! I heard from a friend who heard from a friend who might possibly have overheard Johnny mention my name in the hallway today. I almost died of embarrassment and had to go to the bathroom to throw up the cheese pizza I had eaten for lunch. I mean, I was going to anyway, but now I’m doing it for Johnny.

September 2:

Yes! Mrs. Krunnel told us that we are going to be reading Romeo and Juliet in class this year. That story is so romantic, I’ve seen the Leonardo DiCaprio version so many times I could recite it in my sleep. Of course Leonardo DiCaprio is replaced by Johnny, but I still love the story. I always cry when I reach the end, it really is such a tragic love tale. I could only wish my life was so awesome.

Oh! I met mom’s boyfriend today. He’s kinda cute in a n old sort of way. He is tall and I could see how he could have been muscular at one point in his life, but he looks kinda fat now. Why mom wants to become thinner when he clearly isn’t going to get into better shape is beyond me. He seems to like redecorating, he suggested that mom replace the drapes with blinds. He claims that sun causes cancer. I vaguely remember hearing that in a health class at some point, but I think that was the class with Mr. Tchi. He was so hot! His tan totally looked real despite the rumors that it was from a can. Either way there is no way mom is getting rid of those drapes, they’ve been there since dad moved out.

September 7:

I heard the theater department has chosen West Side Story as their musical this year. This sucks, Johnny is totally getting the lead role this year and it’s going to be for a horrible play. Whatever, I guess I’m just going to have to try and get the lead female part with him despite my hatred for the play. God, why does it have to be this play? I mean, who names their gang the ‘Jets’?

I told mom about this and she seems excited, she says that her guy used to be in Broadway. I don’t really know, or care, if this is true. It doesn’t make her make them change the play.

As per usual she wants me to start practicing now, that way I can be ready for tryouts. They haven’t posted any dates yet, but it wouldn’t make sense for them to wait too long. They usually do tryouts early in the first quarter so they can get as many practices in ‘to ensure the best quality performance we can.’ The director just wants his raises to increase.

September 8:

Tryouts were posted today. I have to really start working, they’re in a week. Why Mr. Haten believes we’ll be ready in a week is beyond me. Either way I won’t be able to write much, I have to practice as much as possible.

September 14:

Tryouts were today. I think I did okay, although that Michelle really did a good job. Even I have to admit she may beat me for the part of Maria. It bothers me that she will be opposite Johnny. I mean, there is no way they are going to start dating, Michelle’s a senior and is therefore too old for him. But now I have no way of getting closer to him. Oh well, there is still hope, the listings haven’t been posted yet.

September 18:

As expected Michelle got the Maria part next to Johnny. Carla and Joe got Maria and Tony in cast b, which doesn’t really matter. Everyone’s going to want to watch Johnny anyway. Now for the exciting news, even though I didn’t get Maria with Johnny I got the part of Anita! I am soo excited! And, the best part, it’s in cast A. This means that I am going to see Johnny daily. Unfortunately Julie might get her hair strewn around the school faster than expected. Even though her part isn’t any where near as cool, Anybody does have more on stage time with Tony, and therefore Johnny. I think there’s a time where she actually gets to touch him. If I see her eyeing my Johnny her scalp is coming off!

Mom’s taking Darrel’s suggestion and changing the drapes to blinds. I don’t really mind, my windows are staying the same, so whatever. I just wonder why, she’s loved those drapes since she bought them. They were her first purchase as a single woman. I know, that’s sort of weird. But we needed new drapes and she had been putting it off until she felt comfortable in public again. She says the blinds come in a week, whatever makes her happy I guess.

September 20:

Mom and Darrel have been going out for a month. He came over early to surprise her but she was out shopping for the new blinds. He got a little mad and said he had a special night planned. I offered him the phone and he pulled it out of my hand and told me to dial, why he couldn’t do it I don’t know. To be honest he scared me a little. I don’t know, he seemed to get really angry about such a small thing. Whatever, I’m not dating him and I had to go practice some more, I want to impress Johnny at the first practice.

By the way, if I don’t write too much for a while it’s because I’m going to be busy with practices. Don’t take it personally, you know I need you.

Darrel’s been on the phone for a while talking to mom. He seems to have gotten angrier. I can hear him yelling from upstairs. I’d go down to check, but I think that’d make things worse. I hope mom gets here soon so they can go out on their date and I can get back to practicing.

EWWWWWW!

Something spilled on my backpack and now all the pages are wet. I can’t even read my homework, there isn’t going to be anything I can do to tell Mrs. Krunnel that I actually read. I hope she’ll give me the benefit of the doubt.

September 21:

I asked mom about the fight while I was eating breakfast. At some point the yelling had stopped, I went downstairs and the drapes had been torn off. She claims that she told him to take them down, but I doubt she meant like that. I told my mom about the ruined homework and she made some strange comment about spilled milk. I had smelled my backpack and it didn’t seem like spilled milk. Either way my homework’s ruined, hopefully the practice tonight will be good.

Just to give you a quick update, class was fine. Mrs. Krunnel didn’t seem to mind the ruined homework and gave me another copy to complete for tomorrow. Practice also went well, I didn’t know I had to be molested by James, I guess there are worse people out there. After all, Tina gets molested by Bart. I wouldn’t touch him with a…I really just wouldn’t touch him. Unfortunately Johnny was so interested in getting his part the way Mr. Haten wanted he didn’t really notice me. Not that I blame him or anything, he does have a lot to do. Maybe he’ll say something to me before the play is over.

September 26:

The play has been eating up my time more than I had planned. I only decided to write today because mom’s blinds came in. They are disgusting. She claims that they are Darrel’s favorite color but they look like someone puked over the windows! Darrel was rather pissed they came in a day late, he showed up yesterday wanting to examine them (because of course mom can’t do it herself) and practically threw a fit when she told him they hadn’t shown up yet. He immediately got on his cell phone and called the company. I guess he went outside or left after that since I didn’t hear the yelling.

He came back today and was really happy to see them. He looked at every blind and was finally very satisfied with how well mom had done. I think that every time I walk into a room with those blinds I’m going to turn off the lights rather than turn them on, somehow he managed to convince her that every room (but mine) was a good place to hang them. Mom’s going to find that the only good thing she’s going to get out of those blinds are a better energy bill. Of course I complain, but she said she really likes Darrel and wants to continue dating him. Why she’s scared he’ll dump her over blinds is beyond me, but she will continue to hear my complaints. If it comes to it I will have some friends over and we will ‘gossip’ about the color green and how puke green is the worst kind of green.

Johnny still hasn’t’ talked to me, but I’m still not worried. Mr. Haten seems pleased with our progress while equally displeased with cast b’s progress.

October 5:

Wow, it’s been a while since I’ve written. Nothing knew has really happened. Mom and Darrel are really getting along, they’re going out on dates regularly (like 2-3 times a week) and meeting for lunch when they don’t have one. I still can’t tell if I like him or not, he seems like a nice guy, but I still have problems with those drapes not to mention that temper. I’ve continued to complain (haven’t tested the ‘gossip’ idea yet since I haven’t had the time) but mom says she wants to make Darrel happy. I’ve pointed out that he doesn’t live in the house and that I do but she’s only said things like ‘give it time.’

October 6:

WOW!

So, apparently Mr. Haten didn’t cast subs for any of the parts. Which means that if any of us get sick or can’t do the musical he’s screwed. Which is exactly what he is now, Michelle has to move! Her mom came in and talked with Mr. Haten while we were in practice. We thought she was late, but it turns out she wasn’t coming in at all! Best of all the only two people that he is considering to take her place are me and Julie. Since she has Anybodys and I have Anita I’m pretty sure I know who’s going to get that part.

Mom seemed distracted when I told her. She was cleaning the living room for something. Maybe she’s holding a party? The book club hasn’t been to our house in a while, it might be time for them to come here. Not that she’s been going to the meetings though. I don’t know. I’d ask her about it but I have to begin learning Maria’s lines.

October 8:

Mr. Haten did tryouts for both Julie and I today. He did us together and told us who had the part right then and there.

I GOT IT!

I get the lead next to Johnny and Julie is playing Anita. This means she no longer gets to touch him, has to be molested by James and I get Johnny’s attention. He has to talk to me now, I will eventually get him. I know it!

October 14:

Mrs. Krunnel told us that West Side Story is based off of Romeo and Juliet. That and because I was acting in it this year we watched it in class. I still think the story is silly, but I fell in love with Tony and Maria the moment they came on screen. I think it’s been bumped up to my favorite movie of all time. I never thought something could do better than Mean Girls!

Mom told me Darrel is moving in. She said he asked her last week end they both thought it was a good second month anniversary. I think it’s too soon, but mom won’t listen to me again. Either way he’s coming and I have to be ready for it. But until then I need to practice.

Strange, something spilled on my backpack again. I didn’t think there was anything liquid in my room this time and the floor isn’t very wet. Maybe I left in something from lunch, but nothing came of a quick search. The only thing ruined this time was my script which is fine, I need a new one anyway since this one is marked with all of Anita’s cues. Mr. Haten also said he’s given Julie, whoever is replacing Julie, and myself brand new copies so this can just be thrown out. I’m going to have to be more careful about what I put in my backpack.

October 20:

It’s official, I do not like Darrel. There is no reason for someone to come into someone else’s house, a house that they have lived in for years, and tell them to change almost everything. He says the fung shway is wrong. I’m pretty sure clearing out the bottom half of the fridge so he can store his beer isn’t very fung shway. Mom seems fine with it, and I guess if he doesn’t bother the things that I have to do nothing bad will happen. But if he steps one toe out of line there will be war.

October 21:

He did it already. He wants me to stop practicing…in my room…at 5:00 in the afternoon…so he can watch his reruns.

He came upstairs while I was practicing the last scene of Act 1, the one where Tony and Maria sleep together. (By the way, I get to lay there with him for like five minutes and just stare into his eyes. I think he zones out, and sometimes he goes to sleep, but I don’t care. I still get to be under the covers with him!). Anyway, he comes up stairs while I’m practicing because, you know, this scene is soo loud. He comes up tells me to shut up or he will make me shut up. I had my door closed and he just opened it. For all he knew I was naked. If he ever does that again I am going to kick him in the balls.

October 22:

What a crappy day. I wake up, get dressed, and go downstairs to eat breakfast. Mom’s there waiting and gives me a five minute lecture about ‘the how hard it must be for Darrel to adjust to living in this house’ and ‘that I have to be patient with him, he’s not used to it.’ I wanted to slap her to get her to shut up, but I didn’t have the energy.

I then go get my backpack, which I had left by the door since none of my teachers gave us homework for some reason, and find out that it is sitting in a puddle of water! Since I don’t have anything else I have to try and dry it off in thirty seconds before the bus leaves because mom spent to long on that stupid lecture.

So, I have water dripping down my back all day. Everyone thinks that I am sweating buckets, like the fat girls do as they chew, and by the time practice starts I am so wet that Johnny doesn’t even want to get under the covers with much less touch me. Mr. Haten was soo frustrated that I wanted to punch myself. I finally went and got the extra clothes that I store in my locker and tried my best to keep my backpack at arms length.

I have no idea how so much water got into it. If I find out that Darrel did something I won’t need an excuse to get him to come into my room to kick his balls.

October 24:

I went out with my friends to the mall today to get away from Darrel. Nothing was on sale and mom hasn’t been as willing to give me money now that she’s paying for Darrel (I’m not sure he even works). So all I was able to do was hang out with friends and get away from Darrel.

I saw Johnny briefly but was too busy avoiding him because of what happened two days ago. I hope he doesn’t think that’s how I usually am. I’m going to have to be extra good to prove to him that I am not a wet person.

Anyway, when I got home I found mom laying on the ground in the kitchen. Darrel was sitting in the living room watching TV and drinking beer. When I found her she was crying and there were bruises forming on her arms. I tried to find out what happened but Darrel told me to leave her alone. I of course didn’t listen to him at first but mom insisted so I went upstairs. I told her that I would be there the rest of the night if she needed me.

I went down to grab a bite to eat (and see if mom was okay) she was sitting at the table staring at the floral patter, one of the only things Darrel hasn’t changed. Darrel had already gone to bed and so I asked mom what had happened. She said that she had accidentally dropped a case of beer on her way back from the store. The cans were shaken when she got home and she told Darrel that he should wait for them to settle, at least she thought she did. Next thing she knows he’s yelling in her face and grabbing her because the can sprayed in his face. She was so scared that she hadn’t moved until shortly before I came back downstairs when he had gone to bed.

I went to reach for the phone but mom stopped me and said that she would have a talk with Darrel the next day to sort all of these things out. That everything was all right and that it was really her fault.

I don’t believe her and will kick Darrel in the balls that next time he touches her.

She was insistent enough, though, that I put on a smile and agreed before coming back up here and writing.

October 25:

Mom went out for ice packs for her bruises after talking with Darrel. Which left me alone with him. I stayed in my room and practiced as silently as I could reciting lines to myself and imagining Johnny talking back to me. Apparently I was too loud, Darrel began banging on my door shortly after I began, he didn’t even wait for a response from me before opening the door. The suddenness of it took me by complete surprise and I didn’t have any time to react before I found myself on the floor. He yelled something about telling me to be quiet and all I could do was curl up and try to protect myself as he kicked me.

I don’t know how long it lasted but eventually he left the room and went back into the living room to continue watching TV. It’s hard to even write and I’m scared to leave. Even if I wanted to I couldn’t defend myself now, I think he broke a rib or two. Maybe it will feel better after sleep.

October 26:

Mom knows what happened but refuses to acknowledge it. I doubt she’s even talked to him. She gave me some stuff to cover the bruises and asked me not to tell anyone at school. I agreed for today, because what am I going to say? If someone confronts me, I’m not going to deny it. Thankfully it’s cast B’s practice today or I would have died whenever Johnny touched me.

My backpack was very wet again, but I didn’t mind, the cool water made the bruises feel better.

October 27:

Another day of nothing. Mom keeps giving me makeup to cover my bruises as if that will make what Darrel does disappear. He has given me an edict that, if I tell anyone of what is happening, he will kill both me and my mom. I do believe him and so try to keep on a straight face while I am at school. No one seems to notice, it’s strange. There isn’t even a questioning glance from Johnny as I wince when he grabs my arm or pulls me close I guess I’m that good at hiding it. Maybe that’s not such a good talent.

October 30:

My backpack cries for me.

Let me explain my earlier statement. Darrel got mad at me, this time because ‘I looked at him wrong.’ He beat me up while my mom watched. It was a long time before he stopped and by the time he finished I was no longer just bruised. There were a few very deep cuts in my back from where he hit me with something. I don’t know what and I don’t really care. Mom took me up to the bathroom and cleaned them as best as she could and told me that I had to go to school tomorrow. I didn’t argue and went to bed. Today I placed my backpack on and had to scream in pain. Darrel told me to shut up and apparently went back to bed but mom came running.

The water that seems to appear randomly from my backpack is salty apparently. I never had the need to taste it and the smell I got before was simply clean.

November 3:

People are starting to notice. Finally.

I still don’t feel comfortable saying anything. But I guess my back pack can tell them for me. I don’t know how, but the beatings Darrel gives me are somewhat being transferred to my backpack. I wish mom had the same thing. I know I don’t get as bad beatings but the makeup is working less and less and my backpack is starting to tear in very obvious places. At least my cuts have gone away, the salt water that flows from the backpacks seams never ends.

The counselor approached me and asked me to talk to him. I didn’t say anything during the meeting. Johnny pulled me aside at one point during practice and I couldn’t get myself to mention what was happening.

I don’t know how much more mom can take, Darrel’s not letting her leave and I can’t get help. I wish there was something I could do.

November 5:

I broke today. Or, more appropriately, my backpack did. It was in English. We were talking about when Juliet takes her life with the poisoned knife or something and someone complained about the floor being wet. Everyone was looking around for the cause except me. I knew my backpack was crying for me. I knew that if I just gave the signal it would stop crying and let me do it for myself. I don’t understand why it had taken the burden of what was happening upon itself but it had.

Eventually they discovered that water was pouring from my backpack. All the while I sat in my desk and stared ahead thinking of nothing. I don’t really know why I did it, but I gave the signal. It was very simple, something that I could have done all along. The salty water stopped flowing from the backpack’s seams and instead I began crying. The counselor came and talked with me. I discussed what had been happening in at the house, what he had been doing and what he had threatened.

I spent the rest of the day crying and didn’t move from my desk. When I finally came home Darrel was gone. Mom was there and she tried to tell me the story, but realized that I wasn’t paying attention.

In all honesty I don’t really know how I’m getting that energy to write this, but I do and so I feel I must.

I think sleep would be good.

November 13:

It’s been exactly two months since I bought the backpack. Two months since mom first told me about Darrel. Exactly 8 days ago the police took him from our house in handcuffs. I don’t know what’s happened to him since then, honestly I don’t really care. Mom can deal with it and I can help emotionally when she needs it, after all I am her daughter.

My backpack is ruined,. I still don’t understand how it happened and maybe later in life I’ll come up with an explanation, for now I’m happy it cried for me. Mom’s injuries amounted to more than a few broken bones and a small amount of time in the hospital (she was discharged on the 9th). I guess I was never really aware of what was happening. I never really knew Darrel, he was just someone who mom liked and I felt I had to deal with it. Even mom’s beatings were done while I wasn’t around, so I never knew to what extent he hurt her.

I went back to practice a couple of days ago, they were happy to have me back. Johnny was very supportive. I’m not really sure what to make of him anymore. He seems more like a stranger. I think I’ll enjoy sharing my time with him under the covers on the stage but not beyond that.

Julie can have him.

Owen's Writing Week 4

2009-05-30T20:51:00.006-05:00

Many times a writer is asked ‘what do you write about?’ It’s a trick question that, in my experience, can’t be answered. Rather, the best answer to this question is ‘I write about what I write about’. This isn’t meant to be some sort of cheeky response (although it certainly can become one if needed). Instead it is a simple means of saying that the best way to understand what a writer writes about is to read their work. They’ve spent countless hours creating revision after revision of the same manuscript to make sure that what they say is exactly what they mean. In this sense, a two sentence explanation means next to nothing.

Although I stated that there were two reasons why I had decided to discontinue The Six I only covered one (the poor writing). I abstained from mentioning the second explanation due to the need to introduce you to the above question. That is to say, I need to explore what I write about, in a general sense, in order to fully realize what it is about The Six that merited discontinuation besides the poor writing.

I will begin this exploration by further clarifying my stance on the ‘what do you write about?’ question. It is impossible to read everyone’s work, there is simply too much out there. Additionally, a writer’s style or the content they choose to write about may not agree with any given reader’s tastes. Sometimes it’s simply an easy question to ask a writer as an ice breaker. In that vein, while I dislike the question, that doesn’t mean I refuse to try and answer it when asked. To do this I rely on a variety of categorical descriptions, like the common themes found in my writing and the kinds of genre I lean towards.

When I first began writing I never once concerned myself with what to write about and, in all honesty, I didn’t really know that writing necessarily needed to be about anything at all. So I ended up with The Six and 200 pages of absolutely nothing: no real plot, no real progression, and no real point. When I started workshop classes and wrote Claustrophobic Spelunker and One Man’s Death (a short story that I will hold onto for a while longer) my exploration of themes and genre began, but I had no real rhyme or reason behind my decisions. It wasn’t until I got to my third story, A Regression of Thought, that I began to ‘connect the dots’ as it were.

The start of Claustrophobic Spelunker was, quite literally, the contradiction found in the piece’s title. One Man’s Death began with a ‘what if…?’ question that involved the death of one of my characters. A Regression of Thought began when my Developmental Psychology class spent time on Jean Piaget’s theory of development and the cognitive steps a child takes as they grow older. These works, along with the poems I wrote in my Beginning Poetry Workshop, directed me to the conclusion that I write about the unknown or, more broadly (or specifically, I can’t tell which), the concept of fear. In some of my works this theme has a secondary presence; however, I would argue that it is still there nonetheless. The Six in no way embodies this pattern and so it is not a strong representative of my writing, which means that I would be submitting something of very little quality and providing minimal overall gain. I will return to this unknown/fear theme later when I begin posting poems as they tend to represent this theme in a stronger, more upfront way.

As for A Regression of Thought specifically, it was one of those stories where a writer bites off more than they can chew. The Piaget concept, and the way I decided to pursue that concept, was more than I could handle at the time. Even now I’m not really sure I could justify using his theory in any of my works. The theory is no longer considered accurate among most developmental physiologists and the way I approached the subject is sort of obtuse and confusing (so much so that my professor had no idea what I had written about). Even now, with a couple of years of separation between me and the theory, I’m not sure I could accurately describe it, let alone write about it. So, enjoy it as best as you can, but don’t be surprised if nothing makes sense.

A Regression of Thought

2009-05-30T20:51:00.003-05:00

As Jack pulled himself from the wreck that had been his father’s sedan all he could think about was the story he would tell his folks. Story after story rolled through his mind until he could think of one that wouldn’t put the blame on him.

I had checked both ways before I started across the intersection. I didn’t even see the truck coming…no. They would see right through that as soon as I said it. The driver must have been drunk…and if he wasn’t the outcome to that is clear.

He rattled the ideas around as he examined the wreckage, without really noticing what he was actually seeing. The truck had hit the back end of his car tearing it off before Jack had even noticed anything was coming. Every time he played the situation through his head he couldn’t find where something had gone wrong. He was sure the light had been green for him and that the truck was slowing down. He seemed to remember a honk from the car behind him, urging him to press his accelerator.

People began to stare at the accident. One person had their cell phone out and was yelling at someone on the other end, telling them what had just happened. For an instant, Jack didn’t know what to do. It was at that moment that panic set in. He had to close his eyes to push back the vomit that wanted to find freedom. He had almost died, and for all his worth he couldn’t find anything he did as his fault; there was nothing he could have changed to prevent an almost fatal outcome.

A loud siren pierced his attempts to calm his stomach and heart and skin and any other organ that could show any sign of fear. The almost familiar red and blue lights penetrated his closed eye lids as they surrounded him, penning him in, keeping him from fleeing his greatest fear.

He stayed like that for sometime before the sirens stopped and the lights began to turn off. It never occurred to him that he should have had someone check to see if he was alright. He was alright, he had to be, he was there laying consciously on the ground waiting for the waves of fear to subside so he could forget the feeling of acidity rising up his throat.

After a while, he opened his eyes, and he gazed at the large structure that loomed before him. His school had been less than a block away. The brown bricked building attempted to hide the few speckles of red that melded together into a slight tint. Behind it a grey sky attempted to hide their own hints of color but doing a significantly better job. He pushed himself onto his feet and hissed slightly at how stiff his joints had become in the short time he had been laying on the ground. He almost reached behind to touch a pain in the back of his head but thought better of it, the spot would probably hurt more if touched.

The accident had been surrounded in DO NOT CROSS: POLICE ZONE yellow tape which required five or six wraps around each tree or post corner as it had no sticky side. Most of the debris and larger pieces had been taken away and, except for some large pieces of glass and six long lines of black, it was almost as if he had never been in a crash.

After brushing himself off he walked slowly to the school so he could maybe call his parents and get to a class on time. He decided he was going to try and avoid the issue as much as possible until there was no more avoiding it, that way he wouldn’t be yelled at as much. As he walked the idea became so ingrained in his mind that he gave up the idea of calling his parents, or even letting anyone know he had made it to school on time, his teachers wouldn’t know to ask and so it was a good escape.

Outside the front door of the building, the little light that did make it through the clouds wasn’t nearly enough to keep the windows from looking more like mirrors pretending that their insides were really the outside world. Jack took a few seconds to looking into one of these mirrors, not caring who might be on the other side, and straightened himself. His black hair had been thrown about, so he parted it down the middle again. He had styled his hair in such a way so that the straight bangs came down to points almost poking his eyes. He began examining his shirt and worked down, straightening everything where there was lopsidedness but ignoring those places that he didn’t care about. According to him it was a very systematic ritual, one that was different every day.

When he was sure he had worked out the sloppiness in his appearance he walked to the nearest door to enter the school. Deftly he worked his way past the hall monitors so he could escape into his classroom unhindered. A clock showed 11:00, which meant his Psychology class was well under way. A big exam would be the perfect thing to draw his mind away from the possible repercussions his earlier endeavors could cause.

Mr. Higgins didn’t notice Jack’s entrance, which was just as well. The room was quiet save the scratches of pencils as they filled the bubbles on each individual Scan Tron sheets. Jack could tell there was some apprehension in the room besides the normal found during a given test. Maybe word had gotten around that he had been involved in an accident. After all, he was almost an hour and a half later than he had intended, which meant that at least one person would have glanced outside and see the crash site. Either way, everyone was so involved in their tests that they didn’t even take a chance to give him apologetic looks. Something Jack couldn’t quite decide how he wanted to react to. He didn’t know if he should be angry at his classmates’ lack of sympathy or relieved that he could indeed hide from the accident. As he sat down, his mind switched to the test and everything else got pushed backwards in his head, closer to the dull throb that didn’t want to go away.

Question 1: What is the task Inhelder and Piaget used to illustrate the differences between children in the Concrete Opreations stage and children in the Formal Operations stage?

Jack read this question and had to smile at its simplicity and only had to glance at the list of answers to know which bubble he should darken.

A. They covered an object to determine if the child understood “object permanence”

B. They used glasses and water to determine if the child had “abstract reasoning” skills.

C. They had conversations with children where they discovered the presence of “egocentrism”

D. There is no difference between the Concrete Operations stage and the Formal Operations stage.

Totally B.

It was a half hour later when the first person stood up to hand in their answers. James Finnel had always been the smartest kid in school. Her grade point average was a 3.8, only due to an unfortunate argument with Mrs. Schmidt, one of the English professors, about which annotation style was better, APA or MLA. Jack never learned who had the correct answer, he had been far too engrossed in the way James’ ass shook as she hopped up and down in frustration. Jack never asked her out, because her family was very strict about things like curfew or rules that would keep him from getting anywhere past holding hands between classes. That wasn’t the kind of relationship he envisioned himself having with anyone.

By this point, the test was getting difficult. He was losing track of the questions and confusing the answers in ways he had never done before. Every time he lost track of what the question was asking the pain in his head rushed to the forefront, and he had to stop testing momentarily to take deep breaths and regain control. Avoiding what had happened would have to take a back seat to trying to figure out what was causing this pain. Jack quickly finished the test, sometimes guessing the answer, because he couldn’t focus on what was being asked. The last two questions were the only two that he specifically stopped to answer: if he could finish the test on a high note he could at least feel good about himself.

Questions 49 and 50: The following question was offered as a distinction between a child in the Concrete Operations stage and a child in the Formal

Operations stage: “If all blue people live in a red house, are all people
who live in red houses blue?”

49) What would a child in the Concrete Operations answer?

50) What would a child in the Formal Operations answer?

A. Yes

B. No

C. People aren’t red or blue silly

D. Piaget did not ask this question to children of this stage

Jack froze, if he couldn’t answer this question right then something had to be wrong with him. Except, it was a silly question.

Why would anyone ask a question that talked about red or blue people? There are no such things as red or blue people.

For 49 he bubbled in d and for question 50 he bubbled in c. As he packed his things to go Jack noticed that there was only one other kid in the room with him: the quiet Spanish kid who was clearly slower than the rest since he could never keep up with the rest of the grade. Mr. Higgins didn’t say a word as Jack left, apparently he didn’t care that Jack had finished later than usual. After all, there was a valid reason as to why he was late.

The hall was still filled for passing period as Jack tried to make his way to the nurse. The throbbing pain had subsided somewhat, but he still felt it should be looked at. He was so involved in getting to his destination that he almost ran directly into James. She was trying to make her way across the width of the hallway, between the stream of people heading to their next class. Jack murmured an apology to the girl and moved around her so he could reach his destination.

“How was the test?” Jack turned around to answer the question but quickly closed him mouth. James hadn’t been talking to him, she had made it across and was leaning against the wall talking with her friend Kaila.

James stood almost a head taller than Kaila with straight brown hair clinging to the small of her back. Her hair was cut as though it wanted to frame that tight ass she supported. Her Asian skin contrasted with the brown hair in a way that was incredibly pleasing to the eye.

Kaila, on the other hand, was a short dumpy girl who didn’t have anything going for her that Jack could see. Her hair was a curly dirty blond that accentuated her pudgyness in an almost comical way. She wore sweatshirts all the time to try and hide the bubbler that she worked everyday to be rid of. “I thought it was easy, which means you probably got a hundred. Heck, even if it was hard you’d probably get a hundred.” Kaila’s whiney, high pitched voice bounced off the locker she was working on. Every few words she would glance at her friend to make sure she was still paying attention. “Why’d Mr. Higgins put that last question on the test? It seemed like he wasn’t even trying to screw with our minds like he usually does.”

“I know. Of course concrete operations children will say that blue and red people don’t exist, they can’t think of abstract things yet.” It felt as though James just punched him in the stomach.

But, they don’t exist! Why would someone even think of a question like that?

“Hey, did you hear what happened to Jack?” Again Kaila’s voice hit Jack and his thoughts were turned back to them. “He got in a car crash just outside the school. Some truck driver fell asleep behind the wheel.” James turned to the other girl and bent in to whisper something Jack couldn’t quite make out. “That’s mean! You can’t say that kind of thing, at least not so soon. You’ve got to wait at least until after the service.”

James sighed at her lost joke and relaxed against the wall once more. “Yeah I heard, his parents are in the principle’s office now. I heard they’re planning on making us go to some lame assembly because of it.”

Great, just because I get into a car crash, which wasn’t even my fault, the entire school is going to have to attend an assembly about “safe driving” or something. Figures. If I can get to my parents before they can convince the principle of anything maybe I can stop them.

Jack left the two shorter girls to talk about their own business. Forgetting about the pain in his head as he worked his way through the halls to the principles office. “Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson, I am sorry for what happened to your son and we will be happy to accommodate you. Does an assembly next week today sound good? That way we can do on a fairly significant day for the other students. Most of them still don’t know what the final outcome of the crash was.”

Man! I’m too late!

Quickly as he could Jack started formulating some sort of plan that would either prevent this assembly from occurring or keep the blame off of him. Either way he would have to confront his parents about the whole incident and get their take on it, so he waited outside the office door until the conversation began to dwindle. He could hear his parents stand up to leave.

As the three of them walked to Jack’s father’s car they all remained silent. Jack was too busy in his thoughts to strike up a conversation with his parents who seemed completely content walking in silence. As they reached the car Jack’s eye caught the brief reflection of the sun hitting his face.

The sun must know that I am here and has come to see me off.

He briefly turned to the sky to wave back to his friend but couldn’t find him behind all of the clouds that were still hanging in the sky.

As the three of them settled themselves in their seats Jack’s mother immediately began sobbing into her hands. Jack was surprised at this and didn’t know how to react. Thankfully his father rubbed the sobbing woman’s back to console her. It wasn’t until a few minutes later that Mr. Ferguson stopped rubbing his wife’s back and turned to the keys that he had placed in the ignition switch.

The car burst to life and rumbled under Jack’s butt in a way that made him giggle. “The gas is low.” Mr. Ferguson said to the other people in the car. “I’ll refill it later today.” Jack noted that his father seemed more tired than usual, but it didn’t matter that much. The man at the gas station would make the car run right after he re-filled it. Then Jack and his dad could go out and play. Mr. Fergusson stopped at a stop light and rubbed his muscles to relax a little. “Think you could give me a back rub later?” Mrs. Ferguson nodded weakly. “Thanks honey.”

Jack watched the light intently knowing that when the bottom one showed green then his father could begin driving again. “Go dad go!” He yelled when the lights finally turned their appropriate color. Instead of going right away Mr. Ferguson hesitated. “Dad go!” Jack whined. Mrs. Ferguson placed her palm on his shoulder and it was only then that he began driving again.

He sighed and looked at his wife briefly before turning back to watch his driving. “I’m sorry…I…” Jack’s mom shushed him and looked out the window to keep from thinking about something. Jack squealed happily at his friend, the sun, as he smiled down on them before the bad clouds plugged the hole the sun had made for himself. The rest of the trip was in silence as Jack eagerly waited for the sun to work his way through the clouds to say hello once more.

As they came closer to the house Jack noticed that there were more cars parked outside the house than he remembered last time. People were milling about outside waiting for something to happen. Most of the faces he saw were of exhausted or sad expressions. “Mommy, what’s going on?” Jack asked suddenly. He stopped looking for Mr. sun and turned his entire attention to the people standing around. “Why are there so many people at our house? Did something happen?” Mrs. Ferguson ignored him and instead waited for Jack’s dad to park the car.

When he got out Jack ran up to all the people, waved, and moved on before they could react. Everyone he knew was there for the party. Jack even caught a glimpse of the strange lady down the street who always gave his mom strange advice, like how to grow the flowers in their garden. To Jack there was no reason to help something to grow, things grew because they grew and nothing else helped. She was a weird lady and so was the only one that Jack did not waive to.

When he finally got to everyone else Jack went inside and was surprised to find the living room filled with a large box surrounded by white flowers. Jack ran up to it and tried to look to see what was inside but couldn’t get high enough. “I bet there’s nothing in there.” He muttered to himself but ran to get a stool just in case.

The stool was just high enough that he was able to peak over the edge of the wooden box. Inside a boy slept, his hair was parted down the center almost poking him in the eyes had they not been closed. “Mommy? Who that?” Jack turned to his mom and pointed but she was too busy to take notice. “Why sleep?” He poked the older boy in the eye but nothing happened. “Wake up!” He poked the other boy’s eyes harder but nothing happened.

To ensure that what he was doing was right he poked his face. He felt his finger and reasoned that the other boy should too. “I believe it is time.” A solemn voice said from next to his mom. Jack looked over to see the Reverend of his church standing next to his crying mother. “If you need a second, but we really must begin. I know this is hard.” Jack’s mom stared blankly at the wooden box as if she was unsure of what to do. “May we begin?” The Reverend’s voice was quiet and Jack wanted to know why they insisted on letting the boy sleep in his living room.

Jack’s father stepped forward and was the one to place his palm on his spouses shoulder this time. It was all she needed and Mrs. Ferguson nodded for the reverend to do what he needed to. Reverend Pince slowly walked up next to Jack and said a prayer under his breath before closing the lid. Jack looked up to the man standing next to him with wide eyes then back to the closed wooden box. “Where boy go?”

Later that evening Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson were standing on their porch looking up into the stars. Only a few could be seen as the smaller ones were drowned out by a nearby cities’ nightlights. “Excuse me.” The strange woman from down the street stood a few feet from them. Their gaze flowed to her without actually changing focus as they waited for her to move on and leave them alone. “You’re son, I am sorry that he is gone.” They nodded in acceptance of her condolences. “The last words he ever said still ring true in my ears.”

The attention of the mother was drawn away from her saddens, maybe there was something in what this women had to say that might bring her closure. After all, she had always been right about the flowers. “What did he tell you? What did he say that you would think it important we know?”

The strange old lady smirked at the mother. “I never said you should know what he said, it would bring you no closer to finding the answers you so desire. I will say, though, that despite what you may think, he has learned more than you can expect. He passed on fulfilled and with an innocent hope that you and I could only hope for.”

Jake’s mother and father never understood the meaning in the women’s words. They spent the rest of their lives fighting for a closure that never came. They fought legally and emotionally and religiously for a reason as to why this had to occur. They never found their answers.

It never dawned on them that they could have simply reflected over the life of their son and discover what the old lady meant about the innocent hope.

Owen's Writing Week 3

2009-05-23T14:59:00.006-05:00

Last week, when I said that I would continue to update my blog with chapters of The Six…yeah that was a lie. It was an unintended one, sure, but as I thought about the benefits of continuing to post chapters from my novel I realized that there weren’t many, if any at all (benefits that is, not chapters).

Like when I chose not to post my Senior Portfolio introduction, there were two major reasons behind my change of heart. First, when I said that The Six is currently ‘very very bad’ I hadn’t really looked at the piece in over two years. This, of course, means that I’ve spent two years working on, and improving my writing skills beyond what they were during my independent study. In these two years I’ve learned a lot about what it means to be a writer, and not just within the fiction discipline. My poetry has improved dramatically and so have my technical writing skills. So when I began formatting The Six for the blog, I thought that it might be a nice time to edit some, maybe fix a few problem areas and just in general make it a better piece…which meant I had to read it. Let’s just say that I wouldn’t be against inserting a few more ‘very’s before that word ‘bad’ in its ‘very very bad’ description (and no, I didn’t edit it any).

Now, it’s all well and good for me to say: ‘I’ve gotten better. No really…” After all, in those two years I wrote pretty much constantly. Even during the summer breaks, when Knox College is traditionally closed, I was at Oakton Community College and Northeastern Illinois University taking summer classes that required significant amounts of essay writing. In those two years I went from struggling with the basics of writing fiction, like deciding on what perspective I wanted to use, to more ‘advanced’ (for me at least) concepts like the use of language within a given work. However, I’m jumping ahead of myself and it’d be an over exaggeration of my progress if I moved too far ahead without explanation, a potential misconception that I would like to avoid if at all possible.

So, for this week, I come to the very next fiction work I wrote, entitled Claustrophobic Spelunker. As the title may suggest, this piece is about a cave diver who is, at the same time, afraid of enclosed places. Written during a Beginning Fiction Workshop the goal was to write a story in less than five pages. Easy right? Wrong! My first foray into writing had been a novel of over 200 hundred pages. Now I was expected to write a short story that was less than 3% the length of that work.

As you’ll see, I only sort of succeeded. At four pages (double spaced) I stayed within the limits of the assignment. However, Claustrophobic Spelunker isn’t what I would call a proper story. It has no plot as it’s simply a character sketch and many of the things I say within its four pages are nothing more than wrong (I am neither claustrophobic nor am I an avid spelunker). It is, however, miles better than The Six.

I attribute this advancement to the enforced length because it made me avoid dialog of any sort. This isn’t to say that dialog isn’t useful, but rather that I didn’t know how to utilize it properly. In this sense I was introduced to my first lesson: the proper uses of dialog or, more appropriately, the improper uses of dialog. Though I can’t say I fully understood what that meant at the time, at the very least I wasn’t starting every paragraph with a quotation which, in and of itself, is a gigantic step forward.

A bit of teaser for next week (introducing A Regression of Thought):

Although I stated that there were two reasons why I had decided to discontinue The Six I only covered one (the poor writing). I abstained from mentioning the second explanation due to the need to introduce you to the above question…

Claustrophobic Spelunker

2009-05-23T14:59:00.004-05:00

People have asked me why I chose to spelunk for a living. Those that have known me for years understand that I am marginally afraid of enclosed spaces. Newer acquaintances, when asked what my interests might be, peg me as a naturalist. Although they are technically right, their intended meaning is that I enjoy forests, plains, and anywhere that a sky can be seen.

I can’t tell them why. They would never understand what I experience when I enter a cave. Even those rare friends who I have guided through caves never quite notice the change I feel when I see the first stalactite or white crayfish. So, instead of wasting my time telling them something that I could neither vocalize nor make them understand, I tell them I enjoy the rocks I find or the things I discover that no one else has seen. Bullshit answers that always get the same reaction: a sharp nod of faked understanding mixed with an “Ooooh…I understand".

When I said before that I have a fear of enclosed spaces, I wasn’t kidding. I remember the first time I walked into an elevator, I was four. My mom held me by the hand as we walked into the dead end room. We had talked about what an elevator was on the ride over and why it was a safe thing. No sooner had the doors begun to close did it start. I felt that the coming together of the sliding metal also brought the front of the small room closer to me. I couldn’t move an inch. The walls pushed away the last bit of the outside world felt I would ever be allowed to see again. I began screaming at the top of my lungs that I wanted out of the trap that my mother had placed. I wanted to bang on the doors to let me out but they I couldn’t move to walk to them, they were pressing to hard against me. I couldn’t breath after a short time and my screaming stopped and I looked wide eyed ahead willing the world to come back. Later my mother recounted to story with me so that she both knew that I was okay and to ensure that she would not force that on me again.

And yet, when we are required to take off our helmets and push them ahead because the difference between the ceiling and the floor has gotten too little for even the hard plastic, I am always the first to dive head first into the crack. I don’t fear getting stuck in the cave, never able to move, the only light I can see being the narrow beam of my helmet light disappearing into the blackness. I don’t panic when the mud/dust/random ass spider falls into my mouth and tries to prevent my lungs from filling with the cool air of the cave. I make it through the crack to what is hiding on the other side, to see what wonders the world will never see because they are too scared of what lies beyond the light’s end. I make it through because a world of life filled with rock formations and sounds that fill the senses can be found in these places and nowhere else.

The pictures of life outside, the ones backlit with blue sky and sun, the buildings and natural formations alike are open to the sky, free to exist by how their creators and their viewers see them. To be seen, to these objects, is to be understood. This is not how I want to enjoy life. Sight is the human’s strongest sense and so it is the easiest to misinterpret. I do not want to see what is around me to understand it because what I understand could be wrong.

To me, the other senses must precede sight. They must tell me everything about what I have found, the place untouched by human interaction, before my sight confuses me. Outside where the stars shine and there is never a time without light can never be experienced in this way, I will never find a place where I can spend time simply exploring my discoveries with my ears or nose or skin. The caves are the only place this desire can be removed.

This fact alone is what drives me through the cracks that would normally send my head reeling, my heart pounding, and my extremities so shaken that I would otherwise lose control over their function. I enter my fear to discover a sense that very few can say they have experienced. I dive into cracks that would send me running in any other situation because I must know what awaits my senses on the other side.

A physician once asked me where I had received a cut I had been nursing for the past few weeks. I had gotten too close to a ledge during the brief time that I turn off my head lamp and had desperately reached for anything that would prevent my fall. My flailing arms drew themselves against the tip of a stalagmite before my palm could grasp it. The cut had been deep and would require immediate medical attention, if I ever worked my way back out (the cave was dry and sent dust flying into the air wherever we stepped, and so the cut would have become infected quickly). I was shaken when I finally looked down the ledge to see how far I would have fallen. It wasn’t that deep but the floor was covered in stalagmites similar that I had cut myself on. The doctor stared at me in disbelief before asking me why I had turned my light off. I thought about it for some time, how to tell him that that was how I spelunked, but I settled on telling him about technical malfunctions.

I returned to that cavern later, this time with a different team who wanted to see what had almost killed me. I reached the crack and pointed them in the direction that they needed to go, but didn’t follow. It was the first repeat visit that I had attempted, and I couldn’t bring myself to step into the crack once again. I knew it was because I was scared I would get stuck or that there would be a cave-in, and not because of the pit that I had almost fallen into.

Since then, I have returned to other former exploration sights and discovered the same result: if I have gone through a crack once I become scared to try again. I have discovered what is on the other side; I have sensed it in ways no one else ever will, and I have learned the secrets it wanted to tell me before I made assumptions by using my eyes. Those assumptions have tainted any future visit in such a way that I have no desire to return, and so my fear of enclosed spaces dominates.

My mother worries about me and my father shakes his head, but this is my calling, my life. I desire to experience things before I myself ruin them; and, to do this, I ignore a plaguing fear. I am a claustrophobic spelunker.

Owen's Writing Week 2

2009-05-16T17:55:00.002-05:00

The ‘piece’ I had first considered posting for this week was my Senior Portfolio introduction. Written during the spring term of my senior year at Knox, it was designed to explore how and why I came to be a writer, what writing means to me, as well as some of my ambitions for the future. It was a tall expectation, but in the end I was able to accomplish it, even if just barely. It’s been less than a year since I turned in that assignment and, as I skim over the pages now, I find faulty logic, incorrect assumptions, and thoughts that I would like to have rephrased in favor of something more accurate. Regardless of its problems, however, it would have allowed for an easy way to introduce you to me and my work.

It quickly became clear, though, that the introduction was not appropriate for my blog for two reasons. First was the content of the piece. When I wrote it I did so with an expectation that only a handful of people would ever read it: my peers for editing and my professor. As such, I included other people’s personal information regarding subjects that are sometimes considered controversial. It would be inappropriate for me to put that information into the public domain without their consent, which I don’t have. The second reason applies more directly to you and this. Withholding the introduction gives me the chance to update these ‘old’ attitudes throughout the life of the blog.

So I come back to where I began. Which of my pieces should I begin with? Should it be one of my short stories, a poem, or a critical essay? Should it be something that I am working on now, a piece that I have permanently put aside, or one that I plan on picking up again in the future? Should the example I choose represent my best work or not? Eventually it came down to a combination of how I wanted to present myself (which is sort of the point) as well as how I wanted to structure the blog as a whole.

When I decided to start this endeavor I did a small inventory of the works that would appear here, as well as ones that could but were, for whatever reason, questionable additions. Of these works I ran across a novel I had begun writing when I was a junior in High School called The Six. This piece most definitely fits under the later group of ‘questionable’ works and does so because it is, quite simply, very very bad. It’s a high fantasy piece (no, that’s not why it’s bad) that I used as a de-stressor during a bad year. This was largely due to a case of Bronchitis that went undiagnosed for months. I wrote for myself, and while I thought that I might be able to publish the work with significant edits, the initial drafts were only intended for close friends and family members. I continued to work on the story throughout my first two years of college. If I was ever to publish the novel it would be well after I had established myself.

When I eventually began looking at Creative Writing as a possible major I worked out an independent study that focused specifically on this novel. The idea of the independent study was to introduce me to some of the basics of writing creatively, a look at what ‘literature’ actually meant, and to help me determine if I could handle a Creative Writing major. I can’t say it was 100% successful, but it got me going in the right direction.

Below is the first chapter of that novel. Each update will include a new chapter along with another piece of my work. Some weeks I will talk about The Six as a whole or the posted chapter specifically. Other weeks I’ll limit my comments to my other writing. This way I can get my ‘start’ out there, but you aren’t stuck with 30 chapters (and therefore 30 weeks) of really bad writing.

The Six (Chapter 1)

2009-05-16T17:44:00.004-05:00

Chapter 1
~ Bret ~

“Bye mom, see you tonight. I’ve got cross-country, so I’d say around five-ish?” I got out of the car and turned for the response.

“Okay honey. Smooches.” Mom replied waving as I started to close the door.

I slipped back in and grabbed her hand. “Mom! How many times have I told you? No ‘smooches’ at school!”

It took a second for my mom to realize what I was asking. “Oh, sorry Bret. I’ll try to remember the next time I drop you off at school.”

I looked at her in disbelief. “Tomorrow?”

She blinked and cocked her head; I had to snap my finger in her face to bring her back. She blinked and shook her head this time. “Yeah.” It seemed amazing to her that we would be doing this tomorrow. I closed the door and watched her back out of the parking spot and leave. As I turned around I looked up to see that the day was dark and dingy; the weatherman said it would rain today, he was probably right. Hopefully practice wasn’t cancelled; I really didn’t want to have to wait for my mom in the hallway again.

I walked in and stopped at the attendance office, I was late for the first time this year. My mom had said she had called me in. “Name?” The attendance lady never really was one for friendliness.

“Bret Cath.” I replied.

“I-D number?” We had identification numbers at school, it apparently made that database easier.

I had to think about it for a second. “Um, it is 68288. My mom should have called me in.”

She typed my name and ID in the computer. “It says here that no one has called you in late.”

“But, my mom said that she had.” I looked over the counter at the screen, and sure enough my mom had forgotten. “Can I call her cell?”

“Yeah, one second.” She turned around and grabbed the phone and handed it to me. “Dial nine first.”

“Why?”

“Just do it, okay? I’m in a bad mood.” She walked away from the desk to talk to someone in the dean’s office.

I watched her back as I dialed. “Who knew?” I muttered. “Hello?” My mom picked up the phone after the second ring. “Hey mom, you forgot to call me in late.”

“I did? Well, I shall have to call you in late right now.” She hung up the phone.

“Mom…wait.” I hung it up, almost immediately it started to ring again; I started to wave my hand to get the lady’s attention, but there was no use. I picked it up again. “Hello? Mom?”

“Bret? But I just talked to you.”

“Yeah, because I was calling from the attendance office’s phone. Now, will you please wait on the line until the attendance lady comes back?”

“Okay honey.” I started to waive my hand again; this time the attendance lady saw me.

“What?” She said very half-heartedly.

“Here, it’s my mom.” I handed the phone over.

“Hello, Mrs. Cath? … No, I do not have any record of you calling in. … Okay, I will tell him, thank you…Good bye.” She hung up the phone. “She is coming over to check you in late.”

“Why is my mom soo stupid? Do I have to sit here?” I plopped on a bench across the hall knowing the answer.

“I’m afraid so, her request.” I leaned back against the wall and closed me eyes in a half-hearted attempt to relax.

What seemed like an hour later passing period started and people filled the halls getting to their next classes. “Bret? What are you doing, just sitting there? Don’t you have class?” I looked up to see Abigail standing right in front of me.

“Hi Abigail, I’ve been looking for you all over the place.” I sat up straight at my screw up. “W-Well, not really, as I have been sitting here waiting for my mom to get back.” I put my hand on the bench to get Abigail to sit down next to me. She didn’t seem to notice so I used it to push myself up.

“What were you looking for me for?” She asked.

“I wanted to ask you a question. I-I’m taking a survey for the yearbook. Can you tell me what your favorite book of all time is?” I asked. I looked away because, of course, that wasn’t what I wanted to ask.

“Sure, it’s the Lord Of The Rings series. Anything else…you seem nervous.”

“Yes, c-can we, I mean, can I…? Can I take you to the movies sometime?” That would probably have been that worst thing that could happen to an already lack luster day. This would probably ruin our friendship status if she didn’t want to go.

She looked at me, smiled, winked, and walked away. Maybe she thought it was a joke. Either way, she blew me off and I felt worse for wear.

I waited for another ten minutes before my mother finally stuck her head in the school. “Sorry, I had to stop on the way over…I got a flat tire.” Usually flat tire means ‘the essentials.’

“Really mom, it’s okay. It isn’t like I’ll miss all of my homework, and my grade will go down. Not like that at all.” I was being openly sarcastic.

“Well, sorry anyway.” She usually didn’t get the sarcastic comments and today was no exception. She signed me in, and I made it to my science class. It didn’t take me long to figure out that something was up in the social realm, something that involved me, since everyone was whispering and making glances at me.

I turned to George, my best friend, who sat next to me, to find out what was going on. He held up his hand and mouthed ‘after class.’ When class was over I made my way over to a corner to talk to him in the cafeteria, it was our lunch period.

“So, what is everyone saying about me?” I asked

“That you got rejected by Abigail.” He replied.

I choked on my Coke and had to take a moment to regain my breath. “How does anyone know about that? The hallway was empty!”

George just shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe you should have looked harder. You okay?”

“Yeah. Well, who would be the one who told everybody?” I asked.

“I’ll give you two guesses. And, it’s the one with the y chromosome.” He was alluding to Eric.

“Why would he want to exploit me? I haven’t done anything to him.”

“Who knows? People actually talk to him.” Was his reply; he was referring to my wallflower status and his nerd status. I was lucky to have him as a friend; he was getting the highest grade point average in school and was testing at college levels.

“HEY EVERY ONE, GUESS WHAT!!! BRET JUST ASKED ABIGAIL OUT, AND SHE REJECTED HIM!!!” I practically jumped out of my seat when I heard that. I turned around to see Eric standing on a table looking at me and pointing. “YEAH, IT HAPPENED BETWEEN CLASSES THREE AND FOUR!!! I SAW IT WITH MY OWN TWO EYES!!!” He pointed to his eyes as if no one knew where they were.

I ran over to him and pulled him down. “What are you doing?”

“What? All this is…is sharing some gossip. Think of it as a human tabloid newspaper.” He mocked.

“I hate tabloids.” I grabbed his shirt and pulled him towards me.

George grabbed me and pulled me away from Eric. “Whoa! Bret, calm down and come over here with me and we will deal with this later.”

“Eric, just watch your back. I don’t get angry very easily, you know that I have never gotten in a fight. But, if you push me too far, I will be willing to get into my first.”

The whole room had gone silent and George pulled me away as quietly as he could. I noticed that the only person not looking at me was Abigail, who also had my lunch period.

“What do you think you are doing? You could have gotten yourself into trouble.” George pulled me into a vacant hallway.

“Are you sure you want to talk to me? Eric could be eaves dropping.” I said.

“I don’t care, and neither should you.”

“You know, you should be the mediator, not me.” I complimented him on his work to calm my nerves.

“No, I’ve got a lot on my plate as it is thank you very much.” We started to walk back to the cafeteria. Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to see Jane standing there looking expectant.

When neither of us said anything, she took the initiative. “Hey, I heard what happened, and I want to say I’m sorry.” She said.

“Oh, thank you Jane. I’m glad I have someone on my side.” I said glaring at George.

“Well, if you ever need to talk to someone…Well, I’ve got to go.” She turned around and went into the bathroom.

“Now there’s a sight you don’t see everyday, a girl just went into the bathroom by herself.” I turned around to see Frieda standing in front of me.

“And what is wrong with that may I ask?” She had her group of girls with her, and was obviously headed there. “Oh, wait, you have no say in what girls do, since you can’t even get a date with Abigail.” She gave a shrill laugh and headed into the bathroom.

“I thought they were friends.” George scratched his head.

“Don’t try to understand women, it will just hurt your head. Yes, even yours.” I walked into the cafeteria and was met by Eric and his friends.

“You said you wanted to fight, How about that hallway out there, in five minutes. My friends will keep out the Para Pros, you and I will do the rest.” He took a step close to me.

“I…uh.” I managed to get out.

“‘I want to do it now?’ Okay, we’ll do it now.” He motioned for his friends to grab me, and I found myself being dragged into the middle of the hallway.

“That wasn’t what I meant, really.” Eric’s friends interlocked arms in a circle around us as everyone else gathered around to watch.

“This is what you said, sometimes you have to be careful about how you phrase words.” Eric made a jab at me, which I was just able to dodge. One of Eric’s friends tripped me and I found Eric over me ready to bring down a fist.

“Okay! Break it up!” One of the Para Pros, the biggest one, broke through almost immediately. Eric went the other way, and his gang protected him. “Bret? I’m surprised to find you here. I’m guessing that there was no fight. It sure looked like there would be one. Oh well.” He turned around and walked back to his post.

“AFTER SCHOOL.” Eric yelled at me from across the hall. “BE THERE OR WE WILL HUNT YOU DOWN.”

“Bret? Are you all right?” Abigail walked up to me and helped me up.

“Yeah, no thanks to you.” I walked away, not even letting her explain her actions.

“Wow! That has got to suck.” George walked with me towards my next class. I had yearbook.

“Yeah, this day hasn’t been that good.” I replied.

“If you need any help tonight…well, you know where to reach me.” He headed for English. He stopped short. “I sounded like Jane just now didn’t I?” I nodded. He shook his head and walked away.

“What? She’s not that bad.” I yelled after him.

I went into the door and handed in my results for the poll. “I see you got lots of people to take your poll.” My teacher said, Mrs. Torsi.

“Yes, it was an easier one.”

“And, I would have failed you if you hadn’t gotten this many answers.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because it was so easy.” She said as she copied the grade into the computer. I went over to one of the computers and started to fill in my answers.

Most of the class passed when I heard my name being called. “Bret, could you come here for a second?” One of the deans walked in.

“Yes?”

“I would like you to come after school, mediation.”

“Will I be mediating, or will I be the silent observer?” Generally the silent observer is an adult, but they’ve asked me to do it when no one else could.

“You will actually be one of the two parties.”

“What? Who is the other person?”

“Eric.” She said.

“Eric? Eric wouldn’t bring us together; he’s probably the one who wants to fight more. Who handed in our names?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. If he or she wants to tell you, then they can. I’ll see you tonight.” She turned around and left.

“What was that all about?” Jane was on yearbook with me.

“You know that fight that almost happened at lunch?”

“Yeah.”

“We-well, I have to go to a mediator session with the people involved.”

“Good.” She nodded and walked back to her computer. I had a feeling that she knew it was me, but didn’t want to burst my bubble.

I sat next to her. “Thanks.”

“For what? What do you think, should I take this cover or this one?” She brought up two pictures. One of the covers was of our mascot, the cougar, pouncing on the year. The other one was a little more intricate, more confusing.

“The first one is easier to look at.” I said.

“Thank you.” She put the second one in the recycle bin.

“I didn’t know I had so much influence on the cover of the yearbook.” I got up and finished my poll. The rest of the day past very quickly, mostly I saw snickers and points throughout the day.

At the end of the day I was walking down the hall when I ran smack into George. “Oh, hey! I was wondering when I would see you again. How was English? Still correcting the teacher?”

“Yeah. Are you headed to the mediation?”

“How do you know about that?… You were the one who reported us weren’t you?”

“Look, I did what I had to. At least now you won’t get in that fight.” He started backing up from me.

“I’m not going to hit you, you know that.” I said

“No, but I will.” I turned around to find Eric rubbing his knuckles.

“H-hi Eric. Headed to the mediation session?” I said, I backed up into George.

“Well, I was. But I think we can handle the problem right here right now.” He approached me.

“Hey Eric, what’s up?” Frieda rounded the corner.

“Hey Frieda.” Both George and I ran behind her.

“What are you doing?” She turned around to face us,

“Using you as…where are all of your girl friends?” I asked.

“They had to go home, and I had to get something from my locker. Get away from me!” Frieda pushed us away.

“Oh come on, can’t we use you as a human shield? Eric’s going to kill us.” I said.

“Why don’t you use your girl friend, Abigail?” Eric taunted.

“What about me?” Abigail walked up.

“Hey Abigail.” George and I moved behind her.

“Well, hi.” She didn’t move to push us away.

I looked up to her from under her armpit. “What are you doing here?”

“I was getting help in math.” She replied.

“You know, I could help you with that.” George told her.

“Not now George.” I said.

Eric tried to get around Abigail and I ran around. “Come back here Bret! I need to finish something.” Eric ran at me. I ran the other way.

“I think keeping my distance is fine.” I said. I turned around to look at him as I ran, only to run into Frieda.

“Watch it! If you break a nail I will kill you.” She yelled at me

“Calm down beauty queen, you’re not being judged here. We all have opinions that aren’t influenced by your looks. I’m sure that not all of them are good, I know mine aren’t.” I said.

“Screw you!” She made a slap at me.

“Bret!” Abigail grabbed my arm. “I wanted to ask you something, something about your question.”

“I need to hear this.” Eric stopped chasing me and everyone stopped moving.

“Yeah?” I asked.

“I wanted to give you my answer.” She said.

“And you hadn’t before?” I asked

“No, I didn’t even hear you. I didn’t find out about your question until Eric started making fun of you.” She said.

“Well, then I feel stupid, not letting you explain I mean. What was the wink about?” I said.

“I thought I heard something else. I really don’t remember, but it seemed to need a wink.” Abigail said.

“I have something new to make fun of you about don’t I?” Eric said. “You got all mad about being rejected when she wanted to go out with you the whole time.”

“Well, I’d have to thank you for that.” I said in a sly fashion. “If it weren’t for you, she still wouldn’t know I asked, and I would still feel bad.” That left him speechless.

“I guess you got him. Next time you want to prove yourself, leave me out of it.” Frieda started to walk away.

“I guess you would leave.” George said.

“Yeah, leaving with you head up your butt.” I added.

“What? Do you guys have something that you want to discuss with me?” She turned back around and approached us.

“Yes, he does at least.” George stepped back.

“Thanks for your help George.” I said behind me.

“Well? What problem do you have with me?” Frieda asked. I looked at her, and noticed out of the corner of my eye movement.

“Bret and Eric! I told you to meet me after school for a mediation meeting.” The dean headed towards us and we all moved away from her. I also noticed some of the Para Pros had been looking for us as well. They moved from different halls towards us.

“Why do I feel like a felon?” I heard Abigail whisper to herself as we started backing up.

Owen's Writing Week 1

2009-05-09T19:44:00.006-05:00

Increasingly it has been suggested that I get my name as a writer out to the public. Ideas of what I could showcase have varied from person to person, but ultimately it came down to my desire to highlight my writing ability as it has evolved since the begining, through my decision to major in Creative Writing at Knox College, my eventual graduation, and any further works from now until whenever.

My initial goal for this blog is to update it once a week. Early in the blog's life these updates will largely revolve around my own works, things that were written while attending Knox. As the life of the blog evolves I expect to expand into other ventures, like book and movie reviews. With each of these updates there will likely be one or two expository posts (before and/or after the week's actual post) that will give you, the reader, a bit of insight regarding where my mind was when I wrote the piece as well as my reactions to them now.

I will be frank. Many of the posts, especially early, will consist mainly of works that I consider un-publishable. It must be said, though, that I don't necessarily believe 'un-publishable' means 'bad'. I will admit that some of these works were put aside in the middle of edits and, as such, are probably riddled with grammatical errors, but that doesn't mean they never had promise. Simply put, for reasons that changed from piece to piece, there were subject or concept issues that I was either not ready to tackle or felt weren't worth the time invested.

With that in mind I will begin with this week's, and the first of many, 'Owen's Writing' blog entries.

"Special Education"

2009-05-09T19:15:00.004-05:00

My first work is from a separate blog that I started in July of 2008. It is my attempt at something called NaNoWriMo. If you don't know, NaNoWriMo is short for National Novel Writing Month. Normally held in November, I decided, along with my sister, that November was not a good month for us that year. We decided, instead, that July was a more appropriate, and on July 1st we began writing.

The goal of NaNoWriMo, as their website indicates, is to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. That's approximately 1,666 words a day (for comparison purposes, this post along with the previous post equals about 470 words and is about one, single spaced, Times New Roman 12pt. font Word page). The idea is to simply plow through the initial writing process.

At times the work got away from me and I lost control over the actions of the characters (hence the cautionary Adult Content warning) but overall it was an enjoyable experience. You can read some of my reactions to the work in the blog's last entry, titled 'Author's Statement'.