I suppose the closest I’ve ever come to falling in love was with a girl named Helene, I can’t recall ever learning her last name; our relationship didn’t require things like that. I met her on July 9th, the sky was beginning to turn a dark shade of grey and the air began to get stiff and damp, a storm was beginning to form. I was walking home especially fast that day, trying to make it home before the rain began to fall; I took the shortcut, through the woods. With my headphones in, Red Death at 6:14, and my hood protecting my head from the slight mist that had arrived. Thunder roared above the tree tops, I looked up hoping the cool splash of rain would hit my face and cool down my body, sweating from the hot summer air that stuck to me, instead of the cool splash of rain, I felt my face meet the ground. A soft chuckle came from my left; I looked up finding a girl laughing at me.
“What’s your problem?! Do you just go around laughing at anybody that falls? Who do you think you are?!”
“Kid, you tripped on your own two feet, and took a face dive straight into the dirt. That is pretty funny, I mean you honestly couldn’t tell me that you wouldn’t have done the same.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say back to her, because well, I knew she was right.
“Look, I’m sorry if I offended you in any way, here let me help you up”
She took out her hand expecting me to take it, and to my surprise; I did. Amazingly strong for her tiny stature she was able to get me to my feet in a matter of seconds, I quickly brushed the soggy dirt off of my pant legs, the girl watched me and I could begin to feel myself feeling self conscious. She took out a lighter from her pants pocket and a cigarette out of a different one, she lit it and put it in her mouth, she breathed in the smoke, long, and deep.
“Hey, do you want one?”
“Umm, No thank you. I’ve got to go right home, and my mother would have a fit if I came home smelling like smoke.”
She laughed again, this time louder, “Hey don’t sweat it, truth be told I wasn’t even really asking you.”
To my surprise I began to feel myself get angry, “Well, why even bother asking me then?!” I could here the bitterness in my voice.
“I was being polite.” She smiled at me, not with her mouth, no, she smiled with her eyes. My nerves began to calm after she smiled, and I don’t quite recall thinking clearly, my brain had no filter and I wasn’t in control of what came out my mouth.
“Hey, what’s your name anyway?”
“My name is Helene.”
“Oh, mine is Edgar.”
“I never asked you for your name, Edgar. Hate to break it to you…but you have an old man’s name.” She tried to hold in her laughter, but within seconds she began to laugh at me again, the third time within an hour.
“Right, well you don’t have to laugh at me, your names…your name is….” I couldn’t think of anything mean to say about it, because in all honesty I thought that a name wouldn’t ever fit anybody better than her name fit her.
“Your absolutely right, I shouldn’t have laughed, but your name is and old man’s name. I suppose you’ll be old soon enough. Well Edgar, I have nowhere to be, where are you going?”
“My house, its maybe 10 or 20 minutes away…depends on how slow I walk.”
“To make up for me laughing at you so much on this fine summery day, I will walk you to your lovely abode.” I could tell that she got a kick out of just hearing herself talk, the way she strung her words together, seeming much older and sophisticated than she was. At glance I would say that she was 17 possibly 18, but when I look deeper, I’m almost certain she’s 15…16 at most.
“Sure, I mean you can walk me home, it would be nice to have someone to talk to for once.” I didn’t know why I said that; maybe I just wanted her pity, so she wouldn’t leave. We walked for a while without talking, the only sounds I remember hearing was the click of her lighter as she watched it create a small fire and the sound of her taking another drag of her cigarette. This type of silence was comforting, I didn’t have to try to break it if it was already broken. I was endlessly trying to find something clever to say to make me seem a lot cooler than I actually was, but there isn’t a clever bone in my body. All I could come up with was this,
“So, how old are you anyways?”
“I’m 15, my birthday is coming up pretty soon, September 23. But I feel much older than 15, I tell everyone that I’m an old soul trapped in a young body.”
I understood what she meant, and yet I didn’t at the same time, most people relish the fact that they are young and carefree, and dread the thought of getting older and having to worry about bills and settling down and kids, I just didn’t know what she meant, then. I didn’t really know what to say back to her, I couldn’t think of anything to respond with, luckily she answered for me.
“How old are you anyways, I’ve been wondering. Your face looks older, maybe 19, 20. But you’re not very tall, and no offence you’re not very… “built”, so my final guess is 18.”
“I’m 17, so you were very close. My face looks “older”, how so?”
“Well compared to kids in my grade your jaw is more defined, and by the looks of it you’ve been shaving for more than a week. And your eyes, I can tell mostly in your eyes. You’re an old soul trapped, just like me.”
I looked at her then, I really looked at her. Her hair was a dull red that was highly noticeable in the bland green of the forest, it was down and messy; I suspect that she didn’t brush it this morning because it was tangled in all the right places. Her eyes were a pale green, so light at a glance I would have sworn they were white, but close to the pupil I noticed little yellow spots that shone through, her lips a bright red, at least 5x brighter and deeper a red than her hair. I wasn’t even certain that it was her real lip color, but I didn’t really care because that’s not what I noticed about them. The upper lip was slightly smaller than the bottom, both were full, but the sizes were noticeably different. I couldn’t help but notice that her skin was milk white, with no freckles and no noticeable scars; she was beautiful, in every way. She could tell that I was looking at her, she could sense I was searching endlessly for something to hate about her, some flaw that would drive me crazy, so she turned her head to keep me from looking any further. She took out another cigarette, this time with shaking fingers.
“You know, those things will kill ya.”
I could hear her breathing change from a slow steady pace to almost a chuckle.
“What would you care anyways? We just met, what’s it to you?”
I didn’t really know, I had only said it to make conversation. I stopped walking and thought about what she said, and maybe I did care, but I just couldn’t think of why. Helene must have noticed that the sound of my feet beside her had come to a stop, she turned and said,
“Hey, you’re going to be late! Move those feet.”
I caught up to her, still thinking I finally thought of an answer for her,
”I care because your somebody that is going to be worth caring about, not today and not tomorrow, but someday.” I wasn’t sure what compelled me to think that, or why I would say that to someone I had just met, but I did. By the way she just stood there, looking for something to say, I could tell she was just as shocked as I was that I said that. Her big green eyes looked into mine for only a moment, and she looked away, beginning to walk, I stood there waiting for a response. It was 2 maybe 3 minutes before I heard from a slight distance her voice,
”How do you know?” I yelled back,
“Well how do you?” I ran to catch up to her, it didn’t take long before I was beside her again.
“Who said that I did know?”
“Well, nobody said that you didn’t…including you.”
“Okay, so you have me there. It doesn’t matter what I think or what I know, here’s what I’m going to tell you; I’m no good, especially no good for you. So don’t be expecting me to loose my head over some boy, or letting you waste your time on somebody like me…it just wouldn’t work.”
I decided that it was best not to argue with her, and I let the silence creep its way back into our company. Nobody talked until we approached my house.
”Wow, this is your house?! It’s so nice, you didn’t tell me you were well off.” Helene wiggled her eyebrows one at a time and rubbed her fingers on her right hand together, I suspect she thought I had money considering my house was the biggest on the block, but that house wasn’t mine; Its Rick’s, my mother’s boyfriends house. I laughed anyway as to not show any signs of anger that were bubbling inside of me.
“Yeah, I suppose I should go, I’m already late I don’t want to make my mom worry.” That was a lie.
“Oh yeah, sure. Well I’ll see you around, Edgar.”
“What’s your number, maybe we could meet up some day.” She laughed again,
“What did I tell you before? I’m no good for you. I’m not going to just give you my number just like that, you have to earn a pretty girl’s number, don’t you know anything? Don’t worry, we will defiantly meet up soon.”
I watched for a moment as she turned to walk back towards the woods we had just come out of, I began to walk the short distance up my driveway when I heard Helene shout,
“Hey Edgar!”
I turned and saw her run towards me,
“You know when I said that I tell everyone I’m an old soul trapped in a young body?”
“Ummm yeah, why?”
“Well that’s a lie, that’s what I tell myself. I just wanted you to know.”
“Okay? Why would you want me to know that?”
”I don’t really know to be honest with you, well you really should go.”
Before she left again, she quickly kissed my cheek and then ran off. I could barely comprehend everything that happened in that tiny 30 minutes of my day, I felt different and new, and yet old and bland. I didn’t know what to make of it all, so I went inside my house, the place I was trying to get to all along.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Untitled Fictional Memoir by Ryan O'Connor
Ryan O’Connor
Writing for Publication
Chapter 1
Birth
It was an uneventful day on June 3, 1977, in the city of Boston, Massachusetts. It was a day like any other. Except of course, for the family gathered in a cold-white waiting room, and the woman screaming in room down the hall, watched over by gentle men with expert hands and white-sterile masks. It was anything but normal for the man comforting his wife, telling her almost, almost; just keep going. It was, of course, the day that I was born.
Of course I don’t remember my birth. Despite my incredible memory of my 32 years, no one remembers being born. However, for the sake of storytelling, I will use the information of others to portray what occurred during my earliest days.
I was born a fine, healthy baby. This on its own was surprising enough; my mother had gone through three unsuccessful pregnancies prior to me, and even my older brother’s birth was full of complications. My birth would’ve been thought as a blessing; a miracle, if not for the horrible consequences that followed. As my father kneeled down and handed me to my weak and weary mother, and as she held me in her fragile arms, she whispered one word, so quiet that only my father and I could hear. Then she closed her eyes and drifted to sleep, never to wake again.
I never really found out why my mother died giving birth to me. I guess the strain from all the failed pregnancies had wreaked havoc on her body, and giving birth to me, along with the massive loss of blood, proved to be too much for my poor mother, and her body shut down. What I do know, however, is her last whispered word.
It was a name. It was my name.
Brendan.
Chapter 2
Granddad Art
My father had a tough time raising me without his wife; my mother. But even though she died giving me my first breath, I know he never once blamed me for it. He was as loving and as great as any other father, if not even better. And even though he tried his best to work twice as hard and act as twice the parent, he often required help from my older brother, Ross, and my grandfather.
My grandfather, Art, was an Irish immigrant who came into Boston Harbor with my grandmother from county Sligo back in Ireland, where he settled down and started his family. My grandmother died shortly before Ross’s birth 6 years prior, and Art had lived with us ever since, in our small home in Boston.
After my birth, and my mother’s death, Art became like a second father to Ross and I. As far back as I can remember he was there to take care of us, and to do whatever my father couldn’t.
Art was an incredibly proud man; proud of his family, and proud of his heritage. He had an amazing knowledge of Irish mythology, history, etymology, and was even known to break out in occasional outbursts of Gaelic when frustrated.
“Bran,” he would tell me as just an infant, sitting gleefully on his bouncing knee, while my father made dinner.
“Aye, Bran. Short for Brendan. Now you see Bran, the name Brendan goes all the way back to the Old Irish name ‘Brandubh’, which means ‘black raven’. And didn’t your mother name you well, bless her soul.” He would tousle my full head of jet-black hair, smiling and looking at me with his bright wise-gray eyes.
My father once told me that Art would tell me the origin of my name almost every single day. And even though I couldn’t understand the words he said, I would stare at him with my big, blue baby eyes, and would not make a sound until he had finished speaking.
I learned to speak early, around the age of 17 months, and my first word was, of course, my name. I would run around the house, running to the arms of my father, my brother, Art, or anyone at all, gleefully screaming the entire time, “Bran! Bran!”
My father would laugh and lift me off the ground, hugging me to his chest.
“That’s right, Brendan,” he would say to me, smiling, “that is the name your mother gave you, and you should be proud to have it.”
“Bran!” I would scream again laughing, holding myself tightly around my father’s neck.
Chapter 3
In The Eyes Of The Beholder
People always told me I had my mother’s eyes. Even as an infant, people would marvel at my piercing icy-blue eyes.
As a small child, I never questioned why I didn’t have a mother. I knew I had a father, and a granddad Art, and I just assumed that I was special in that way. I also knew that sometimes, my dad would hold the picture of a very pretty woman and try to hold back his tears. I didn’t know why he was sad, but I still climbed onto his lap and gave him a hug.
It wasn’t until my first day of 1st grade, when all of my friends where saying goodbye to their mothers and fathers, while I was saying goodbye to my father and my granddad Art, that I began to question it. I wanted to ask Ross, but he was at a new school this year. So as I sat in my chair, and ate my lunch, and played at recess, I wondered.
Where is my mother?
“Where is my mom?” I asked as soon as Art picked me up after school.
He looked at me with surprised eyes. “Your mother?”
“Yes.” I said a matter-of-factly. “I do have one, right? People are always saying I have her eyes, so I must have one.’
“Aye, Bran,” Art said with a laugh, “of course you do. But this is really something your father should talk to you about. Can you wait till we get back to the house?”
He knew I certainly did not want to wait, but the way he said it was less of a request, and more of an order. “Yeah, Granddad, I’ll wait.”
And I did wait. I waited until he went and picked up my brother at the junior high, and I waited until we drove all the way back home. I even waited while we walked up the front steps and into the house. Once I got inside though, I could barely keep from fidgeting.
“Ross, Brendan! How was your first day of school?” my father said as he walked in from the kitchen, smiling.
“Good.” I replied, and before Ross could say anything, added “Hey Dad, where is my mom?”
He grew silent and somber. “Your mother, Brendan?”
“Yeah,” I asked. “All the other kids at school had a mom to say goodbye to at school. Why didn’t I?”
Ross stared at me in silent wonder. It made me feel like I had done something wrong. But I didn’t. Did I?
My dad sat down on the chair, and patted his lap, inviting me to sit upon it. I quickly scrambled onto it and looked at him. His eyes were closed. Was he sad? Upset? Angry?
He opened his eyes, and looked at me.
“Your mother…” he started, and then looked at Art. “Hey dad, can you go grab the picture from my bedroom?”
“One sec,” Art said as he left the room for a moment, and then returned with the photo that I often saw my dad holding. The woman in the picture was really very pretty.
“Is that her?” I asked, looking at the picture. There was another person in the picture too. It looked like my dad.
“Yes, Brendan. That is your mother and I when we were first married.”
I stared at the picture, at my young parents. Back when the photo was taken, my father’s hair was less grey, and blacker, almost like mine.
I looked back at the photo, looking at my mother. Almost the first thing I noticed was her eyes, the piercing icy-blue, just like mine. Her hair was different though. It was lighter, more like Ross’s.
“Dad,” I asked, looking away from the picture, “where is she now?”
He looked at me with sad, weary eyes, “Brendan… your mother…”
He started with the story of how they met. A small coffee shop, being introduced as the friend of a friend, and how soon after their love for each other blossomed. How he proposed to my mother, in the same coffee shop where they met. It was the clichéd tale of a hopeless romantic, yet it was my father’s, and I drank in every word he said.
He told of their wedding, and how beautiful it was, and how beautiful she was. He told me about Ross’s birth, and how near-catastrophic it was. He told me about how failed pregnancies came after that. And then, he told me about my own birth. And he told me about how my mother gave me a name in her last breath.
I realized I had started to cry. I was afraid my father hated me. I killed his wife, my mother. Why wouldn’t he hate me?
“Oh Brendan, don’t worry.” He told me, hugging me tight, “I don’t blame you. With her last breath, your mother gave you life, and with it a piece of her you’ll always carry.”
He lifted up my chin, and looked into my now beet-red face.
“Your mother gave me her heart. She gave Ross her hair. And she gave you her eyes.”
That night I thought about it for a long time. My mother died because of me. Yet, if she gave me such a beautiful gift, could she really be mad at me? I just laid there and thought, for what seemed like forever.
If she wanted to give me such an amazing gift, I concluded, of course she wouldn’t blame me. My mother loved me with all that was left of her.
And I decided that for the rest of my life, I would carry her gift with pride.
My icy-blue eyes.
Chapter 4
Crowe’s Wings
The summer after 5th grade, my father decided to take the family on a camping trip in Vermont. The cabin we stayed in belonged to a friend of my father’s, and it had been offered to us for a week.
I was 11 years old by this point, and had never been camping before. The whole drive up, I shook with excitement in my seat.
Living in the city my entire life, I had never before seen so much open land before, just grass, farms, and trees as far as the eye could see. A few times we drove through some small towns, but outside of the towns, houses were far and few between. It was unreal to me, after growing up in such an urban area.
Eventually we turned off the main road onto a gravel road, and followed it up a steep hill leading through the thick line of trees.
Writing for Publication
Chapter 1
Birth
It was an uneventful day on June 3, 1977, in the city of Boston, Massachusetts. It was a day like any other. Except of course, for the family gathered in a cold-white waiting room, and the woman screaming in room down the hall, watched over by gentle men with expert hands and white-sterile masks. It was anything but normal for the man comforting his wife, telling her almost, almost; just keep going. It was, of course, the day that I was born.
Of course I don’t remember my birth. Despite my incredible memory of my 32 years, no one remembers being born. However, for the sake of storytelling, I will use the information of others to portray what occurred during my earliest days.
I was born a fine, healthy baby. This on its own was surprising enough; my mother had gone through three unsuccessful pregnancies prior to me, and even my older brother’s birth was full of complications. My birth would’ve been thought as a blessing; a miracle, if not for the horrible consequences that followed. As my father kneeled down and handed me to my weak and weary mother, and as she held me in her fragile arms, she whispered one word, so quiet that only my father and I could hear. Then she closed her eyes and drifted to sleep, never to wake again.
I never really found out why my mother died giving birth to me. I guess the strain from all the failed pregnancies had wreaked havoc on her body, and giving birth to me, along with the massive loss of blood, proved to be too much for my poor mother, and her body shut down. What I do know, however, is her last whispered word.
It was a name. It was my name.
Brendan.
Chapter 2
Granddad Art
My father had a tough time raising me without his wife; my mother. But even though she died giving me my first breath, I know he never once blamed me for it. He was as loving and as great as any other father, if not even better. And even though he tried his best to work twice as hard and act as twice the parent, he often required help from my older brother, Ross, and my grandfather.
My grandfather, Art, was an Irish immigrant who came into Boston Harbor with my grandmother from county Sligo back in Ireland, where he settled down and started his family. My grandmother died shortly before Ross’s birth 6 years prior, and Art had lived with us ever since, in our small home in Boston.
After my birth, and my mother’s death, Art became like a second father to Ross and I. As far back as I can remember he was there to take care of us, and to do whatever my father couldn’t.
Art was an incredibly proud man; proud of his family, and proud of his heritage. He had an amazing knowledge of Irish mythology, history, etymology, and was even known to break out in occasional outbursts of Gaelic when frustrated.
“Bran,” he would tell me as just an infant, sitting gleefully on his bouncing knee, while my father made dinner.
“Aye, Bran. Short for Brendan. Now you see Bran, the name Brendan goes all the way back to the Old Irish name ‘Brandubh’, which means ‘black raven’. And didn’t your mother name you well, bless her soul.” He would tousle my full head of jet-black hair, smiling and looking at me with his bright wise-gray eyes.
My father once told me that Art would tell me the origin of my name almost every single day. And even though I couldn’t understand the words he said, I would stare at him with my big, blue baby eyes, and would not make a sound until he had finished speaking.
I learned to speak early, around the age of 17 months, and my first word was, of course, my name. I would run around the house, running to the arms of my father, my brother, Art, or anyone at all, gleefully screaming the entire time, “Bran! Bran!”
My father would laugh and lift me off the ground, hugging me to his chest.
“That’s right, Brendan,” he would say to me, smiling, “that is the name your mother gave you, and you should be proud to have it.”
“Bran!” I would scream again laughing, holding myself tightly around my father’s neck.
Chapter 3
In The Eyes Of The Beholder
People always told me I had my mother’s eyes. Even as an infant, people would marvel at my piercing icy-blue eyes.
As a small child, I never questioned why I didn’t have a mother. I knew I had a father, and a granddad Art, and I just assumed that I was special in that way. I also knew that sometimes, my dad would hold the picture of a very pretty woman and try to hold back his tears. I didn’t know why he was sad, but I still climbed onto his lap and gave him a hug.
It wasn’t until my first day of 1st grade, when all of my friends where saying goodbye to their mothers and fathers, while I was saying goodbye to my father and my granddad Art, that I began to question it. I wanted to ask Ross, but he was at a new school this year. So as I sat in my chair, and ate my lunch, and played at recess, I wondered.
Where is my mother?
“Where is my mom?” I asked as soon as Art picked me up after school.
He looked at me with surprised eyes. “Your mother?”
“Yes.” I said a matter-of-factly. “I do have one, right? People are always saying I have her eyes, so I must have one.’
“Aye, Bran,” Art said with a laugh, “of course you do. But this is really something your father should talk to you about. Can you wait till we get back to the house?”
He knew I certainly did not want to wait, but the way he said it was less of a request, and more of an order. “Yeah, Granddad, I’ll wait.”
And I did wait. I waited until he went and picked up my brother at the junior high, and I waited until we drove all the way back home. I even waited while we walked up the front steps and into the house. Once I got inside though, I could barely keep from fidgeting.
“Ross, Brendan! How was your first day of school?” my father said as he walked in from the kitchen, smiling.
“Good.” I replied, and before Ross could say anything, added “Hey Dad, where is my mom?”
He grew silent and somber. “Your mother, Brendan?”
“Yeah,” I asked. “All the other kids at school had a mom to say goodbye to at school. Why didn’t I?”
Ross stared at me in silent wonder. It made me feel like I had done something wrong. But I didn’t. Did I?
My dad sat down on the chair, and patted his lap, inviting me to sit upon it. I quickly scrambled onto it and looked at him. His eyes were closed. Was he sad? Upset? Angry?
He opened his eyes, and looked at me.
“Your mother…” he started, and then looked at Art. “Hey dad, can you go grab the picture from my bedroom?”
“One sec,” Art said as he left the room for a moment, and then returned with the photo that I often saw my dad holding. The woman in the picture was really very pretty.
“Is that her?” I asked, looking at the picture. There was another person in the picture too. It looked like my dad.
“Yes, Brendan. That is your mother and I when we were first married.”
I stared at the picture, at my young parents. Back when the photo was taken, my father’s hair was less grey, and blacker, almost like mine.
I looked back at the photo, looking at my mother. Almost the first thing I noticed was her eyes, the piercing icy-blue, just like mine. Her hair was different though. It was lighter, more like Ross’s.
“Dad,” I asked, looking away from the picture, “where is she now?”
He looked at me with sad, weary eyes, “Brendan… your mother…”
He started with the story of how they met. A small coffee shop, being introduced as the friend of a friend, and how soon after their love for each other blossomed. How he proposed to my mother, in the same coffee shop where they met. It was the clichéd tale of a hopeless romantic, yet it was my father’s, and I drank in every word he said.
He told of their wedding, and how beautiful it was, and how beautiful she was. He told me about Ross’s birth, and how near-catastrophic it was. He told me about how failed pregnancies came after that. And then, he told me about my own birth. And he told me about how my mother gave me a name in her last breath.
I realized I had started to cry. I was afraid my father hated me. I killed his wife, my mother. Why wouldn’t he hate me?
“Oh Brendan, don’t worry.” He told me, hugging me tight, “I don’t blame you. With her last breath, your mother gave you life, and with it a piece of her you’ll always carry.”
He lifted up my chin, and looked into my now beet-red face.
“Your mother gave me her heart. She gave Ross her hair. And she gave you her eyes.”
That night I thought about it for a long time. My mother died because of me. Yet, if she gave me such a beautiful gift, could she really be mad at me? I just laid there and thought, for what seemed like forever.
If she wanted to give me such an amazing gift, I concluded, of course she wouldn’t blame me. My mother loved me with all that was left of her.
And I decided that for the rest of my life, I would carry her gift with pride.
My icy-blue eyes.
Chapter 4
Crowe’s Wings
The summer after 5th grade, my father decided to take the family on a camping trip in Vermont. The cabin we stayed in belonged to a friend of my father’s, and it had been offered to us for a week.
I was 11 years old by this point, and had never been camping before. The whole drive up, I shook with excitement in my seat.
Living in the city my entire life, I had never before seen so much open land before, just grass, farms, and trees as far as the eye could see. A few times we drove through some small towns, but outside of the towns, houses were far and few between. It was unreal to me, after growing up in such an urban area.
Eventually we turned off the main road onto a gravel road, and followed it up a steep hill leading through the thick line of trees.
...Collective Works...Of...Erastos Smith by Sarah Johnson
The Thus-Far Completed
Collective Works, Autobiographical Paragraph
And Documented Experiences
Of the Great and Epically Astounding
Erastos Smith
(aka: the artist formerly known as Allotosis de Groot)
(by Sarah Johnson)
My name is Allotosis de Groot. Everyone calls me Tos though. But I always lie, so don’t take their word for it. I’m just happy I don’t have my mother’s last name, Hoogaboom. While de Groot means “tall man”, Hoogaboom means “tall tree”. Either way, I don’t fit the build, so it might as well be something that isn’t so embarrassing to say out loud. Not that being Dutch is embarrassing, it’s wonderful. The cooking is anyway. My mother’s secret Hollandaise sauce is legendry within the family, and I’ve never been known to miss a meal, despite the appearance of my slight build. Regardless, being culturally associated by a name can be troublesome, so I have long since changed my name to Erastos Smith (which is Greek/Old English for “love maker”). With fair hair and light, clear, blue eyes, (you know, like the new-century James Bond), you’d think I was successful with the ladies. However, all throughout high school I struggled with a severe acne problem, and I rarely thought to consider the state of my clothes. Consequently, my confidence levels plummeted. This is only a reflection of my tortured childhood where I lost my mother and father at the age of 6 in a tragic Buffalo goring accident at Old Faithful on the fourth of July. I have repressed every memory form that day until the first day of high school, when I invariably woke up to find myself slipping away from reality. I decided to turn my act around, and, despite my acne and lack of fresh wardrobe, became very popular. My epic success was created into a television show, and I became an icon for struggling teens. This also did not increase my dating life, but that’s just because I was always wary of women wanting me only for my fame. Later on in college, I lost two front teeth playing D1 rugby for my Alma matter, Princeton, where I also graduated Phi Beta Kappa. With this battle wound, I figured I had a pretty good shot to at least get some sympathy from the female crowd, but then I decided it wasn’t worth my time. I took a risk, because great risk brings great reward, and I flew to Africa to climb Mount Kilimanjaro (I’d heard once that it was the easiest of the 7 summits. This is a lie). I became a nearly famous climber and spent the latter half of that year traveling the world, showcasing my new book, “A Mountainous Series”, depicting all of my epic climbing feats of the last half century or so, at the young age of 26. This was reminiscent of my childhood, when, at 9 years old, I wrote a book about dating women. Now, my book was extremely successful but I wrote under an alias, and was never given public credit, though I was well-paid, and despite the fact that I was repressing my memories I do remember this clearly. However, I sold the copyright, and saw it reappear in the news just the other day under a new alias. I hope that kid knows he’s in for a lifelong success story. After I abandoned my book tour, I stumbled upon New York City. A wealthy philanthropist found me sketching pigeons in a park, and begged me to join him as a protégée of the arts. How could I refuse? I became a comic book writer, living on the Upper East Side. Fortuitously, one of the shops that sold my comics was actually located next to a coffee shop. One evening I stopped in for a latte, and who was there, but the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I immediately gave up comics and caviar and moved to a bohemian flat in the former alphabet city, grew a scruffy beard and started writing agonized poetry on coffee-stained napkins. I tried for months to catch her eye as I poured my soul out in that coffee shop, night after night, but my efforts were fruitless. I took my infatuation and moved to sunny Arizona, to escape my newly-developed alcoholism. It was at an AA program there where I finally found my true calling.
Opening shot, Fade in with the call of a loon, camera pans across lake with sun rising through gap in peaks; mist is rising off the water as birds begin to chirp. Cut to TOS, sitting in a rustic, carved wooden chair in a log cabin with a bearskin rug on the floor, looking out a wall-sized window. TOS stands and takes a deep drag from tall, sweating glass of E-Z SQZ, turns pointedly to the camera.
TOS:
I’ve never been one to brag, but, as I’m sure you’ve heard by now, I’m one of the best climbers in the world. How many people do you know that can say they’ve scaled Mount Kilimanjaro, over 29,029 feet of treacherous slope, in just one day? I know, it’s impressive. But don’t be intimidated by my astounding abilities and rugged good looks, I’m just like you. I, like you and your neighbor, wake up everyday, and pour myself a glass of delicious, mouthwatering E-Z SQZ orange Juice (the juice that hiked to the highest peak in Africa), and I watch the sun rise over the lake, with the mist steaming into the sunlight. It’s what keeps me going through the day. And I want you to know what it feels like.
Cut to shot of Kilimanjaro with gazelles leaping in the foreground, ensuing montage of Africa clips rolls during next monologue…
What the hell is this bullshit? “I want you to know what it feels like?” Are they serious? Do they think my expert climbing expertise can be so easily sold? I hope they’re joking, because if not, this deal is off. I did NOT climb all of that way, lugging a bottle of that damn juice, in the climbing off-season to have this be my claim to fame. I practically trained my whole life for this, and the best they’ve got it is the Maine Wilderness as a comparison to Africa. If I weren’t beholden to them via an unbreakable contract, I would break my contract.
A Love Herald for Melina, the Lovely
By Erastos Smith
To be a rock
Or to be the bed.
Bedrock. Fire of the Volcanic Lakes.
The question is in
and under-all
Under God, a line unspoken
Truth be told
Told of the token
Eternally smoldering,
The passion in your eyes is consuming
Grasping
Choking. Me.
I enter the death throws of wild
ecstasy,
thinking of your freckled nose and curled eyelashes
I yearn for you to return
here,
and answer my call.
My Melina.Beginning by Barbara Carrapichano
Chapter 1 – Beginning
Beginning.
The doctor sits patiently, his hands teepee-d in front of him; he’s slouched slightly in his chair. His fingers pressed against his lips. He stares into my eyes, probing.
He’s scrutinizing every move I make. Every breath I take.
“Why?”
I smirk, “Why what?”
“Why do you do this to yourself?”
“Why not?”
He sighs, clearly aware that there is no getting through to me.
“You know, at the rate you’re going, you don’t have much life left to live.”
I shrug, “I’ve got a steady job, a roof over my head, food on my plate.”
“But, you’re also throwing away everything you’ve worked for.”
“It doesn’t matter to me. When I die, I die. I’m no longer scared of dying. It’s what happens. Simple as that.”
“How can you live like that?”
“Like what?”
“Depending on drugs; or just being downright depressing all the time… It can’t be fun for you.”
I shrug, “It’s the same as anyone who’s taking anti-depressants. It becomes something they depend on, without it, they lose control. They spiral down… They fail. And, as it is with my depression, it’s whatever. I don’t care. I’m alive for the time being, who cares what happens after? I don’t.”
I stand up, “Excuse me; I have a meeting to catch.”
He stares at me skeptically, “With whom?”
A hint of an animalistic grin, “My firm. And, then I have a date…”
I walk out of his office and into the lobby. I look around, and find her.
I smile in her direction, she smiles back.
Loneliness.
“Eight o’clock tonight. Come over to my place. I want to show you something.” I say this to her as I walk past her.
I glance back for a moment, she’s staring at me. She nods, and smiles again.
I smile back.
I look ahead of me.
“Hold the elevator.”
The man I speak to looks up, he smirks and nods.
I enter the elevator.
“Ground floor.”
He nods as he pushes the letter ‘G’ along with the number ‘3’.
“How’d your appointment go?”
I glance at him quizzically.
“Excuse me?”
He smirks, “With Dr. Harrington.”
I grin, “You’re Dwight, aren’t you?”
“You catch on quick.”
I’m looking at him now, he’s looking at me.
“How much do you need?”
“Enough to last me two weeks.”
He nods, and reaches into his coat pocket. “I knew you’d say something like that.”
He pulls out a small baggy with at least 20 pills.
“This is about what you need… There are extras, you know, just in case.”
I nod, and I pull my wallet out of my pocket, “How much will that be?”
Distribution.
He shakes his head, “Since you’re such good friends with Luke, this one’s on me. Don’t worry about it.”
I still pull out two twenties; I take the baggy from his hand, and replace it with the two twenties.
He shakes his head, and is about to give them back, “No. That’s for your trouble.”
He sighs and places the money in his pocket as I place the baggy in mine.
‘Ding.’
Dwight looks up at the elevator number lights, “I’ll find you.”
The door slides open in front of us, and he steps out onto the floor.
The door closes. I smile, and I reach into my pocket again. I pull out the baggy and open it.
I tip the bag diagonally and give it a little shake; two pills fall into my hand. I put one back, and I close the baggy and put it back in my pocket.
I put the other pill on my tongue, and I swallow.
‘Ding.’
Again, the doors slide open, and I step out.
Addiction.Japanese Poetry by Kaylie McTiernan
Kaylie McTiernan
Japanese Poetry
Haiku
Rain drops fall silent
Landing soft on window glass
Stinging the hard earth
Wind roars through the sky
Leaves aflame scream in fury
Scorching the dry earth
Delicately falling
Surrounded by gentle flakes
Alone with the white
Renga
A quiet house waits
Calm silence lingers throughout
Blooming blossom scent
Garden flowers watch in awe
Dancing red birds sleep outside
The moon’s unknown love
Brilliantly lighting the sky
Quiet and alone
Twirling, laughing, dancing end
Broken farewells then silence.
Tanka
Beaming energy
Expectations of the night
Torn by sudden shock
Now frozen by lightning bolts
Avoided eyeball panic.
Directions
Haiku: 5-7-5
Renga: 5-7-5 7-7 5-7-5 7-7
A Renga is a poem that can be done at a dinner party including many people. There is a progression to the Renga, the beginning must be polite and cautious, the middle must be loose, and the end must be a rapid finish. Also, there must be two lines mentioning flowers and three lines mentioning the moon.
Tanka: 5-7-5 7-7
Create an image relating to emotions.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Read "Taking Note" by Tom Morgan
To continue our exploration of creative writing genres, we're going to practice a form called journal poetry. And so, to begin, we'll all read an essay called "Taking Note" which appears in For the Time Being: The Bootstrap Book of Poetic Journals.
Read this for class on Monday, March 17. Your copies should be marked with active reader notes and questions.
Read this for class on Monday, March 17. Your copies should be marked with active reader notes and questions.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Short Story Genre Study
Short Story Genre Study
Genre Short Fiction
Detective/Mystery
Science Fiction (LeGuin)
Alternative History
Fantasy (Block)
Short Short Fiction
Microfiction
Sudden Fiction (International)
Flash Fiction
US American Short Fiction
O’Connor
Bierce (“An Occurrence at
Faulkner
Salinger (Nine Stories)
Singer
Raymond Carver (Cathedral)
Hemingway
O’Brien (“How to Tell a True War Story” in The Things They Carried)
Cisneros
Alexie
International Short Fiction
Kafka
Joyce
Checkov
Garcia Marquez (subgenre: Magical Realism)
Miscellaneous Anthologies (Collections of Short Fiction)
For each of the three short stories do the following…
Write the story’s title and author.
Then write…
- Three aspects of the story from which you could learn something about writing short fiction: character, setting, event, plot, narrative voice, symbol, motif, theme, mood, tone, etc. (Paragraph.)
- Two questions you have about the story.
- One creative writing assignment based on the story. (Provide directions.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Comments for Tonianne
If you are not one of the two people who gave Tonianne comments in class on Friday write your comments in the comment box below.
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