25 Short Stories by 18-Year-Olds
And the Teacher They Inspired
High School Alumni Reflect on the Fiction They Wrote as Seniors
Edited by
Jim Zervanos
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25 Short Stories by 18-Year-Olds and the Teacher They Inspired:
High School Alumni Reflect on the Fiction They Wrote As Seniors
Jim Zervanos
For years I had been thinking that the stories my seniors wrote deserved a larger
audience, an audience of not only readers who wanted to read good fiction but also writers who
wanted to write good fiction. In 2005, on sabbatical, I set out to compile a collection of excellent
student stories that would be the foundation for a book with a larger, instructional purpose. First,
I read through piles of class collections from my first ten years of teaching; I selected the best
stories and began tracking down one writer after another. Once I eventually made contact with
all of them, they agreed, enthusiastically, not only to contribute their “old” short story from high
school, but also to compose a reflection on their story. I read several excellent story collections—
among them The Best American Short Stories 2004 and, most inspiring, The Story Behind the
Story: 26 Stories by Contemporary Writers and How They Work—in which authors reflect on
their own fiction writing; considering these books, I developed a series of questions that would
stimulate interesting reflections from “my” writers. One by one their reflections came in, and one
by one I was mesmerized. The reflections are stunning not only for their general quality but for
their variety, honesty, depth of feeling, and humor.
Without question, the most gratifying aspect of working on this book was my ongoing
correspondence with the committed writers of the twenty-one stories I originally selected. Most
of them were in college or graduate school, some had begun careers, and at least one had gotten
married and was living outside of the country. In each and every case, these writers recalled their
stories passionately, and offered their own distinctive take on their personal writing process. I
read multiple drafts of their reflections and offered some editorial advice, encouraging them to
write the best, most interesting reflection they could—and revise they did. As the title indicates,
these students—along with their stories and, ultimately, their reflections—inspired me. They
inspired me to be a better teacher when they were students, and once again they inspired me when
they wrote their reflections with such insight and care.
As their reflections were submitted to me over the course of several months, I proceeded
to write my reflections on their stories—and on their reflections as well. I examined each story
from some distinctive critical and pedagogical angle, highlighting, for example, the skillful use of
the omniscient point of view in one story, while admiring the brave use of a writer’s personal life
(as he confides in his reflection) in another story. I developed a writing exercise to correspond
with each story and to correspond, specifically, with the distinctive quality or technique I
highlighted in my reflection of the story. Altogether, the result is a panorama of neatly arranged
voices, each offering up useful advice and insights, not to mention inspiration—for both students
and teachers of writing. I concluded the book with a short story of my own, a story about writing
stories—followed by my reflection, which traces the story’s inspiration back to my experience as
a teacher at Penncrest High School.
When I returned from my sabbatical, I used the book in both my Modern Literature and
Creative Writing classes. To my great delight, students relished the opportunity to read past
student fiction, and then to write their own fiction, keeping in mind the high standard set by past
writers, not to mention sharing a sense of community with young writers, past and present. In the
appendix I’ve included a reading-and-writing assignment that invites students to read the stories
and reflections critically—to consider how the stories work—and to reflect personally as well.
Rounding out ten years of teaching fiction writing, I’ve included four new stories—among the
best in the collection—along with the feedback I provided the students after their first
submissions; also included are the students’ original story outlines and their “notes on revision,”
which they submitted along with the final versions of their stories.
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CONTENTS
Foreword & Introduction by Jim Zervanos • 5 & 9
Stories & Writers’ Reflections
1. DEREK SCHMIDT, 1998 Rossi’s Bar • 19 & 26
2. RUTH HARIU, 1999 Christmas Cards • 29 & 36
3. EMERSON BRENEMAN, 2000 The Reign of the Last Caesar • 39 & 50
4. JOSHUA JORDAN, 2000 Have-Nots Like Us • 55 & 60
5. LAURIE RINES, 2000 Primal Scream Therapy • 63 & 72
6. LEE GOLDSMITH, 2001 In True Silence • 75 & 84
7. JEN MALKOUN, 2001 All That You Can’t Leave Behind • 87 & 91
8. MIKE MASTROIANNI, 2001 Freehold • 95 & 100
9. NOAH PAINTER-DAVIS, 2002 Pet Store Therapy • 103 & 108
10. JON PITTS, 2002 Leaving Places • 110 & 114
11. SCOTT PRITCHARD, 2002 Stasis • 116 & 125
12. PABLO SIERRA, 2002 Las Golondrinas • 128 & 134
13. ANDREW CHOE, 2003 Smoke and Mist • 136 & 146
14. ELENIE SOLOMOS, 2003 Trajectory, Velocity • 148 & 158
15. JULIE WASSON, 2003 Megan and Michael • 161 & 165
16. RACHAEL ELLIOTT, 2004 Cynical Girl • 167 & 174
17. PAUL SCHERER, 2004 Breath • 177 & 183
18. PAT SHUBERT, 2004 Share the Darkness • 186 & 191
19. MORGAN TUOHY, 2004 Anticipating • 195 & 200
20. MATT GILBRIDE, 2005 Moving Out • 203 & 209
21. ANGELA ROSENBERG, 2005 Deal With It • 214 & 219
*
O Captain! by Jim Zervanos and Reflection • 223 & 229
Appendix • 232 • Critical Reading assignment and Sample Paper • 233 & 234
The 2007 stories are followed by teacher’s feedback, writers’ notes on revision, and original outlines.
22. ELEANOR FULVIO, 2007 Overdue Notice Far • 236
23. VIC JANMEY, 2007 Wind Chill • 244
24. KATHRYN LUND, 2007 Never Too Far • 255
25. COURTNEY O’CONNOR, 2007 Your Name is Blaine Jones • 270
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Teacher’s Reflections and Exercises
1. The Perfect Ending in Derek Schmidt’s Rossi’s Bar • 27
2. Showing, Not Telling, in Ruth Hariu’s Christmas Cards • 37
3. Pop Culture and the News as Inspiration in Emerson Breneman’s The Reign of the
Last Caesar • 51
4. The Sympathetic Rant in Joshua Jordan’s Have-Nots Like Us • 61
5. Narration as Story in Laurie Rines’s Primal Scream Therapy • 73
6. Going to the Limit and Beyond in Lee Goldsmith’s In True Silence • 85
7. Plot “Triggers” in Jen Malkoun’s All That You Can’t Leave Behind • 92
8. The Road Story—Mike Mastroianni’s Freehold • 101
9. The Setting As Battleground in Noah Painter-Davis’s Pet Store Therapy • 109
10. The Story Arc—and Scene Arcs—in Jonathan Pitts’s Leaving Places • 115
11. Verisimilitude in Scott Pritchard’s Stasis • 126
12. The Magical Structure in Pablo Sierra’s Las Golondrinas • 135
13. Motifs, Mood, and Pacing in Andrew Choe’s Smoke and Mist • 147
14. Omniscient Point of View in Eleni Solomos’s Trajectory, Velocity • 159
15. The “Simple” Style of Julie Wasson’s Megan and Michael • 166
16. Romantic Comedy in Rachael Elliott’s Cynical Girl • 175
17. Starting In Medias Res—In the Middle—in Paul Scherer’s Breath • 184
18. The Unlikely Narrator in Patrick Shubert’s Share the Darkness • 192
19. The Taboo Topic in Morgan Tuohy’s Anticipating • 201
20. Fiction Inspired by “Real Life” in Matt Gilbride’s Moving Out • 210
21. Seeking Closure in Angela Rosenberg’s Deal With It • 220
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Foreword
In the spring of 2005 I was invited to speak at a Pennsylvania State Press
Association conference in Harrisburg, to talk about the teaching and writing process that
resulted in the short stories published annually in Penncrest High School’s literary
magazine; I had been the magazine’s faculty supervisor for nine years, and almost all of
the fiction that appeared in the Gryphon had been born out of an assignment in the
Modern Literature course I taught.
My immediate—if not rude—response to the
conference organizer, Mr. Hankes, was “No, I don’t think so.” No way was I going to
stand in front of God-knew-how-many teachers and students and for an hour presume to
be an expert on “how to write a good story”—or even pretend to believe that such an
expert existed. Only a fool would attempt to boil the whole mystery down to a one-hour
lesson. Even if I took a less dogmatic approach and just reported what went on in my
classroom, I still couldn’t sum up in one hour—or ten—all that transpired in a semester
of my Modern Literature class—all the readings, the discussions, the knowledge and
understanding that, at least in this teacher’s eyes, seemed to snowball into an
unquantifiable mass—all of which led to the students’ writing of their own short stories.
Determined, Mr. Hankes asked me, rhetorically, if I realized that no other high
school literary magazine in the state published such great fiction. Flattery wasn’t going
to work, I promised myself; I considered that as a conference organizer he would say
what was necessary to fill the empty one-hour slot in the day’s schedule. He went on to
say that some of the magazines didn’t publish any fiction at all and the ones that did,
published only very short stories—a page or two long. He confessed that every year he
greedily plucked the Gryphon from the pile of contest submissions before any other judge
could get his hands on it; he had a collection of Gryphons in his classroom, he said, and,
when encouraging students to write fiction, he often directed them to the Gryphon stories
as models—“I especially love the orange issue,” he said—the 2002 issue, I thought—
“and that one—oh, man—Pet-Store Therapy, about the kid with obsessive-compulsive
disorder”—Noah’s story. “That’s one of my favorites, too,” I said. Then his tone
changed—as if what he was about to say was off the record. He admitted that it was hard
even for him—a high-school English teacher himself—to believe that the stories were
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written by eighteen year olds; they’re “so adult,” he said, in one breath asking “how do
you get them to write such powerful stuff?” and in the next daring to ask, in so many
words, if I’d ever run into trouble, you know, as their teacher…. As if I were an
encourager of criminals! The mastermind behind these beautiful crimes! No trouble, I
said, and offered some philosophical inanity about how you can’t write out of fear any
better than you can teach out of fear.
“So will you do it?” He knew he’d hooked me, but I kept my mouth shut. “I’m
telling you,” he went on, “No one in the state is doing anything even close.” I had no
idea. He taught in a school district west of Harrisburg. I sat there at my desk, in a school
district in the suburbs of Philadelphia, beaming, secretly imagining Gryphons—their
stories—littered about classrooms all over the state; and yet I felt unsettled: I wanted my
students—all of them, past and present—to be hearing this—this praise that was theirs. I
reiterated to Mr. Hankes that it would be impossible for me to stand there and, in a single
hour, teach anyone how to write a short story, let alone teach other teachers how to teach
anyone how to write a short story. I yammered on about how proud I was of my students
and how, if you really wanted to know how they wrote such great stories, you’d have to
ask them. Patiently he listened and then suggested I bring a couple of my students along
with me, to have them read their stories and discuss their writing process—I could chime
in if I wanted to, he said. I liked this idea. Suddenly I was grateful that this skilled
conference organizer had hung on the line after my ungrateful resistance. I already knew
which students I was going to ask—one of them was Angela Rosenberg, whose story,
“Deal With It,” I’d just recently fallen in love with.
I spoke for about twenty minutes that day in Harrisburg—said a few words about
my teaching philosophy, offered up a few basic story-writing strategies—and then
introduced the two student writers, who read their stories to an awestruck audience and
then gracefully fielded questions—from students and teachers alike—speaking with
confidence and a sense of authority that blew away even their teacher, who was already
gushing with admiration: they were not my students, standing there at the lectern; they
were writers, whose company I was proud to share.
As it turned out, the conference experience was inspiration for this book. And yet
nothing about this collection has anything to do with the Gryphon or literary magazines;
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it certainly has nothing to do with writing with the prospect of publication in mind—no
more than the writing of these stories had anything to do with publishing in the first
place. While many of these stories did appear in the Gryphon—and, in fact, won awards
that recognized them as among the finest works of creative writing in the state—many of
the stories, simply because their writers, by chance, were assigned to me in the spring
semester, and not the fall, of their senior years, had been written too late to be submitted
for publication. As much as I stress to my students that they must write fearlessly, not for
me or their friends or their parents, but for themselves and perhaps for some imagined
ideal audience, who might never read their stories, I am always thrilled by the prospect
that others—especially their peers—might read their work, whether through their high
school literary magazine, through the bound collections I assemble in the classroom, or
through the stapled copies they pass on to their friends. Assembling this collection has
afforded me the opportunity to follow through on the impulse I’ve experienced countless
times after reading my students’ stories: to share them, to give them an audience outside
my classroom, and to point out, still amazed after ten years of teaching, “This was written
by an eighteen year old.”
I am once again, in the context of these pages, sharing space with people who
were once my students but who are, at least herein, writers whose company I am proud to
share. Originally, I had planned to cull from old classroom collections the best eighteen
stories from my first ten years of teaching—for no other reason than to justify the title
“18 Short Stories by 18-Year-Olds.” After berating myself for not having bound and
saved the short stories written by my earliest Modern Literature students—who, of
course, being my beloved first, seem to me now the best and brightest I’ve taught—I read
through the pile, which rose up to my waist, and narrowed the best down to twenty-three.
It seemed foolish, then, to eliminate one, let alone five, stories for the sake of a title; two
of the writers bowed out of the project, leaving me with twenty-one stories.
The format of the book resembles that of the hour-long presentation my two
students and I made at the conference in Harrisburg: the stories are followed by the
writers’ own commentary—their reflections—which were written for this collection (for
most of these contributors that meant several years since reading, let alone writing, their
stories); first, in the Introduction, I try to boil down my teaching philosophy as well as
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some basic story concepts, all in an effort to stimulate creative thinking in the minds of
both high-school students and their English teachers.
None of these stories was written in a Creative Writing class, but in a Modern
Literature class, whose focus was reading and writing “critically,” not “creatively.” It has
always been my hope that the short story—the culminating assignment—would not be a
tangent for the student of literature but a natural, if not exhilarating, opportunity to
demonstrate knowledge and understanding impossible to quantify in a single analytical
paper. If nothing else, I hope this book might serve as inspiration for English teachers
who might feel ill-equipped to teach “creative writing” and who, having read these stories
as well as the writers’ reflections, might free themselves—and their students—to
incorporate fiction writing into their literature classes, to think of storytelling not only as
a form of personal expression but as an alternative means of demonstrating an
understanding and appreciation of learned material—particularly of a given body of
studied literature.
In this collection I’ve added my own brief reflection after each story, an attempt
to highlight what qualities I think are worthy of not only admiration but emulation; again,
with an audience of students and English teachers in mind, I’ve also offered writing
exercises that consider the preceding story as a model. Finally, I’ve included a story of
mine, “O Captain!” which was inspired by my students, too many of whom did not live
long enough to tell another story—all of whom—collectively—have taught me
unquantifiable things: it is just that, I think—the unquantifiable things we’ve learned—
that we try to capture in our stories.
In addition, I’ve added an appendix. Students relish the opportunity to read
student fiction, and then to write their own, keeping in mind the high standard set by past
students, not to mention sharing a sense of community with young writers, past and
present. I’ve included an assignment that invites students to read critically—to consider
how the stories work—and to reflect personally as well. Rounding out ten years of
teaching fiction writing, I’ve included four new stories, among the best in the collection,
along with the original feedback I provided the students’ after their first submissions; also
included are the students’ original story outlines and their “notes on revision,” which they
submitted along with the final versions of their stories.
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Introduction
I. Students and Their English Teacher
Teachers aren’t the only ones who might see fiction writing as a guilty pleasure,
as an activity that shouldn’t be indulged for too long before getting back to business as
usual, reading Shakespeare or imitating his sonnets. The students themselves often think
of fiction writing as a break long overdue, at least students like many of my seniors, who
look forward to the fiction-writing assignment almost as much as they dread it, for fear
they’ve lost a certain storytelling talent they remember having in elementary school,
before the word “practical” entered their vocabulary.
But when it comes to learning, context is everything, and even the most practical
of math lessons could end up pointless nonsense—or even pointless fun—without some
purposeful framework. I’m not proposing more “pointless fun”—certainly not through
fiction writing—in the English classroom; rather, I’m proposing more purposeful fiction
writing, specifically in standard English Literature courses—not just in Creative Writing
classes, electives whose electors tend to fall into two groups: those who are determined
to write purposefully, albeit creatively, and those who think “creative” is synonymous
with purposeless, not to mention easy. Any author worth his salt will emphasize what
hard work fiction writing is—and it is hard work, no doubt—but it is also fun; in fact, if it
weren’t so fun, maybe students would be encouraged to do more of it, because it’s good
for them, whether they know it or not.
One of the pleasant things about the typical English research or literary analysis
paper—for both teachers and students—is that the criteria for excellence can be taught,
learned, and, at least theoretically, met, and not only by the highest-achieving students.
One of the daunting things about creative writing—for both teachers and students—is
that the criteria for excellence—or at least the qualities that make up an excellent story—
are impossible to quantify. After all, the very nature of fiction is that it is an invention
born of the creator’s imagination, and so—to the frustration of teachers and students
alike—natural talent, that intangible yet identifiable thing, is often the only thing that
distinguishes the work of one student from another.
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Still, certain aspects of storytelling craft can be taught. And so it follows that
teachers—to make matters of evaluation easier and “fair”—might develop objective
criteria for a fiction writing assignment. Such a rubric might look like a checklist, which
presupposes that the student incorporate the exact components outlined for the
assignment and thereby demonstrate that he knows, for example, how to employ a firstperson, as opposed to a third-person, point-of-view narrator and how to punctuate
dialogue properly. This approach certainly isn’t a bad one, if only as a way to assess a
student’s understanding of the basic features of a story.
But we all know that a great story isn’t just a coherent one with a pre-determined
number of skillfully employed “features” incorporated into it. We have to believe—all of
us, not just teachers—that great stories are not achievements reserved for the “gifted” or
“talented.” We also have to accept that no matter how talented the writer is and no matter
how many wonderfully employed “features” he or she has managed to incorporate into it,
the final draft of a story may seem, perhaps for some inexpressible reason, not all that
great—and, as such, it may be difficult to evaluate, let alone grade.
But impersonal evaluation often yields impersonally written stories. Personal,
passionate evaluation, however, encourages personal, passionate stories.
In my
experience as both teacher and writer, passionate discourse between mentor and student
has a diminishing effect on the importance of grades. That’s not to say that passionate
discourse isn’t messy or that it doesn’t require a lot of time and hard work—does it
ever!—but therein lies the stuff of real learning and even inspiration—for the teacher and
the writer.
The book in your hands is a testament to that passionate discourse, while at the
same time it represents only the tip of the iceberg. These twenty-one writers (along with
the hundreds of others not represented here), as seniors in my Modern Literature course,
read dozens of stories, poems, essays, and several novels; they discussed and wrote
critically about what they read; it was only in the final stretch of the semester that they
began to consider writing their own “modern” short stories—ones that would, in a sense,
fit right into the body of work they’d just spent months studying. By then they were
equipped with more than just a hazy sense of what “modern” meant; what’s more, they
had developed a keen eye for not only thematic tendencies but varied narrative
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approaches and writing strategies. What I hope my students come to appreciate more
than any other concept is this: that themes and meanings—those intangibles in literature
that typically inspire theories and interpretations—are inextricably linked with how the
story is written; that content and form are utterly intertwined; that if you don’t study the
“form,” you can’t fully appreciate the “content.”
Roger Ebert, the film critic, has said, “A movie is not about what it is about. It is
about how it is about it.” This point, which applies to fiction as well, might provide
relief—or added pressure—to the student who is convinced he hasn’t got an original idea;
after all, the student will argue, all the good stories have been told already. But Roger
Ebert and I would remind the student, “No one has told the story you have to tell in the
way only you can tell it.” How will you tell it?
The options are infinite, and your choices are critical. Will you tell the story in
the first-person point of view, or the close third-person point of view, or the omniscient?
If first-person, will your narrator be a wise old woman, full of insight and regret, telling
her story years after its significant events have occurred, or will your narrator be a young
man, like the protagonist in Patrick Shubert’s “Share the Darkness,” still rattled by the
events of last week, telling his story in the midst of ongoing action, lying in the cold
street, gazing at the stars, in the warm bed of his own blood?
II. The Stories
While my Modern Literature students have great freedom to tell the stories they
wish to tell how they wish to tell them, they must adhere to some basic requirements that
help link the assignment—and their stories—to the content and spirit of the course. As
such, their stories demonstrate—to their teacher, at least—some of the things they’ve
learned. Like the literature they’ve read for class, their stories must take place in the
modern-day world; they must be realistic, not, for example, science-fiction or fantasy
(though I’ve made exceptions for students who conscientiously seek to incorporate
“modern” qualities into their preferred genre). The story must delve into challenging
emotional territory, while steering clear of a “romantic” or “happy” ending, which isn’t to
say the story must be sad or tragic; rather, the ending should capture the story’s core
truth, without being sentimental or gimmicky, without resorting to conventions of soap
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opera, Hollywood blockbuster, or the after-school special, with an obvious moral or
lesson.
Robert Frost likened writing free verse—or poetry without “rules”—to playing
tennis with the net down.
Of course, no rules are “absolute,” but knowing some
strategies and techniques—for example, knowing the “classic” elements (some of which
I’ve highlighted below)—can serve a writer well (even if knowing sometimes means
altering or even rejecting), as the varied stories in this collection demonstrate. The
“classic” three-act structure is the traditional story form, as ancient as the earliest
storytellers: in Act One a protagonist faces a conflict; in Act Two the protagonist’s
struggle builds to a crisis; and, in Act Three, the protagonist’s decisive action at the
climax creates irreversible change. An artist must know a tradition in order to break
from it, know the rules in order to break them—or at least to break them artfully. Pablo
Sierra turns the three-act structure upside down and inside out, moving artfully through
time and space, leaping from one narrative perspective to another, rejecting conventions
of realistic, chronological storytelling—but never haphazardly; at the core of “Las
Golondrinas” the classic elements hold the story together like an intricately designed
collage.
No matter what the author’s narrative approach—simple or complex, traditional
or avant-garde—every one of these twenty-one stories features a protagonist, who deals
with a conflict, which is the heart of the story—without conflict there is no story. In
Noah Painter-Davis’s “Pet Store Therapy” the protagonist battles a complicated
psychological disorder in a setting that serves as a battleground for his conflict, which
manifests itself in both an external conflict and an internal conflict: as he tackles his
obsession with cleanliness in the external, or physical, world of the filthy pet store, his
internal—that is, his psychological and emotional—conflict, rooted in his ambivalent
feelings toward his cat-adoring mother, festers. In Michael Mastroianni’s “Freehold” the
setting spans America’s terrain, from the Northeast to the Southwest, where the
protagonist’s journey brings him face to face with his father’s mysterious past and his
own unknowable future.
The protagonist seeks resolution—that is, he seeks to restore order in his life—
but the conflict is not necessarily resolved in the end, not in the way he seeks to resolve
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it, anyway. In Paul Scherer’s “Breath” the protagonist’s conscious desire is to discover
whether he is truly the father of his adulterous (dead) wife’s child; but his unconscious
desire, it turns out, is to devote himself as father, regardless of the biological facts. In
Jonathan Pitts’s “Leaving Places” the protagonist wants to be a musician, like his father,
who long ago went seeking glory in the city of Los Angeles; but what he really wants, he
comes to realize, is to be nothing like his father. The conscious desire is often the exact
opposite of the unconscious desire, which manifests itself in the end; human beings often
want one thing but deep down need—or just plain get—another. In Eleni Solomos’s
“Trajectory, Velocity” a wife wants the joyful news of her pregnancy to heal her
wounded relationship with her parents; instead, she endures a suffering that unites her
with her husband in a way she never expected.
A protagonist’s “failure” to get what she initially wanted does not necessarily
mean she “failed.” In Angela Rosenberg’s “Deal With It” her young protagonist has
broken up with her boyfriend in order to enjoy a carefree senior year; in the end, her
conscience is tinged with regret—far from “free,” after all, she realizes the price one must
pay for independence, and she’s wiser for it. On the other hand, a protagonist’s “success”
in getting what she wants doesn’t necessarily mean a “happy ending.” The protagonist in
Rachael Elliott’s “Cynical Girl” wants more than anything not to be pregnant, in spite of
her symptoms; though her wish comes true, she faces some unexpected grief—and, in the
end, this charming, witty, cynical girl musters up a newfound, humbled voice. Though
Angela’s and Rachael’s protagonists seem to “learn a lesson”—about themselves and
life—a good story is not about “right” and “wrong” or “winning” and “losing.”
Sometimes a story blurs the line between “right” and “wrong” in such a way that
its very ambiguity is the story’s central truth. There’s no telling who is “right” or who is
“wrong” in Lee Goldsmith’s “In True Silence,” in which a father tries unrelentingly to
keep his brave, proud son from fighting in a war; we come to understand only that
heartbreak is inevitable in a world where young men leave their families to fight for their
beliefs.
In Matt Gilbride’s “Moving Out” a young man, determined to repair his
relationship with the woman he loves, as well as with their son, turns to alcohol when she
turns him away, self-destructing even as he dreams of a better future. A good story is
about being true, and the truth lies somewhere between “right” and “wrong,” between
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“winning” and “losing.” What is true is that people face adversity, and their lives change
as a result, for better and for worse.
In all of these stories the protagonists traverse an arc that starts at point A and
ends at point B; typically, the overall arc is comprised of smaller arcs, often defined by
scenes, each challenging and compelling the protagonist toward a crisis, when he or she
must face the conflict once and for all. In the journey from point A to point B, the writer
must determine whether to show or tell; the oft-quoted nineteenth-century novelist Henry
James advised, sensibly, “Show. Don’t tell”—that is, show the story through action and
dialogue, rather than tell the story through a summary of “what happened.” But to reject
telling altogether would be to deny the fact that fiction writers—and the narrators they
create—are storytellers, who use narration—summarizing sometimes-huge chunks of
time—usually throughout a series of fleshed-out scenes, in which we see action and hear
dialogue in an immediate physical setting. The first-person narrator in Jen Malkoun’s
“All That You Can’t Leave Behind” shifts seamlessly from action to memory, from
present to past, where the heart of her devastating story lies. In Scott Pritchard’s “Stasis,”
the balance between third-person narration and scene creates a lifelike rhythm, the vivid
prose bringing to life not only the action but also the thoughts of the protagonist; we are
drawn in by the story’s sense of truth and authenticity—its verisimilitude.
The twenty-three storytellers in this collection push their protagonists to a climax
that seems both surprising and inevitable, a moment when the protagonist’s decisive
action results in irreversible change. In a startling narrative twist, Morgan Tuohy’s
“Anticipating” leads us to a precipice, where the climax is suspended in the story’s final
word—as well as in the blank space that follows; the finale is devastating to the reader, as
it is to the protagonist, who faces a confrontation neither we—nor the narrator himself—
ever could have anticipated. In most of the stories in this collection, another significant
moment follows the climax, perhaps not what you’d call a resolution, but a
denouement—simply the outcome—often a quiet moment in which the core truth of the
story, as well as the heart of the character, present themselves in a kind of blooming and
bleeding at the same time—as in the seemingly simple, yet resonating, final images of the
first two stories: in Derek Schmidt’s “Rossi’s Bar,” a young guitarist, in the spotlight
that was once his mentor’s, shows a busboy a few chords, then asks for “a glass of water,
15
filled to the top with ice”; in Ruth Hariu’s “Christmas Cards” a lonely divorcée devours
“a bag of heart-shaped candy…except the green ones, which I threw out the next
morning.”
III. The Reflections
In the enthusiastic reflections that follow their stories, these twenty-one writers,
who, in most cases, have returned to their stories years after writing them, reveal their
varied approaches to their work, recalling their sources of inspiration.
Seeing that
another writer’s inspiration can become our inspiration—as both teachers and writers—I,
too, reflect on each story, focusing on a single aspect of the writing that is worthy of not
only admiration but also emulation; I then offer a writing exercise, inspired by the story.
While the Teacher’s Reflections and Exercises are geared toward instruction, the writers’
reflections, also, are as instructive as they are interesting and inspiring. Their writing
strategies and creative approaches are as vast and varied as their personalities, which
emerge in their reflections. Andrew Choe is still contemplating revisions for his story
“Smoke and Mist,” particularly after studying short fiction with a college professor,
whose insights Andrew now passes on to us. Josh Jordan confesses to writing “HaveNots Like Us” in a burst of creative energy, “for ten hours, all at once, with a high
fever”—this in spite of the teacher’s rigid itinerary that included deadlines for an outline,
two, four, then six pages, before the final draft—“It was the first honest, non-sarcastic
thing I ever wrote.” The premise of Julie Wasson’s “Megan and Michael” came to her in
bed one night, when, in her words, “I heard my dad walk down the hall. The floorboards
squeaked and the door to the spare bedroom closed shut. Suddenly, a new idea popped
into my head.” That’s when she wrote the story’s first sentence in the spiral notebook
she kept in the top drawer of her nightstand: “He snored. That is why they began
sleeping in separate bedrooms.”
Emerson Breneman looked outward—less than inward—for his inspiration: to
“grindcore” and “gangsta” music; to his neighborhood, where thugs and small-time drug
dealers were “getting reputations”; and, finally, he recalls, to
a shocking story about dog-fighting rings in Philadelphia printed in The
Philadelphia Inquirer.
This article laid out the way in which these dogs,
16
primarily Pit Bulls, were bred and sold secretly and trained with brutal tactics. I
used some of these training techniques—the weights and the beatings and
prodding—in the story, but others, like mixing gun powder in with the dog’s food
to make it hateful, I left out because they seemed to too cruel to be real.
Emerson’s omission of a “real-life” detail—because it counteracted the sense of truth in
his fiction—is no doubt an ironic one, but one that reveals a principle of fiction writing
modeled by these writers: no matter what their inspiration—which is often, as they
confide in their reflections, their own personal lives—they appreciate and respect their
stories as invention, as fiction, no matter how close to home, no matter how close to the
bone.
Fiction frees the writer to make something new, something separate from himself,
separate from the “what happened” and even from the what-never-was or what-willnever-be. The fiction writer might be inspired by a newspaper article or a personal
experience, but in the end he must consider his inspiration secondary to the story, just as
the teacher, too, must suspend his interest in the writer’s “real life.” It is no easier for the
student to open himself up in the classroom than it is for the teacher, especially, I believe,
when the writers are teenagers—in a public school, let’s say, where teachers are expected
to be more than proliferators of information and “skill sets.” It is not easy for a teacher to
maintain a cool, dispassionate distance, to unfailingly, religiously treat students’ fiction
as “made up.”
In fact, one might say it is insensitive, irresponsible, and even
dangerous—to create an atmosphere in which students don’t feel nervous, afraid, or selfconscious, but, instead, free to create and share their creations with their teacher.
The very notion of cultivating a “free” atmosphere in a high-school classroom,
not to mention trusting relationships with students, is a daunting prospect, so daunting
that no doubt it scares teachers away, lest they fail to understand, respect, or honor their
students’ work, lest they fail to detect the “real lives” in their students’ so-called fiction
(or, worse, fail to report their troubled students to the proper authorities), lest they fail to
grade their students’ work fairly, let alone fail to express their constructive criticism
kindly. The narrative voice of the recovering heroin addict, along with the realistic
details, in Laurie Rines’s “Primal Scream Therapy” are so convincing that any teacher
would find himself dreading the possibility that the story is based on his student’s
17
personal experience—and dreading even more so the sense of responsibility that comes
with reading, let alone responding to, such a story. In her reflection Laurie charmingly
confesses: “I’ll just say it: I’ve never done heroin. I’ve never even seen it in real life;
this entire story was pure invention based only on Trainspotting and Smack by Melvin
Burgess. If I were to improve this story, I would want to do a lot more research.” But
just when you might conclude—with no small amount of relief—that the story is not “her
own,” you discover that Laurie had been inspired, in part, by a middle-school friend
who’d entered rehab for anorexia; you discover that as a seventeen year old she was, in
her own words,
an incredibly sad and angry girl who felt that she had the right to be neither sad
nor angry. I was from a solid nuclear family, was well-provided for, and on my
way to a good college and bright future. So I was constantly guilty for my
ingratitude. I think in writing this story about Marianna I was creating someone
who had the right to feel as miserable as I did at the time. And I think it did me a
lot of good because when I was finished and let other people read it, a tremendous
weight was lifted.
One day a shy student, who barely said a word in class, mustered the courage to
stop in after school to discuss her short story with me, just days after I handed back my
glowing response. She seemed sad, so I braced myself for her complaint—not about the
grade, but, I feared, about my insensitive response, my ignorant dismissal of what was
obviously—to her anyway—her life she was writing about—after all, who would imagine
such a story? As it turned out, she didn’t suggest any such insensitivity on my part; she
was pleased with my response, actually. Instead, she said she just wanted me to know it
was “all true.” I was sorry this was the case, I told her—I had honestly hoped it wasn’t—
and echoed what I’d said in my response, that she’d written a beautiful, if devastating,
story. I also said, maybe stupidly, that I hoped writing the story had somehow helped
her. When she shrugged off this consolation, it became clear to me, the point she was
trying to make, for all my praise: her short story was a short story, and the experience
that inspired it was her life; there was no point in trying to figure out how one related to
the other. She just wanted me to know that the pain was real, hers. If she could, she
would go back in time, erase the experience, and sacrifice the story.
18
It was not the first time, nor will it be the last time, that I hope what I am reading
is, for my student’s sake, not based on personal experience, but, rather, the product of a
vivid imagination, keen observation of life, mastery of storytelling technique met with
hard work, genuine originality, and revision, revision, revision—and then I must remind
myself that, regardless of the source of inspiration, a great story is the result of all of
these things.
Rossi’s Bar
Derek Schmidt 1998
My daydream came to a halt
when I realized that Charlie was staring
at me, waiting for an answer. I couldn’t
help but feel guilty; even though the
basement was cool, the summer heat had
a numbing effect on my brain. What had
he asked me? I had no idea. I was
dreaming of a trip to Thailand that I was
about to take. Charlie sighed and almost
broke my heart when he told me that we
should end the lesson early.
“No, hold on… Just let me
think… Wait, what was the question…
Please?” I begged.
“You haven’t paid attention to a
goddamn word I’ve said. I shouldn’t
even be here if you’re not paying
attention.”
“What was the question?”
“I want the names of three
substitutions for a G major seventh, flat
five, sharp nine, and two inversions for
each.” He said the last part sharply, and
I looked helplessly at my guitar for an
answer.
I knew this wasn’t the question
he had asked me originally, but a much
harder one. Of course, I probably would
have known the answer had I been
paying attention. It’s not that I was
doing it out of disrespect; Charlie was
almost like a paternal figure in my life. I
was just being an asshole.
Charlie had been born a while
ago—how long exactly I never found
out. I just know that he had to be at least
sixty, because he taught my grandfather
years before I was born, and my
grandfather was about fifty when he
hired Charlie. Charlie had been an
alcoholic for many years of his life; it
was not uncommon for him to teach my
grandfather half-drunk. This addiction
cost him one wife and two kids, and now
he always asked me for a drink of water
filled with ice cubes when he came to
teach. He had gray hair, a mustache, an
incredibly deep voice, glasses, and
always dressed with a tie, as he came
from his day job at the courthouse. He
also had eyes that were downright
distracting—they were a freakishly pale
gray—it almost made him look blind.
He always had an ID card that read:
“Charles
Hansen—Electronic
Recording.” His job was to record the
hearings in the different courtrooms. He
was constantly complaining about the
people he worked with.
It had been a year now that I had
been studying under Charlie, and I felt
like I wasn’t improving. So now it was
more of a favor to him to let the lessons
continue—I knew that he needed the
money. Working for the county was not
a very high paying job, and Charlie was
still a few years away from retirement.
There was an awkward silence,
and I felt helplessly pinned under his
glare.
I wanted so much not to
disappoint, but I could do nothing.
“Look, think about this for next
week.
You aren’t focused…
It’s
starting to annoy me,” he said. I didn’t
doubt this for a second. If Charlie was
anything, he was easy to annoy.
So I said all right, even though I
knew I wouldn’t be working on it until a
half-hour before my next lesson.
*
Before I left for my trip, I
promised Charlie I would see him play
at a bar he had a regular job at. I was
proud of the fact that he could play in a
bar and be in control; it was almost
inspirational. The bar was in Delaware,
20
in fact, a bad section of Delaware, but
my mom and dad were excited to go,
and we packed into the car on a Saturday
night, dressed nicely, and headed to
Delaware.
Now, my dad usually knows the
directions to anywhere you may want to
know about.
The man has been
everywhere in the Tri-State area. So
when he said he didn’t need me to bring
the directions Charlie had given us, I
trusted him. When he got lost, we
almost got into a fistfight in the middle
of a parking lot in a shady section of
town. My mom cried, her mascara was
running down her face, but by the grace
of God we found Rossi’s, and made
amends.
The bar was beautiful. For the
area it’s in, it serves as a diamond in a
coal mine for all who know about it.
The furniture was meticulously polished,
the lighting was just right, and the
bartender greeted us warmly. We saw
that Charlie was situated in a lonesome
corner of the restaurant, an almost
forbidden area of the joint, but his
playing was beautiful, and it made us all
forget about what had just happened,
which made me nauseous for some odd
reason.
He played “Satin Doll,”
“Beautiful Love,” and “Embraceable
You,” which we both had sarcastically
called “Abradeable You.” There was a
drunk at the table closest to Charlie who
kept hassling him to play Elvis material,
which I knew Charlie hated, and he
heckled him all night. But Charlie was
almost unconscious, playing as if no one
else were in the room. And although his
audience was too busy eating their
dinners to appreciate what he was doing,
he treated it like his first concert ever,
totally enthusiastic, totally focused,
determined to make every note perfect.
Even though the applause at the end of
the songs was empty of meaning, he
went on playing, as if it didn’t matter to
him at all.
When he took a break, he came
to sit beside us, and after talking to us
for a while, he walked toward the corner
as if resuming his position, but he only
bent down to talk into the microphone,
saying that I would play the second half
of the night.
I hadn’t practiced, so I was
embarrassed. I told him this, but he only
said, “These people don’t even know if
you make a mistake.”
Trying my
hardest to believe him, I took his seat,
embraced his guitar, and started playing.
The fact that Charlie was there
was inspiring, and I played at a level I
didn’t think I could ever attain. I soared,
I flew, I improvised, I revised, I almost
rewrote the bridge to “Misty,” and
pulled it all off beautifully. At the end
of the night, I thanked him, trying to
hide the fact that my hands were shaking
out of control… It was the first time I
felt nervous, and it was because it was
the first time I ever really came through
for Charlie.
*
Probably the lowest point in my
life came shortly after the excursion to
Rossi’s. As I had mentioned before, I
was waiting to take a trip to Thailand.
This was intended to be a pilgrimage of
sorts, as I had taken an interest in
Buddhism not long before. I was so
enthusiastic about it; I read volumes and
volumes of works of metaphysics,
Buddhist philosophy, and Tibetan death
rites. I thought that the trip would serve
to bring Buddhism to the forefront of my
life, permanently. Instead, upon viewing
21
the monks and how they lived, it
repressed it, as I realized with a
sickening sense of defeat that I could
never be the devout Buddhist I wanted to
be.
They were so disciplined, so
devoted, almost inhuman. This crushed
my spirit in an indescribable way; I felt
as though all my hopes and dreams of
living a simple, monastic life had been
crushed, and I had been embarrassed as a
result. I came back to America with my
tail between my legs.
So I finally got my driver’s
license at seventeen, which had been a
long overdue priority, and in order to
pay for car insurance, I had to stop
taking lessons from Charlie. My dad was
actually the one who suggested it, and I
went through with it, mostly because I
had lost interest in the guitar. I had lost
interest in most of the things I was fond
of before my trip. But when he actually
talked to Charlie about it, he was
heartbroken. He told my dad that I was
his most promising student, and that he
had noticed a change for the worse in me
lately, and I wondered cynically if it was
all bullshit. Still, I felt bad, because
Charlie was a good guy, nice, and even
though he always busted my balls, I
respected him.
But it was the middle of the
summer, and instead of turning to my
guitar, I had turned to the bottle. I had
always thought that drinking was beyond
me, maybe for practical reasons above
anything else—I’m very skinny, and I
had never tried alcohol before. But my
tolerance for it grew, mainly because I
tried to out-drink guys twice my weight
and lost too many times, and waking up
in my own vomit, or in the house of
someone I didn’t know.
I finally gave it up after I woke
up next to a girl I’d never seen before.
Thankfully, I found out that she had
passed out as well, and we hadn’t
fucked, as I first suspected. I was
relieved, as she was not much to look at.
The beginning of my senior year
marked a change in my personality.
Instead of being the nice guy I was
known for, I started being an asshole.
And kept acting that way when I found
out more people liked the new me.
Especially women.
I also got a job that I loved. I
started working at a music store near my
house.
I was immediately given
important responsibilities, as I had to
lock up the shop at night, take care of the
bookkeeping, and teach lessons. It was
only my first week.
Of course, as I would be
reassured later, all good things come to
an end. And for me, that end is usually
quick in coming. I was accused of
stealing (no, I didn’t do anything—
honest) and my employment was
terminated. Several phone conversations
and nasty letters later, I received
compensation in full, forty dollars. Two
months later, I was to be fired from
another job for stealing, and this time, I
did do it.
Although at the time I had
friends, I felt very alone. It had very
recently become apparent to me that
there was something about my life that
was very unsatisfying, and I realized I
could turn to no one for help about this
one; it was something I had to figure out
for myself.
But I did make one friend that I
felt I could rely on. Sophie, who I had
known for the last six years, and who I
had developed an undeniable crush on,
had become one of my closest friends at
this time. This friendship started, oddly
enough, after I had told her about the
feelings I had for her, which were
embarrassing to me. My senior year, I
22
thought, should be a girl-of-the-month
deal, but all I wanted was her.
It was hard to describe what it
was about her that made me want her so
badly. First of all, she had dark hair,
which was a must for me, and she was
pretty attractive. Secondly, she had an
attitude. It was more than a purely
flirtatious attitude: she was bombastic,
yet humble, frank, yet elusive, sexy, but
prudent.
Like an idiot, I tell just about
everyone but her about these feelings.
Nobody could really give me any
positive advice; most of them told me to
stay away from her. I got a similar
response from her best friend, who
somehow felt that it was now her
business to tell Sophie about it.
So we were at a ska concert, the
same night that I had gotten fired from
my second job in a row, and I was trying
my best to enjoy it; I thought it would be
my last for a long time. So right in the
middle of the concert, Sophie comes up
to me and asks me if I want to talk. This
is a day after I talked to her friend about
it and she tells me forget it, you’re
barking up the wrong tree, so naturally
I’m kind of pissed. I tell her no, wait till
later, and she gets annoyed.
So I ignore her for the rest of the
concert and a little bit afterwards, until
we get in an argument in front of some
bums and she runs into the train station.
Feeling like an asshole, I run after her,
and we finally talk alone.
She tells me she wants to be
friends, and I agree, because even
though it’s not what I want, I want her to
stop hounding and embarrassing me. I
had heard the line so many times before,
I had a calculated response ready for it,
and I delivered a performance, acting as
though I meant it, and she bought it.
So I felt guilty when we started
doing things together:
fun things
(hanging out in general), not so fun
things (schoolwork), and everything
else.
But this only reinforced my
feelings for her, and I felt as though I
had to do something.
*
But I was too uptight to do it.
And every time I planned to talk to her
about it, I froze. There were so many
reasons why we shouldn’t do it. For
one, a friend of mine had a mild crush on
her as well. Secondly, her ex was eyeing
me every time I glanced at him, and I
think he was starting to scare both of us.
And, of course, who could forget that
shit about “Ruining The Friendship.” So
I went back to the bottle, knowing that I
couldn’t care less about all of it after I
had a couple in me, and it would make
talking to her easier.
Of course,
sometimes I planned to talk to her during
school, so I had to drink before school,
and then I started drinking just so I could
look her in the face. I realized I was just
making excuses and stopped again when
she smelled it on me and chewed me out
for it.
So I started working at a pizza
joint, as I was sick of being unemployed,
and the hours are crap, the pay is crap,
and it makes me feel like my life is crap.
But it makes me enjoy the time off, and I
sit and lounge around the house, doing
little projects, picking up my guitar to
glare at it.
One of these days when I had
time off I got a phone call. It was
Charlie, who I hadn’t seen now for
almost half a year. I was happy to hear
from him, but I also felt a little awkward.
Former guitar teachers are almost
as bad to talk to as ex-girlfriends are, but
23
Charlie spared the awkward small talk
and was painfully to the point.
He told me that he went for a
checkup at the doctor’s. He said the
doctor found cancer in his liver and
prostate, and that he had less than a
month to live.
*
About a month after our
conversation at the concert, I finally
talked to her (sober, too!). We were
parked in her car, across the street from
my friend Stan’s house. By this time, I
felt as though things had changed for the
better. I was almost positive. So, I
asked her why she wouldn’t want to start
dating. Now, you have to realize, she’s
not a very straightforward person, and
her answers always led to more
questions, and she ended up confusing
the hell out of me. At one point, she
even admitted (rather reluctantly) that
we would work, and I knew that some
part of her wanted what I wanted. I
realized that if this was the case, there
had to be something she wasn’t telling
me.
Eventually she told me that one
of the reasons that she felt
uncomfortable with dating me was that I
had already had sex. Well, I said, that
shouldn’t matter, because you’ve done
just about everything but that, so you can
only say you’re a virgin because of a
technicality. She’d been going out with
the same guy, off and on, for the last two
years, and they obviously had engaged
in some sexual acts. They would have
had to, because Sophie had one of the
dirtiest mouths I had ever heard on a
girl. Of course, I was only trying to play
it off as something trivial because I had
never actually had sex.
Now, understand, I actually cared
about her. I was not trying to do this
one. For once, I felt comfortable around
a girl, felt like I could relate, like I
belonged with her. To find out that she
wouldn’t go out with me because of this
reason was messed up. She thought I
was experienced, but I wasn’t. It was, of
course, my own fault, and I know I get a
“10” on the asshole scale for lying about
it to everyone. I should’ve taken notes
when I watched the “Wonder Years”
episode where Kevin makes a jackass of
himself after telling everyone he did the
deed with his girl when he didn’t.
So when I told her the truth, she
bolted out of the car, yelling and
screaming at me, “You’re lying! I’m
sick of everyone telling me what I want
to hear!” and ran into Stan’s house. So
again, I go running after her, and
because it’s dark, I trip and fall and
almost break something, but I get up and
run into the house. She’s standing there,
telling Stan to give her the “grand tour”
like everything’s all right, and I yell at
her, saying I want to talk to her outside,
and when she refuses, I resort to yelling
at her, which caused sense of alarm in
Stan, probably because I looked violent.
So I told her that I was telling the truth,
and that she had to believe me. She says
that if I’m telling the truth, then I’ll tell
Stan. Now, I am constantly giving
advice to Stan about girls, as he goes to
an all-boys school, and he takes it all in
good faith based on his perception that
I’ve done the deed before. He’s my best
friend, and I don’t want to crush him.
But I did it anyway.
I ran down the stairs, into the
basement, arms flailing, and I point a
finger at Stan.
24
“Listen to me. I lied about doing
that chick. I lied, and I feel bad that it
takes this to make me admit it, but I lied.
I’m sorry. I’m not kidding. You better
take me seriously.” Stan’s jaw dropped,
and he slowly nodded, and I realized that
I scared him. I turn to Sophie, out of
breath, and ask her if she’s happy, and
she walks away, shaking her head.
So now there’s this awkward
pause between me and Stan. He walks
up to me, and hugs me, telling me that
he doesn’t care. I cried, right then, and I
didn’t even mind doing it, even though I
was in another man’s arms.
Well, weeks later, she still didn’t
believe me. What the hell else could I
do?
*
While this was happening,
Charlie came over every day for weeks.
And every day I had a different project
to complete for him. Even though I had
been an asshole before, and I had taken
him for granted, this time I paid
attention.
He taught me everything he felt I
needed to know to be a complete
musician.
And even though he
complained sometimes about his health,
he stayed for hours at a time, handing
over pages and pages and books of
manuscripts he had written. I knew I
had to study it, live it, breathe it. I
picked up the damn guitar, the thing that
I had avoided like a disease for the past
six months. I picked it up and liked it.
*
On Sunday, a day I have off,
Sophie calls and asks if she can come
over. I ask her why, and she won’t give
me a reason, but I tell her she can, even
though I know I’m in trouble.
I fell asleep working on one of
my projects for Charlie, and I had just
woken when she came over. I was
dazed for the first half-hour, and she
seemed nice, but I still had no idea what
the hell she was doing being at my
house, and, frankly, I was expecting
some kind of argument.
“I just wanted to hang out,” she
managed between bites of a salad she
had bought on the way over. I put on a
Ken Ishii CD and decided to relax.
“This room’s giving me a headache,”
she eventually said, after almost a halfhour of painfully awkward small talk. I
was using the basement as a studio, and I
had a ridiculously low amount of
lighting in the place, to present a good
environment for the band I was
recording, and thought it fairly
reasonable for it to be annoying. “Let’s
go up to your room instead.”
And we went up, and I was an
ass, as usual. I don’t think it takes a
damn mind reader to understand that
when a girl lies down next to you on
your own damn bed that she at least
wants a kiss. Of course, I wasn’t even
thinking about that—I didn’t want to
screw anything up. If we were going to
have a relationship, we were going to do
it right. One hour later she left my house
disappointed and I cursed myself for not
trying anything, even though I knew that
it was best to take things slow.
The next day was Charlie’s last
at my house. He barely had enough
strength to endure the drive over, and he
was short of breath during the lesson.
He cursed his radiation treatments,
saying that they made him sicker than he
25
would be without them. I had never
seen Charlie look so bad in my life. But
at the end of the lesson, when the guitars
were put away, he told me that he
wanted me to take his place at Rossi’s.
“Me? I can’t do that. You’re
practically a legend there.”
“But you can handle it. We’ve
been over the damn stuff a million times.
If you don’t take it, we’ve just been
wasting our time.”
What could I say?
*
Charlie was to spend the last few
days of his life in the hospital. I visited
him a few times, and, when he died, I
felt an even bigger emptiness than
before. How could I deal with this? I
told my friends nothing of it, which, for
some reason, helped me maintain my
composure. I looked at my guitar with
disgust, but I knew I had to take
Charlie’s job.
I asked Sophie to keep that
Friday night free, and she agreed absentmindedly. The next day, I asked her
again about the date, being pessimistic.
She said it would be a bad idea, and I
almost lost it. This was too much
bullshit for me to handle.
Of course, I care enough about
her to want her to be happy, even if it
isn’t with me, but I’m still too immature
not to be jealous as all hell when I see
her talking to any guy for more than five
minutes.
I thought it would be
impossible for me to get through the
next few months sober.
But instead of turning to the
bottle, I turned to my guitar (for once),
and I took the job at Rossi’s. It feels
unnerving to be sitting in that same
forbidden corner Charlie had garnered
his for the last five years, but it also
feels, somehow, right. The audience is
still unappreciative at best, but a busboy
there, Marcus, also plays guitar. Just the
other night, while I was showing him a
few chords, I could feel my voice getting
a little deeper, and my hair getting a
little grayer. I asked him if he would get
me a glass of water, filled to the top with
ice.
26
DEREK SCHMIDT
I was born in Media, PA, in October of 1980. Since graduating from Penncrest High
School in 1998, I’ve split my time between working and pursuing my undergraduate
degree. Most recently, I worked for three years as a GED teacher in Philadelphia. In the
summer of 2005, I decided to study full-time at Temple University. My latest work,
FAFSA Renewal Application, is forthcoming.
Reflection on Rossi’s Bar
When I read “Rossi’s Bar,” I can’t help focusing on the motley nature of the
narrator’s personality: there’s the romanticism that has him dabbling in Orientalism, the
willful disregard for consistency in verb tense, and the cynicism he wears as a three-yearold would a size-ten shoe.
“Rossi’s Bar” was incredibly easy to write, since it was mostly a personal
narrative. Reflecting on it now, I would call it an embarrassingly personal narrative, but
this is the trade-off you accept when you write about your life: If this story paints a
vibrant and detailed picture, it’s more likely an X-ray than a work of art.
But the events of my life were incredibly interesting to me then, and I thought
they’d make for a good story. I’ve started to develop my own theory about this in the
few years I’ve had to think about it: the younger we are, the fewer things we’ve
experienced, so each thing takes up a greater percentage of the sum of experiences, and is
therefore worthy of examination and extrapolation. I don’t yet have a mathematical
model to describe this, but, since I’m going for my undergraduate degree in Mathematics,
I think I know a lot about Math, and I have plenty of free time over the summer.
One theme that wraps up nicely is the narrator’s search for himself. As with
many people, this search almost ends in a relationship. This would have been sentimental
but laudable: thinking mostly of someone else is better than obsessing over our own
desires, faults, and neuroses, which, as the protagonist learns in the beginning, are the
same no matter how exotic the environment. But things turn out differently, and he ends
up where he began, appreciating his position a bit more. I’m a bit more cynical now
about the prospect of “finding yourself” (please excuse the scare quotes), but I think this
modest conclusion is realistic.
Stories usually require a bit more yarn than that, though, and the narrator
imagines his “hair getting a little grayer” and his “voice getting a little deeper.”
Hopefully the impression here is one of self-awareness and irony, that the narrator is
letting his imagination write a bit of history. For anyone privy to a few big-fish stories
from his grandfather, there’s just no other way to end a personal narrative.
27
Teacher Reflection
The Perfect Ending in Derek Schmidt’s Rossi’s Bar
A writer wants his readers to get the point of the story, so where better than at the
end to make sure they “get it,” right? What if the writer arrives at the end and isn’t sure
if the point of the story is clear—or if the story has a point? One solution the writer
might resort to is simply to explain the point, right there in the narration—“…and so in
the end he understood that…” or (worse) “…and so the moral of the story is that…” or
the author might let the character himself explain, perhaps through dialogue—“you know
what I realized on my way over here today…?” But these are the most dreadful sorts of
endings, when the author must explain, or sum up, the point to make the story seem
complete. The perfect ending seems to arise naturally, its “meaning” revealed through
action, through imagery, which has already been made significant earlier in the story—
like, for example, the image of Derek Schmidt’s protagonist, sitting on a stool in Rossi’s
Bar, feeling a little older, teaching the bus boy some chords, and asking for a tall glass of
water, filled to the top with ice.
Every detail of the final image in “Rossi’s Bar” capitalizes on some idea already
developed earlier in the story, so the author need not explain a thing in the end. For
example, we already know that the protagonist was reluctant to take over the job at the
bar after Charlie died, so now his gearing up to play, sitting in “that same forbidden
corner Charlie had garnered his for the last five years,” reveals his true character, his
maturation, which is also captured beautifully when he feels his “voice getting a little
deeper, and my hair getting a little grayer”—like Charlie’s. We know, too, that in the
past, after suffering some hardship, the protagonist has turned to alcohol (as Charlie once
did), so now his requesting “a glass of water, filled to the top with ice” shows his
determination to start anew (again, as Charlie once did).
Derek Schmidt—or his narrator—need not explain what any of these details
means. We get the point, the significance, of the action, of every lovely detail, in the
final scene, because of what has already been developed earlier in the story. The narrator
does not sum up what he learned; he does not offer the reader a moral to the story; he
doesn’t even explain how his experiences have influenced his life. He shows us, through
action and imagery that have been “set up” throughout the story; the final details are, in a
sense, the “payoffs” of earlier “setups.”
Often, as in “Rossi’s Bar,” the perfect ending capitalizes on some earlier image or
idea, transforming it in the end in some new context. A writer might discover the perfect
ending—the perfect final action or image—arising, naturally, out of the story. On the
other hand, a writer might feel stumped, at a loss, for the perfect final action or image;
upon re-reading the story, however, he might discover “setups” already built in to the
story he has written, and now it is only a matter of making them “pay off” in an
interesting way.
Alas, a writer might feel stumped for the perfect ending even after re-reading the
story, even after combing the story for some interesting action or image that he might
“return” to, or recall, in the end; in this case the work remaining for the writer may not be
only at the end of the story but also, even more so, earlier in the story—or even
throughout the story. The writer might seek opportunities to “set up” the ending he
28
envisions; he might, for example, go back and recast his protagonist as a drinker of
alcohol—as his now-deceased mentor had once been—so that, in the end, his requesting
a glass of water—such a simple act—takes on profound meaning, the kind of meaning
that can be captured only through action and imagery, not through explanation.
Exercise
Consider a draft of a story you’ve already written—whether you’re happy with it or not—
and comb it for potential “setups” for the final “payoff” that will capture the core idea of
your story, the heart of your protagonist’s experience. If you find your story devoid of
such “setups,” develop some new idea or motif that you can then capitalize on in the end,
creating a sense of both surprise and inevitability.
29
Christmas Cards
Ruth A. Hariu 1999
I received three Christmas cards
this year, cards undoubtedly belonging
to cheap packs of mass-produced
holiday cheer purchased as an
afterthought from drug stores not too far
out of the way. From the feel of the thin
paper after I expectantly opened them, I
didn’t even bother turning the cards over
to check for that all-important Hallmark
logo. I was sure my name didn’t make
anyone’s “nice card” list.
The most painful card I
received—and each of the cards was a
painful reminder of some lost
connection—was the stiff and formal
card from my recent-ex-husband. On
the front there was a snowman trying to
smile despite the fact that he was
weighed down by heavy winter attire
and was supporting a broom and
Christmas wreath while several little
rabbits played freely and gleefully in the
snow beside him. It was signed simply,
“Merry Xmas. Jim.” Neurotically, I
thought the card was a low-handed ploy
on Jim’s part to once again remind me of
his unhappiness in our marriage. I
couldn’t put it past him.
I deliberated over whether or not
to display the cards on the window sill
next to the plastic Christmas tree, but I
decided that the card from my mother,
for example, that was filled inside top to
bottom with descriptions of stiff joints
and maladies would probably be
counterproductive in my mission to
somehow liven an empty apartment.
Instead, I put them away in the box with
the couple of cards left in the expensive
twenty-five-pack of Hallmark Crown
Christmas Cards that I had sent to nearly
two dozen friends and family members.
*
The Monday morning after New
Year's, there was a backup down Main
Street for almost half a mile, unusual for
such a small town, and somehow I got
stuck in it on my way to work. The
source of the problem, about ten cars in
front of me, was the elastic collision of
two Toyotas whose bodies were now
crumpled in metal messes by the
unexpected exchange (I knew the
details—after ten minutes of the
standstill, I got out of my car and went to
inspect the situation). My ‘98 Mercedes
was disgusted by this unsophisticated
deviance from order and even more
uncomfortable, I suppose, by the pair of
impatient palms that pounded into the
steering wheel every twenty seconds or
so.
Like
a
carrot
dangling
infuriatingly in front of immobilized-me,
the office supply store that I owned was
in sight; the sign I hand-painted was
visible through a group of trees planted
unnaturally in the cobblestone sidewalk.
I would have driven down the sidewalk
if it weren’t for those damn trees. I was
sufficiently pissed when I pulled into the
side parking lot of my store thirty-three
minutes later.
My rage was instantly cooled by
the smell of closed quietness in my store.
Being surrounded by bins of precisely
measured mailing envelopes and sorted
felt-tip markers gave me such a feeling
of completeness and organization, I
could unbutton the collar of my shirt.
Running a strictly efficient business was
definitely a lost art. There was a silent
sanctity preserved in my little office
supply
store
that
tight-lipped
businessmen and wide-eyed children
unquestionably respected. I liked it.
30
*
The short day of winter had
already rapidly pulled the sun out of the
sky when I flipped over the “Open” sign
and locked up. Dusk had settled so
thickly that I almost tripped over a
bothersome little pest sitting on the curb
in front of my store. It was a small boy,
perhaps ten years old, wrapped up in a
winter jacket and scarf, his mittened
thumb extended streetward at the
passing cars.
“What do you think you’re doing
there, huh?” I demanded of the bundledup boy, my hands instinctively finding
their places on my hips.
“Whadduzzit look like I’m
doing?” he answered smartly with a high
voice that hinted of an imminent cold,
“I’m trying to thumb a ride home!”
Appalled by his tone and
manners, I verbally pounced on him.
“Not in front of my store you aren’t.
Move along, or I’ll call your mother!”
With that I turned from the scamp and
walked toward the side lot and my car.
I heard him call after me.
“Go ahead an’ try—I’ll give you
the number!
She wouldn’t care,
anyway!”
I threw a threatening look back
over my shoulder, but it was never
intercepted. It seemed the boy had
forgotten me completely as he stuck his
thumb bravely back out into the night.
*
It rained the next day. I used to
love rain when I was little. On warm,
wet days I would lie on my back in the
driveway and follow the rain drops as
they filtered through the leaves of the
overhanging maple tree. Or, usually
after being pelted in the eye, I lay
silently on the pavement and waited for
the drops to surprise me, imagining that
each pin-sized explosion of wetness was
an invisible, sloppy kiss from my
guardian angel. Now, as I flipped the
sign and locked up the store, I carried an
umbrella. It was pouring, and the sound
of the heavy drops on my umbrella was
deafening. When I saw the same boy
once again on the curb, trying to seek
shelter from the rain under one of the
misplaced trees, I had to shout at him to
be heard over the pounding.
“Hey, kid—it’s pouring! Why
are you sitting out here in the rain?” I
asked him, more bewildered than angry.
“I’m doin’ the same thing I was
yesterday: trying to find a ride. What
else would I be doing?” he retorted. He
wasn’t actively trying, though. His
lucky thumb was buried deep into the
pockets of his waterlogged jacket. It
seemed as though he were waiting for a
ride to come to him. It seemed as
though he were waiting for me.
“Yeah, but… So why doesn’t
your mom come and pick you up?
You’re getting soaked. Does she even
know where you are?”
“Fine! I’ll move if ya really
want me to, okay?” he answered
randomly, leaving the makeshift haven
of the tree and starting to walk farther
down the street. At the sight of the
freezing rain rolling off his drenched
blond hair, a wave of pity washed over
me, and I went after the departing boy,
stopping him in mid-stride.
“Hey, wait. Do you need a ride
home?” I asked him, trying to cut the
edge from my voice. He crept closer to
me, stepping under the dry realm of my
umbrella. Looking up at me with the
eyes of a pathetic, drenched cat, he
nodded. “All right,” I sighed, “Come
with me.”
31
The cars that passed us on the
street could have mistaken us for mother
and son, walking down the cobblestone
sidewalk like a close-hugging, waterfearing unit. I wasn’t exactly sure how I
felt about that assumption, though I
forced a frown the whole way to my car.
*
Every corner of the apartment
that Jim and I used to share held some
cobweb-concealed memory that stuck
out like a sore thumb each time I
entered. I really should have moved out
of the apartment after the divorce, but
every time I picked up the phone to
contact a realtor, something held me
back. Besides, there was a nice view of
the town park from the picture window.
Flipping on the TV in our—my—
bedroom, I peeled off the layers of
business suit and climbed into bed to the
melodious sound of Dan Rather’s lateJanuary report of blizzards up north and
scandals in the White House. I watched
news constantly. Tucked securely under
the wings of my down comforter I
absorbed the details of each story as if I
hadn’t watched the same report half an
hour earlier. Suddenly the ghost images
of candle-lit dinners in the kitchen and
couch-potato evenings in the den
vaporized. I could watch the weather
forecasts with a blank mind. But tonight
I couldn’t get one thought out of my
head: the boy.
He hugged me today. For the
two weeks that I had been driving him
home, we had stuck to a set of unspoken
rules.
No unnecessary chatter, no
frivolous contact. No friendship. But
this evening when I pulled up to the
weed-infested curb introducing his
apartment
complex,
something
unexpected happened.
“Wait. I almost forgot. I have
somethin’ for you,” he’d said, recoiling
from the door handle and diving into his
school bag. From an accumulation of
what I imagined to be dirt and rocks and
toads he pulled out a neatly rubberbanded pile of precisely trimmed
photographs. “I got my school pictures
back today. I saved one for you.” He
ruffled through the stack until he found
the right one. He leaned over, the
leather-protecting plastic bag that I made
him sit on crinkling, and pressed the
glossy photo into my palm. When I
automatically glanced down to inspect
the picture, he lurched forward and
wrapped his arms around my neck. I
was stunned. He held on like a baby
koala for a couple speechless seconds,
and then he was out the door. Slipping
the photo into my coat pocket, I watched
him disappear into the building, trying to
find a sensible place for this moment in
my day’s itinerary.
Surprisingly, I
sensed that it fit.
Now in the TV-illuminated
darkness, I could still feel the imprints
that his puffy coat had made on my
shoulders, the steam that his miniature
nose had breathed on my neck. For a
split second there in my Mercedes, I had
imagined I was someone else living an
oppositely charted life. What would it
be like if he were my child? I rolled
back over to a shooting in the city and
dispelled the idea.
Halfway through Internight on
MSNBC,
the
telephone
rang.
Answering it, I heard a quavering and
watery version of my older sister
Robin’s voice.
“Lauren, it’s—it’s Mom,” she
began, sharp intakes of breath stealing
her continuity. “She’s gone. This
afternoon. We, we tried to call you
earlier, but—God, Lauren, it was so
32
sudden. So sudden.” I was having a
hard time understanding the impact of
her words.
“Oh my God…Robin, what are
you saying!” I didn’t really want to ask,
but disbelief flew out of me.
“The funeral’s in two days,
Lauren. Me and J-Joey made all the
arrangements.” She started to whimper
softly with her mouth away from the
phone. “I know we haven’t talked for a
long time, Lauren, but Joey and I really
want you to be here…Lauren?”
For the second time that day, I
was uncharacteristically and utterly
speechless.
*
The funeral was on Thursday.
As I drove back home, I could barely
remember the service. I recalled sitting
in the front pew of my childhood church
with my older siblings, Robin and Joey,
huddled together beside me. Jim was on
my other side. When I had phoned him
two evenings ago to tell him the sad
news, he insisted on accompanying me
to the funeral. My mother always liked
him.
To keep my composure for the
subsequent hour, I diverted my attention
from the minister’s voice and kept my
eyes lowered and resting on the wooden
pew. I concentrated on keeping at least
a six-inch margin between me and the
estranged parties to my right and left.
When I accidentally let out a choked sob
during the valley-of-the-shadow-ofdeath passage, however, my personal
space was interrupted by Jim’s consoling
hand resting lightly on my knee. The
gentle pressure of his touch felt like an
old friend, so I let it rest there for a
moment before brushing it off. I just
wanted to go home.
Now I kept my eyes steadily
focused on the suddenly-interesting
asphalt being swallowed by my speeding
car. I was positive that this ride home
with Jim would be among the most
uncomfortable two hours of my life. At
least I was driving.
The unstable silence that hung
between us felt nervous, forced, full of
hot, unspoken accusations. Out of the
comer of my eye I was watching him
pick the lint off his overcoat and flick it
onto the floor mats that I just had
vacuumed a week ago. I felt myself
slowly losing it. Shifting uncomfortably
in his seat, Jim leaned over and turned
on the radio to an oldies station. He
began to sing along in a thin, off-key
shower voice that I used to giggle to
outside the bathroom door. Now it wore
down the last of my restraint.
“Goddamnit, Jim!” I burst out
cuttingly. “Turn off that radio! You
were always so damn inconsiderate, you
know that? Could you just try to show a
little respect for my mother and, heaven
forbid, me? I just came from my
mother’s funeral—I am not in the mood
to be entertained!” He murmured some
kind of vague apology, aware that he
was trapped with me in confined
quarters for another hour, and he turned
off the radio. We rode the rest of the
way home in our unstable silence.
*
On Friday I followed my routine
back to work, the daze and dizziness of
grief still lingering over my head like a
rain cloud. The foggy confusion began
to dissipate, however, once I found my
place behind the register answering
mundane questions about types of paper
and push-pins. Although there in the
store I felt far away from the calamities
33
of the past two days, I was still relieved
when the clock hands flirted with five.
For some reason I was surprised
that the boy was waiting for me on the
sidewalk when I closed up. I saw him
before he realized I was there, so I
studied him for a moment. His red and
yellow school bag leaned up against one
of his legs where his blue jeans had wet
puddle-spots around the ankles. He had
pulled the mitten off his right hand and
was absorbed in chewing the thumbnail,
his eyes closed in acute concentration.
That was a bad habit.
“That’s a bad habit,” I called
over to him. Surprised by my voice, he
whirled around. He pulled the thumb
from his lips.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, stressing
a fabricated tone of nonchalance.
“Where’ve you been these last two days?
I came an’ waited for you every day.” I
noticed the burning concern in his blue
eyes.
“Forget it,” I replied, dismissing
his question. “If you want a ride today,
I’m leaving now.”
He nodded, and as I turned and
started walking to my car, he jumped up
and ran to my side, matching his steps to
mine. The pace was too hurried and
haggard for that of a little boy, but he
struggled to keep up with me. He started
to chatter about something funny that
happened during science that day, but I
tried not to listen, just mmm-hmm’ed
every so often.
Once I unlocked the car doors
with my remote control from the edge of
the parking lot, he scampered ahead of
me and jumped in the car, bouncing on
the seat insistently to signal impatience.
I wasn’t too old that I couldn’t
remember the fun of car-seat upholstery
bouncing against your bottom, but I was
too old to admit it was cute.
“Stop that,” I snapped as I
climbed in the car. “Why are you so
wound up today, huh?”
“It’s T.G.I.F., and I have no
homework this weekend!” he proclaimed
proudly, dancing around in his seat to
orally-synthesized beats.
Feeling
unordinarily at home in my car today, he
started to explore all of the various
compartments and gadgets that a ’98
Mercedes had to offer. I tried to curb
my lips. After opening and closing,
flipping and turning, he opted for the
radio. Jim’s oldies station was still set
on the tuner. The boy, pleased with the
Beach Boys, started to sing along.
Annoyed, I turned the radio off
with a sharp flick of the wrist. The
singing stopped.
“Hey, what’s wrong with you?
You’re so grouchy today,” the boy
remarked, his eyebrows contoured by
puzzlement and hurt. I felt sheepish for
a second but didn’t reply. We drove the
rest of the way to his apartment complex
listening to the bumps in the road.
I left the car in drive when I
stopped in front of his building, and
waited for him to get out of the car.
When I didn’t hear the door handle
being pulled, I glanced over at him. He
smiled at me and leaned over to hug me
again. The restraining hand I placed on
his shoulder cut him off mid-embrace.
As he leaned away from me, his face
frozen in a withered smile, the plastic
bag sighed under his shifting weight.
The boy just kept looking at me, and
looking at me, and looking at me. I
cleared my throat.
“C’mon, I’m in a hurry, okay?” I
said to him, not able to look directly in
his eyes. I was watching my fingers tap
the steering wheel when he finally got
out of the car, so I wouldn’t have to see
the tears that I had smeared over his
34
childish cheeks. When I heard the door
shut gently with the strength of a broken
heart, I drove home.
*
God, I felt like a horrible person.
That weekend, a plaguing guilt was
building and building in my chest with
the urgency of a suppressed scream. I
imagined the boy crying. I remembered
his furrowed eyebrows, his deflated
smile. I had been so cold, so heartless.
That wasn’t the way I normally was!
By Monday, I had formulated a
plan to apologize to the boy. On my
lunch break I ventured down Main Street
to the candy store and bought a king size
bag of the seasonal Valentine’s Day
heart candies with the words printed on
them. Once I was back at the office
supply store, I spent the remainder of my
day writing a mental excuse, an
explanation of the horrible week I had. I
wanted to tell him that I was sorry. I
wanted to tell him that my mother had
just died. I wanted to tell him how I lost
my husband. I tried to think of a short
way to say it all to make him understand.
I wasn’t a bad person.
I would walk out of the store
quietly so that he wouldn’t see me, and I
would sit down beside him and take his
mittened hand and squeeze his lucky
thumb and apologize, explain, give him
candy. We would still be holding hands
on the way to my car. I wouldn’t make
him sit on that damn plastic bag. People
would think he was my son.
By five o’clock there were
stampeding
butterflies
coursing
throughout my nervous system.
I
decided to stall for five more minutes
before closing up, so that I could be
certain that he would already be sitting
there waiting for me when I sneaked up
behind him. But after three minutes I
realized that he might think I wasn’t
coming at all and just leave. So I went
to the closet and put on my coat—it felt
a little tighter than usual—and I
rehearsed the effective apology I had
memorized, twice.
“This is silly,” I muttered to
myself, picking up the bow-tied bag of
candy. “He’s just a little boy. He’ll
forgive me.” But the pound of my heart
knew that I had injured a place in him
that had already been trampled on too
many times for a boy so young. My
heart realized that there was a world’s
worth of healing to make up for. I
headed for the door. I stepped out,
forgetting to flip over the “Open” sign.
The boy wasn’t there.
I nearly ran to the place on the
pavement where he normally waited,
bent over and put my hand on the spot,
but it was cold. It didn’t seem as though
he were ever there. I straightened
myself out and looked down the street
both ways. About seven stores away on
the opposite side of the Main Street, I
saw a bundled-up scamp sitting on the
curb in front of the grocery store, his
arm extended streetward. I started to
walk in his direction, then stopped. That
boy looked too old to be my boy.
I sat on the curb for five more
minutes, but the boy never appeared.
Sighing, I stood up, went back into the
store to flip over the sign, and headed for
the parking lot. My car was waiting
there for me, formidable as ever. All I
could smell when I got into the car was
the scent of well-cared-for leather, the
aroma of an expensive and revered car.
I ignored the plastic bag on the seat
beside me and drove back to my
apartment building.
It was indisputably night when I
got to my apartment; the sprawling
35
picture window showed nothing but a
reflection of myself as I entered my
living room. As I went to put my keys
away in my coat pocket, my fingers fell
upon something thin and smooth already
nested there. It was the photograph that
the boy had given me, and when I pulled
it out of my pocket face-down, I saw the
message written on the back in childish
hand: “To Mrs. ?, Love, Thomas.”
Without turning it over to look at the
picture on the opposite side, I rummaged
through a drawer next to my TV and
found the Hallmark box. I tucked the
photo into my mother’s Christmas card.
Without bothering to remove my
suit, I crawled under my down comforter
and flipped on the TV, irritated that I’d
missed the first half-hour of my
succession of news shows. I ripped open
the bag of heart-shaped candy and
gradually devoured all of them—except
the green ones, which I threw out the
next morning.
36
RUTH HARIU
Since the writing of Christmas Cards, I completed college and followed its sweeping
motion through to its natural end: a static hoarding of momentum at the university
library, where I have worked two years among the noblest humans in creation, librarians.
Having a space in the library lineup, in which those unselfish hands pass from palm to
palm more literature than my friends and I together could ever afford, I have felt, finally,
enough flick in the wrist to expend my potential energy. In August 2006 I will begin a
Ph.D. program.
Reflection on Christmas Cards
I started here with a very impersonal reference to “the writing” of Christmas
Cards. This is my unpresumptuous way of courting the past, coaxing into collaboration
that work which I may have no right anymore to claim. I expect that many writers faced
with the task of reanimating the birth of an old story feel the same timidity; so then, I
begin by extending an invitation to a houseguest, the girl who wrote the story. This girl
kept copious journals from the age of seven years that stretch seamlessly into the one I
keep today, and her writing, in the way a photograph never could, brings the smart, coltlegged girl whispering to me over the manuscript.
What I hear is richer than I expect—“I wrote this story, you see, in the same
bedroom in which I sat thinking, staring at the walls. Where first those flags of color
snapped inside my conscious mind and made their way into words in these journals. That
past tense, the self-unnamed narrator, the staid yet desperately introspective journeys into
love, desertion, family, self-isolation—if we lay these side by side, you will see they are
from the same hand. Lauren is, in many ways, my compatriot, and what exhilaration it is
at this young age to flee from the deathbed of my childhood and find Lauren outside her
office supply store waiting to pick up that child so different from herself.” I ask her if
she knew she was saving herself in the writing of this story. “Yes, in a way, but no.”
These last words ring long after the communion has ended. And perhaps they
mean more to the process of writing than I understand even now. From years of careful
narrative crafting, through the splintering of line into poetry and beyond, into an
acceptance of their inherent mutual playfulness, what my writing shows me is that all
along, what I have been doing is unknowingly saving myself, taking from the present to
unselfishly pass palm to palm that which will make me whole, help me survive. Then, of
course, the thought dawns on me that after all, this is the aim: what great writing does is
save us all.
37
Teacher Reflection
Showing, Not Telling, in Ruth Hariu’s Christmas Cards
The nineteenth-century novelist Henry James famously advised fiction writers,
“Show. Don’t tell.” Show what you mean through action, dialogue, and imagery; don’t
just tell what you mean through explanation and summary. In “Christmas Cards” Ruth
Hariu vividly portrays the protagonist not through explicit analysis, or self-analysis (after
all, the protagonist is the narrator, telling her own story), but through actions that reveal
her complicated character. The author’s portrayal of the main character is all the more
brilliant because the story is written in the first-person point of view; that is, what the
protagonist-narrator tells us—and doesn’t tell us—is itself a form of showing.
Of course, “telling” is not something we should altogether avoid—after all, we are
“telling stories”—but we might, as writers, ask ourselves continually, “How might I
show, rather than tell…?” We might ask ourselves, for example, “How might I show that
my character is lonely?” rather than just write “she is lonely”? Ruth Hariu captures this
very aspect of her character’s life in the story’s opening lines, describing the three
Christmas cards she received this year, “cards undoubtedly belonging to cheap packs of
mass-produced holiday cheer purchased as an afterthought from drug stores not too far
out of the way.” The cards are not only few, but cheap and carelessly purchased—or so
the narrator thinks.
By telling the story from the first-person point of view, the author shows us also
how the protagonist thinks. First, the three Christmas cards show that the protagonist
doesn’t have a lot of close human connections; but then the assumptions she makes about
the cards—“undoubtedly belonging to cheap packs…purchased as an afterthought”—
reveal even more about her, and not just the fact that she is thoughtful about her
insubstantial relationships. The physical details of the cards, not to mention her specific
thoughts about them, are deeply revealing: the card from her ex-husband reads only
“Merry Xmas. Jim” and depicts a grimacing snowman weighed down by clothing—this
prompts her to think “the card was a low-handed ploy on Jim’s part to once again remind
me of his unhappiness in our marriage”; the card from her mother “was filled inside top
to bottom with descriptions of stiff joints and maladies”—this prompts her, after some
deliberation, not to display the depressing cards but to store them away in the Hallmark
box left over from the Christmas cards she herself had sent out. Even this detail of the
Hallmark box is revealing—showing, not telling—that deep down she wants to make
connections with people, having sent out the kind of “nice” cards she didn’t receive in
return.
Throughout the story the narrator reveals herself through her actions, ignoring her
mother’s illness, savoring the peace and quiet of her store, straining to be patient with the
people who invade her space, and making a last-ditch effort to make up for her
insensitivity: she boxes up her mother’s Christmas card, she snaps at her ex-husband,
who turns on the radio on the drive back from her mother’s funeral; she rejects the boy’s
hug after driving him home; and she seeks the boy out so that she can apologize. In the
end we understand that she has learned from her experience, that she appreciates how her
own behavior has contributed to her isolation, but she stops short of telling us this herself,
just as she has stopped short of making explicit her feelings about her ex-husband or her
38
mother. She does not offer up a moral to the story or even confess her regrets, even as
she expresses longing for the boy, even as she imagines him her own son. Instead, once
again we are shown: after failing to find the boy, she is alone, under covers, still in her
suit, flipping through channels while devouring a bag of heart-shaped candy. The truth is
that it would be difficult for her—and even for us—to explain exactly how she feels, or
exactly what she is thinking. And yet the “picture” tells the story.
Exercise
Write a paragraph that reveals a character solely through vivid action, avoiding
psychological descriptions or explanations. You might also return to a story you’ve
already written and comb it for opportunities to show where you have told, seeking out
even simple descriptors like “sad” or “angry” and considering how you might illustrate
such states of mind through interesting action and imagery.
39
The Reign of the Last Caesar
Emerson Breneman 2000
An old man was drinking an
early-morning beer outside of a
darkened Laundromat as Miguel walked
by. Three doors up, next to a Chinese
food restaurant, which was blasting the
smell of hot grease from a noisy fan vent
above its front door, was a large window
showcase with the words PET
EMPORIUM block-lettered in red and
gold across the middle. Miguel pushed
open the heavy glass door and stepped
inside. The bell above the door’s chime
sent a row of cages to Miguel’s left
shaking violently as the birds inside
cackled and flapped. The air inside was
sick with the smell of animals and
sawdust. A woman, Indian and fat,
looked up from a small black-and-white
television, which was playing a soap
opera, and looked at Miguel, as if
waiting for some kind of explanation.
“I’m here for a dog…
I
called…”
“Yes, you go through this door
for see my husband.” She pointed to the
back of the shop.
Miguel started, heading past a
row of fish tanks, which shimmered
green light through a layer of algae onto
his white T-shirt, to a door marked
EMPLOYEES ONLY. As he reached
out for the handle, the door opened
slightly and a short Indian man’s face
appeared. His eyes made dark circles
and his mouth bent into a maniacal grin;
the man seemed overwhelmingly happy.
“Hello, sir! You are here for
Bull, yes?”
“Yeah”
“Very good! You come with
me.”
He led Miguel through a small
office area, where a tape deck was
playing Indian pop music. Through
another door, they walked past a row of
dog pens, Plexiglas on the front and
back. There was a Labrador puppy
circling in the second pen and an olderlooking German Shepherd lying half
asleep in the fifth. Through the front of
the pen, Miguel could see the rest of the
shop, the woman behind the counter
staring intently at her television. “You
have come at good time, my friend. We
have many Bulls to choose from.” The
man chattered as they headed down a
flight of wooden stairs lit from overhead
with a dangling light bulb. “These
bastards they tell me I cannot sell these
dogs, that I need license from Kennel
Association and this bullshit. They tell
me that only I can order one or two Pit
Bulls at a time, and that I must register
with the police before I can sell them.
Do you know what I say, my friend? I
say ‘Bullshit!’ To these police!” The
man laughed and gave Miguel a look of
criminal confederacy. Miguel chuckled
and looked away.
The basement had a pouredconcrete floor and no furnishings. A
young Indian man in tight jeans was
sitting on a milk crate and smoking.
Against the far wall were ten small
cages. Inside each one was a small Pit
Bull. The shopkeeper led Miguel closer
to the cages and shouted a command in
Hindi to the young man who slowly got
up and walked up the stairs, still
smoking.
The man crouched and
pointed to the nearest cage. Inside, the
dog was all black, with pale blue eyes.
“This is good dog. This will be very
good fighter. See? The paws, they are
big and good claws. This dog will be
very tough,” the man smiled. Miguel
glanced across at the other cages.
Catching this, the man continued,
“These are all good dogs. All the best
40
trainers in Los Angeles, if they want a
dog that will last in the pit, and can fight
again and again, they come to me.
These dogs are bred in a mill special for
to fight. They can take other dog’s head
off.”
“No,” Miguel spoke softly,
looking down the line, “it ain’t for
fighting.”
“Well, for what then?” the
shopkeeper asked, confused.
“For protection.”
“Ah, yes,” the man said, looking
over Miguel’s small frame. “Well, you
will want a big dog.” He walked to the
second-to-last cage from the wall.
Inside was a light-brown Bull, looking
up alertly. His paws were thick and
wide, legs and chest rippled with white.
He was not quite still a puppy, and he
was larger than the other dogs. As he
moved, his hide slid over taut, rolling
muscle. “This dog will be very big.
Good strong bite,” the man said softly,
looking at Miguel, but Miguel’s eyes
were fixed on the dog.
“Yeah,” Miguel nodded. “This is
my nigga right here.”
*
The training began on that same
day.
In his backyard, Miguel had
constructed a small pen from a roll of
chicken wire that he had found in a pile
of trash that sat just beyond his back
fence. Enclosed in the wire cage was a
rusty metal fence post embedded in a
submerged pile of concrete left over
from some unfinished building project of
a former tenant.
The dog looked
vaguely frightened as Miguel chained
him to the post and entrapped him in the
wire frame. He watched as Miguel’s
form disappeared into the basement of
the house and then returned a moment
later, carrying something with him.
Miguel strapped a collar weighted down
with a sandbag around the dog’s neck
and watched as he slumped forward, off
balance. He struggled with the collar
and then scratched at the strap on the
back of his neck. From the ground he
saw Miguel descend into the house and
then return once more, this time carrying
a length of rope and a piece of meat,
which he could smell before he could
see. Miguel tied a knot around the
chunk of beef, which had been left over
from dinner the night before, and
laughed to see the dog’s eye lock on the
meat with a clear intention. “Caesar.”
Miguel spoke to the dog as he set the
meat to dangle from the top of the cage.
“Lil’ Caese. Crazy little bastard. Fuck
anybody up.” The dog struggled to rise,
then began to heave his neck towards the
meat, which swung above him at the
highest point in his sphere of vision.
Miguel watched the dog for a moment,
then spun around and stepped across the
lawn and back down into the basement.
He closed the shutter doors behind
himself and made his way through the
small, cluttered basement past a broken
yellow washing machine and boxes of
Christmas decorations to the bottom of
the stairs. He flicked off the light switch
before he ascended, knowing the length
of each step in the dark.
Emerging into the kitchen,
smoky and flooded with sunlight,
Miguel saw his father sitting at the table,
holding forth, “…now these Taiwanese
weren’t like those other Koreans I told
you about. These were nice guys. They
loved Americans, and the girls especially
loved our American money.” He was in
a bathrobe, sipping Seagram’s and
orange juice from a Styrofoam cup. “At
this time there weren’t many Puerto
Ricans in my barracks, and I was liable
41
to catch shit even from my own
company for being a Puerto Rican, but I
never got any trouble from these
Taiwanese while we were there on leave.
They were nice people, just real poor,
but they would bring nice clean girls
down to the bar and that good weed from
the country. One time one of my
buddies, a black guy named—” His
girlfriend was partly listening, smoking a
Newport and shaking salt into a pan of
simmering ground beef. “—Otis, he was
a funny guy, he got all drunk one night
and went back to some girl’s shack or
something and her boyfriend showed up
with a knife, trying to shake him down
for his money, see. Well, Otis got away
and then after he sobered up, a bunch of
us guys went downtown and we found
this girl working in a park and we scared
her pretty good into telling us where to
find her boyfriend.” He took a drink and
looked toward Miguel, now speaking
directly to him, “So, she says this guy’s
shooting pool in another bar, an allTaiwanese bar where no servicemen
went in, but we went down and we gave
some kid on the street a quarter to go in
and bring him out into the street. He
came out and then we beat him real
good. You see? I was never a big guy,
but I can hold my own. I’ve never been
afraid to scrap.” A week before, Miguel
had come home bloodied from a beatdown he had received in the park.
“Sure, maybe I got punked off a little,
but I did my share of whipping ass too.
You know, you can’t go around with a
reputation as a punk. That’s when you
get it bad.” His tone had begun to turn
into that of a lecture.
“Whatever, man.”
Miguel
mumbled, aware that half of his father’s
stories were bullshit anyway.
“Now how is that dog doing out
there?” His father kept his tone hostile.
“Look at this shit!” Miguel
laughed, pointing out the back window
to where the dog was straining to jump,
snapping his jaw just below where the
beef hung.
His father stood up and stooped
slightly to see the dog. He smiled.
Not looking up from the pan, his
girlfriend, Carla, rasped to Miguel, “Go
tell your sister to come eat some of this.”
Already walking past the
wooden-paneled living room walls and
smoked-out couch and chairs to the front
hallway, Miguel heard the command and
stopped in front of his little sister’s door.
He kicked at the bottom of the door and
pushed it open with his foot. “Hey,
hoochie. Your mother says to go eat.”
His sister was lying in bed but
jumped out right away in Winnie-thePoo pajamas and yelled, “Oh-kaaaay.”
She was small for five. She had very
dark hair and big dark eyes. “Miguel, is
the puppy here yet?”
“Yeah, he’s in the back, but he’s
not a puppy. He’s a big fucker already.
His name is Caesar.”
“I like puppies better,” she said
to her pajama-bottomed feet. “I think
you should call it…Tigger…or Pongo.”
He was closing the door to his
room behind him, walking across the
throw rug toward the CD-player boom
box that sat on top of his dresser, CD’s
lying out of their cases face up around it.
He unloaded the items from his pockets
and carefully lined them up on top of the
TV: his wallet, a pair of house keys, a
pack of Newport menthols, five vials of
crystal meth, and a mix tape. Then he
was sitting at his weight bench, curling a
thirty-pound dumbbell with his left arm
as Tupac was playing in the background.
And he was looking at himself in a fulllength mirror, posing and lip-synching to
the rhymes. He scowled at his skinny
42
arms and chicken-chest and then turned
to the window, watching Caesar rip apart
the bit of flesh and choke it down. After
it was gone, the dog searched the ground
for any morsel that might have dropped
from its jaw and, not finding any, licked
the dirt in front of him just to be sure.
Then he rolled onto his side, exhausted.
“Yeah, bro!” Miguel called to his dog.
Later, he was asleep, all concept
of himself forgotten. Then the phone
rang and he was dragged from what felt
like a lifetime of dreams back to his bed.
The room was ominous-gray and could
have been dusk or just before dawn. His
digital alarm clock said that it was 6:30
with one red dot next to it to indicate
p.m., but Miguel couldn’t remember
falling asleep and had lost his sense of
continuity. He picked up the phone:
“Hello?” his voice cracked.
“Yo, holmes, what’s up?” the
voice called against background hum.
“Yo…Chino?”
“No, man, this is Ricky.”
“Oh, yeah, bro, I just…”
“What’s up?”
“I was sleeping.”
“Yeah, man? Yo, what are you
doing? Do you have any more of that
shit?”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“I wanted to get some of that. I
got some friends who want some too.
Me and Little D are gonna roll up to this
party. You should come up with us to
talk to these guys.”
“Uh…I…yeah, I guess, man.”
“Yeah, we’ll be there in a little
while to pick you up.”
“All right, man.” Miguel hung
up.
Ricky pressed “end” and the face
of his cell phone went blank. Dashes of
orange sunlight reflected through his
windshield were rolling across his jaw.
Little D braked into a clump of red-light
traffic. At the comer, an old woman was
selling oranges.
“Who is this kid
Miguel? Miguel DeSanto?” Little D was
turning up the AC.
“No, man, Miguel De Santo lives
in Oaktown now.
This is Miguel
Garcia.” Ricky spoke as he looked into
the sunshade mirror, adjusting his hat
brim.
“That kid we went to school
with?”
“Yeah.”
“That kid’s a little puta bitch!”
Little D swerved across the turning lane
and took a left onto Columbus
Boulevard.
“Yeah, but he gets good shit
now. I don’t know. He’s okay… We
chilled a couple times. He just kind of
goofy. Yo, remember when Jamal and
them used to mess with him hard?”
Ricky asked, not sure if Little D was
even in school at the time he was
recalling.
“Yeah, that punk used to catch
wreck like every day from somebody.
Niggas would be like stealing his money
or his walkman or something. That was
some funny shit! He’d get all pissed, but
then he’d just back down because he
knew anybody could stomp him.” Little
D smiled, looking down at a tattoo of
Jesus on his bicep.
“Yeah, and I heard he got beat—
” Little D looked over his shoulder,
waiting for an opening to run onto the
freeway on-ramp. “No, man, get on
Southbound! The ramp’s on the other
side.” Little D looked up at the big
green sign that hung on the overpass and
nodded, swinging the car back into
traffic towards the Southbound ramp.
Ricky waited for him to hit the run and
continued. “I heard he got beat in the
park last week by some heads from
43
North. I asked him about it and he was,
like, ‘Nah, man, nah.’ But then I asked
Monique ‘cause she live in his
neighborhood and she said it was true.”
On the top of the freeway, the setting
sun was an orange vapor made vague by
smog. Ricky watched as the last of it
slipped beneath the rim of the city. He
turned up the stereo. Four exits south,
the Acura darted across two lanes to roll
down the off ramp and into Miguel’s
neighborhood.
Minutes later, putting on a gold
chain in the bathroom mirror, Miguel
heard a horn bleat and hurried into his
room. He grabbed three vials of meth,
his wallet, keys and cigarettes. He put
on a white Polo button-up and a baseball
hat. He walked to the living room,
where his sister was watching the Disney
Channel. She looked up. “I met your
doggie. He’s funny looking and he has a
bag on his neck.”
“Where’s Dad, Rosy?”
“He went to Uncle Carlos’s
house.”
Miguel looked at her for a
second, worried. “I have to go out.
What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to watch TV, and I
won’t answer the phone unless it’s
Daddy or Mommy on the answering
machine and I won’t leave the house.
Can I go out back to see the dog?”
“No. Don’t leave at all. I bet
Dad will be back soon, so just chill out,
all right?”
She said yes and refocused her
eyes on the TV.
Out front, Little D and Ricky
were smoking a blunt in Little D’s blue
customized Acura. The car’s system
was rattling house windows on the block
with bass hits. Miguel locked the door
and went out to the curb. Ricky rolled
down the window, spilling a ganja cloud
into the street. Miguel had to yell over
the music, “Yo, you want to come see
my new Pit Bull? He’s a killer.”
“No, we got to get over to this
party, man. Get in.”
In the back seat the woofers sent
blows of vibration through Miguel’s
skinny chest. Ricky passed him the
blunt as they cruised off his block and
Miguel took a long hit and coughed
painfully. The other two laughed at him.
They rode out across neon-bleached
avenues in the silence of the bass track.
They ended up in Long Beach.
After getting lost for fifteen minutes,
Ricky recognized the block where J.C.
lived. As usual, some guys had left
J.C.’s house to play basketball on the
courts that sat directly across from his
house. Little D found a spot for his car
in the court parking lot. Across the
street, the front yard of the house was
partially lit by a yellow floodlight. On
the lawn, two Latino girls were laughing
as a black kid with a beer in his hand
told them a story. On the front stoop, a
girl sat partially in darkness talking
seriously into her cell phone. Miguel
watched the kids shooting hoops. Most
of them were shirtless and sweaty,
playing seriously. Ricky and Little D
were already walking across the street,
so Miguel jogged a few paces, not
wanting to enter the house alone. The
two Latino girls turned and looked as
Ricky unhooked the gate and they
crossed the short lawn, but the girl on
her cell phone looked more intently into
space as they walked past. Ricky led
them through the front like it was his
own house.
There was a group of kids hanging out in
the kitchen and a few more in the living
room on the right. The house was
bright, with white walls and light
carpets. They stepped into the front hall,
44
and the kids in the kitchen turned and
watched them. The kids were mostly
white and looked like surfers. Ricky
was looking around.
“Yo, where’s
J.C.?” he called into the kitchen.
A
kid
with
light-brown
dreadlocks spoke up, “He’s in the
basement.”
Miguel was nervous as he
followed the other two into the living
room. Above his head, a few girls were
standing on the second-floor landing,
overlooking the party. He pitched his
head up and caught sight of a pretty
chicana, maybe seventeen or eighteen
years old. She was hanging over the
railing, her arms dangling at the top of
his vision. He cleared his throat and
stepped along behind the other two as
they made their way down the back hall
way to the basement stairs. J.C. was
sitting behind a screen of weed smoke
on his couch in the dank basement. A
couple kids were playing Playstation on
an old television, cursing each other out
between levels and mouthfuls of beer.
J.C. stood up and came towards Little D
and Ricky as they walked in. “Ricky,
what’s up, man?” he said through a
smile. J.C. was big, with blond, closecropped hair and blue eyes. Miguel was
standing behind the other two, scanning
the room with his eyes. J.C. looked
Miguel over and said, “This is the kid
you were telling me about?”
Miguel felt pinned down by
J.C.’s eyes. To Miguel, this guy seemed
to radiate an air of mindless cruelty. At
first, this vibration he was feeling made
no sense to Miguel and he tried to ignore
it. Then, as he looked into J.C.’s icy
blue eyes, a layer of time seemed to fall
away in Miguel’s mind and he was
overcome with a barrage of longforgotten memories.
You know this kid, Miguel’s mind
raced. At the YMCA when you were
thirteen and he was older and his friends
watched and laughed when he kicked
your ass in the parking lot and stole your
basketball. The image of J.C. standing
over him, dropping the basketball on his
face, sprang to mind.
“Let’s go sit down,” J.C. said,
and led them over to the couch.
The coffee table in front of it was
strewn with loose tobacco from cleanedout blunts, empty keg cups, porn
magazines, and cigarette butts. J.C.,
Little D and Ricky sat down on the
couch, but there wasn’t a spot for
Miguel. He kept standing as the others
packed a pipe and passed it around,
talking boastfully. Miguel took a hit
from the colorful blown-glass pipe and
held it in. Miguel watched J.C. closely
as he spoke. No, that’s not the same kid,
Miguel rationalized. There’s no way.
Why would this kid who lives in Long
Beach go to the L.A. YMCA? As Miguel
studied his face, his certainty faltered.
After a moment, he decided for sure that
he had been mistaken, but Miguel
couldn’t overcome the feelings that the
memory had dragged up. When J.C.
looked to him and spoke, Miguel was
thirteen years old again.
“So, let’s see these vials, man,”
J.C. said with a surfer twang.
Miguel locked eyes with him,
and for a second saw in them a hint of
recognition. He knows, Miguel’s mind
told him. It’s him. He remembers who
you really are. Miguel clumsily brought
out a few small containers of crystal
meth. J.C. took them and looked them
over with the consideration of an expert.
“You wanted, what, twenty a
piece for these?” he said with a trace of
incredulity.
45
“Uh,” Miguel’s voice cracked. “Well, I
was…I was getting twenty-five.” He
sounded uncertain.
“No, man. These are no good.”
J.C. looked around, smiling at the others
in the room, who were watching.
“These don’t look any good. They are
too small. You want fifty for all three,”
he told Miguel.
“Well, that would be, like, I
would be losing—”
“So, fifty for all three?” J.C.
smirked. Ricky and Little D were
smirking, too.
Miguel
remembered
the
basketball dropping on his face. He felt
trapped in this basement, surrounded by
people that he couldn’t trust, with the
threat of violence in the air. “Uh…yeah,
man. That’s okay.”
Later that night, Ricky and Little
D dropped Miguel off early, somewhat
drunk, at his house. Everyone inside
was asleep. Miguel went around back
and woke up his dog with a kick.
Miguel thought that it was time for a
training session. He was preparing the
dog for a hard life.
*
Six and a half months later
Miguel was walking his dog through the
neighborhood on a sunny afternoon. He
took a right at the end of his block and
the dog went left. Miguel had to stop as
the dog’s bulk twisted the leather strap
around his hand. He thought about how
solid the dog had become since he had
begun training it. Sunlight was pressing
down on the street, but eddies of cooling
breeze were struggling to rise from ankle
level. Across the street, from behind a
layer of haze, a woman in her twenties
pushing a stroller was waving and
smiling to Miguel. He waved back and
thought about the woman, who was a
neighbor. A slut, yes, he thought, but not
bad.
A block farther up, a couple kids
standing around outside of the liquor
store were talking about cars when they
saw Miguel and Caesar rolling up. One
kid, who had been leaning on the white
brick wall against a Colt 45 poster,
stepped forward and called out, “Yo,
Miguel!”
Miguel changed his course
slightly and stepped up to the group of
kids, who were a few years younger than
he. One kid dropped down on a knee
and started to pet the dog.
“What’s
up, man?” another asked.
“Nothing. You know.” Miguel
scanned the street in front of the store, as
if looking for someone else to talk to.
“Yo, we’re gonna go up Hector’s
to go shoot some dice, man. You should
come up! Get a little buzz on and lose
some money to me.” The kid held up a
paper bag full of forty-ounce bottles.
“No, dude, I can’t. I got some
plans. Anyway, you wouldn’t want me
to come up there because I’d break every
single one of you bastards. You’d have
to be cashing in your mother’s food
stamps to pay me.” Miguel watched all
the kids smile. He said, “Later,” and
pulled Caesar along.
The park up the block was
carpeted with dead yellow grass and dog
shit. As he cut through back up to his
house, Miguel was thinking about how
much his life had changed since he had
bought his dog. Lately, on the block,
word must have been getting around
about the money he was making.
Maybe, he thought, it was just from
having the freshest Nautica and Polo
gear and the most evil-looking Pit Bull
in his neighborhood. He sensed that he
was getting more respect now than he
46
ever had, and the thought made him
straighten his shoulders under his T-shirt
and step with authority across the street.
He led his dog though the front gate and
up into the house. His father was sitting
in the dark, watching TV from the plaid
couch. “What’s up, Dad.” He walked
by.
“Hey, Miguel.”
He led his dog though the kitchen
and out the back door. A few months
ago, Miguel had put a piece of
corrugated steel across the top of
Caesar’s cage to keep the L.A. sunshine
off the dog’s back. Once the dog was
chained in, Miguel brought it a dish of
cool water. The dog lapped at the water
violently and sent it splashing. He
swallowed a dead fly that had been in
the bottom of the dish for a day or more
and looked up at Miguel, who was
standing in front of the cage with the
stick. The dog lowered itself into a
defensive position, setting its teeth,
ready to attack. Caesar knew what the
stick meant. His hot breath began to roll
a faint growl. Miguel came into the cage
and lowered himself down to the dog’s
level. His words were just above a
whisper. “It’s okay, Caese. I know you
don’t like this, but this is what we have
to do.” He could smell the dog’s spit.
“We got to be hard, Caese. These niggas
on the street, they all think that they’re
harder than you. They’re waiting for
you to be soft for one second. We got to
stay fierce. And crazy.”
The dog watched his master’s
eyes. They were familiar and nice, and
so was his smell. Caesar was afraid of
the stick, which Miguel had leaned up
against the outside of the cage, but he
knew that his master would protect him
from it the best he could. Caesar hated
the stick. He hated the chains and the
weights, the sticks, the wire hangers, the
rope, and all his other tormentors. He
loved Miguel, though. He would protect
Miguel from any one. A few months
before, longer ago than the dog could
remember, he had protected Miguel from
a gang of kids who had tried to roll on
them while they were walking home late
one night. Miguel was drunk, coming
back from his father’s friend Louis’s
house. Caesar had growled and thrashed
around and the kids had gotten scared
and run off. For a week after that,
Caesar hadn’t seen the stick or the
weights. He thought that Miguel must
have been trying very hard to keep his
tormentors away, to keep him protected
even better than usual. Now the stick
was back, and he wished that Miguel
could do something to stop it, but he
knew that he couldn’t. Miguel’s soft
words stroked the dog’s ear, and he
relaxed and braced himself. Miguel
stepped back outside of the cage and
took up the sharpened broom handle. He
shoved it through the wire and started to
prod the dog’s side. The animal snarled
and snapped at the stick.
When he came back inside, his
sister was coming out of the bathroom.
She was wiping her hands on her acidwashed overalls and singing to herself.
“Hey, Miguel. Did you already take
Caesar for his walk?”
“Yeah, we just got back a little
while ago.”
“But I wanted to go, too.”
“You should have been awake
early, like us.”
“Miguel, when can I take Caesar
out for walks all by myself?”
“When you gain about a hundred
pounds. You remember when I let you
hold his leash that time? Remember
how he dragged you up the street to go
see Mrs. Jones’s little rat dog? Why are
47
you still so small?” He palmed her head
like a basketball.
Rosie was getting a carton of
orange juice out from the refrigerator.
“But he likes me. I go out and play with
him when he’s lonely. I give him food
and he licks my face.”
Miguel wasn’t fully listening, sifting
through a stack of junk mail on the
kitchen table.
Standing on a chair, pulling a glass down
from the cabinet, Rosie turned to her
half-brother. “How can I get muscles
like you did?”
“Well, do you want to drink
those protein shakes like I do everyday?”
“Ewwwww.”
“And lift weights all the time?”
“I lifted them before. Three
times.” She stared off into space as she
overfilled a glass with orange juice.
“Clean that shit up before your
mother sees it. You don’t want muscles,
anyway. Little hoochies aren’t supposed
to have muscles. Then boys don’t want
to get with them.” He strolled lazily
through the house. He heard the TV on
and peeked his head into the living
room, but the couch was empty. Carla
and his father were arguing as Miguel
walked by their bedroom toward his
own. Inside his room, Miguel took his
shirt off and turned on the TV. In front
of the mirror, he hooked a couple times
like a prizefighter and then crossed his
arms over his chest and regarded
himself. Not big enough, he thought, not
hard enough. There was a light knock at
the door. “What’s up?” He turned away
from the mirror. It was Carla, looking
tired.
“Miguel, someone called here
last night looking for you.”
“Who? Was it—?”
“Listen.
I said you weren’t
home, and he asked if I knew where else
he could get some speed.”
“Oh, man! Fucking asshole. I
bet it was one of those little freaks
from—”
“Now, Miguel, I’m really sick of
this shit. You know your father doesn’t
care, but I do. This is my damn house,
too. I will not have drug people calling
here talking about illegal shit on my
phone!”
She took out a pack of
cigarettes. “No… No, I won’t have it.
I’m not going to have goddamn cruisers
watching my house.” She took a long
drag.
“Carla, you know nobody comes
here. Hardly no one even knows where I
live.” He was calm, staring away,
looking annoyed.
“Whatever. Whatever! Forget
about the cops. What about these people
you are dealing with? Killers. You
don’t even know.”
“I know, Carla, and I can take
care of myself.”
“What about your sister? You
want to have people like that around
her?”
He sat down on the weight bench
in a beam of smoky sunlight coming
through the window. He paused for a
moment then faced her and said,
“Nothing is gonna happen. You guys
are safe. Anyway, that’s what I bought
Caesar for! To protect the family.”
“Oh, you didn’t get that dog so
you could walk around the neighborhood
and look tough?” she asked with
venomous cheer.
“What?! I’m representing.”
“So, what, you’re hardcore
now? My brother is dead from
thinking he was hardcore, running
around with guns, you know that.
Miguel, you are not one of these
48
thugs. That’s not you. I remember
when I first came here. You used to
tell me how much you hated those
guys, how you would never try to be
like that.”
He was glaring at her, enraged.
“Fuck that! All I’ve done is take shit
from everybody!” He had both arms up
in a “what’s up?!” gesture. “All I’ve
done is take shit my whole life. Ask my
father. He used to have to protect me
from kids in this neighborhood. From
now on I’m not taking shit from
anybody.”
“That’s not how it works,
Miguel. A dog and some gold don’t
make—”
“Whatever, Carla. I don’t want
to talk about this dumb shit.” He turned
up the volume on the TV and lay down
on the weight bench. Carla took another
drag, then walked out, closing the door
carefully behind her. A moment later
Miguel heard the faint sound of more
arguing coming from the direction of his
father’s room.
Miguel went out that night with
Kim, a high school girl he had met a few
weeks before at the swap meet. Down at
the park there had been a barbeque
earlier in the day, and when Miguel and
Kim showed up there were still people
hanging around fires and drinking beers.
Miguel was greeted with shakes and
snaps from ten different kids and a few
beers were cracked and presented to
him. He watched as some of his friends’
Pit Bulls chased each other around the
picnic area. “Damn, man, I should have
brought Caesar,” he said aloud.
“If it was here, your dog would
be scaring my dog shitless,” laughed a
baldheaded black kid from Compton.
Reggae was coming from
someone’s boom box. Miguel felt at
ease. Kim was looking fine, drinking a
beer, leaning up against him. He was
surrounded by people that respected him.
That’s all I wanted, he thought, just
some respect. Later that night he went
back to Kim’s and they made love on the
couch while her parents were sleeping
upstairs. He left feeling happy and
slightly buzzed. He unlocked the front
door and stepped into the living room.
His father and Carla were passed out on
the couch, holding each other. There
was a mostly empty bottle of gin and
some cups on the coffee table in front of
them. The TV was still on, loud.
Miguel took up the bottle of gin and
swallowed the last of it, then stole a
couple Newports from Carla’s pack.
Then he picked up the remote and turned
off the TV. Miguel’s father woke up.
“Hey, you cigarette-thief,” he whispered.
“Hey, Pops.”
“Did you have a good time with
that girl?”
“Oh, man, yeah. That girl is
sweet.”
“There’s nothing like a little
pussy,” his father said, even more quiet,
doing his best not to wake up Carla.
“Did y’all do anything tonight?”
“No, your sister went to bed
early and me and Carla just drank a little
and talked for a while.”
“Did Caesar bark at all?”
“No, he was very well behaved,”
his father laughed. “Miguel, there’s
some things we need to talk about in the
morning.
About what you’ve been
getting into. Carla really does not like
how you’ve been acting lately. But we
just need to talk to her, okay?”
“Well,
whatever…in
the
morning.”
“Yeah, goodnight, Miguel.”
He headed towards the kitchen.
He opened the fridge and looked around
for a second, found nothing of interest,
49
and closed the door. As he started
across the lawn, he saw that something
was not right. Caesar had gotten into
something. Miguel could hear the dog
gnawing at a piece of meat, but he didn’t
stop cold until he saw his Bull cracking
through the leg bone of his little sister’s
half-eaten body.
50
EMERSON BRENEMAN
I was born on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, where I grew up until my parents were divorced.
I moved with my mother to Rhode Island, where I attended elementary and middle
school. After my freshman year of high school we moved to Media, PA, where I
attended Penncrest High School. After graduation I started traveling every winter season.
Since then I’ve traveled around the country several times, into Mexico, to Puerto Rico,
Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, Australia, Laos, Cambodia, Viet Nam, India, and around
Europe. I spend my summers in Provincetown on Cape Cod, where I’ve worked in
restaurants, bars, on a clam and oyster farm, in the cranberry bogs, for a concrete
foundation building crew, and as the first mate on a whale-watch boat. In 2002 I selfpublished the first issue of WHITE ANIMAL, a D.I.Y. zine about my travels in Southeast
Asia. Since then I’ve been working on WHITE ANIMAL as a music and culture
webzine (http://www.whiteanimal.blogspot.com). Last year my girlfriend, Genevieve,
and I did a round-the-world trip, which we documented with an extensive weblog
(http://www.gneexcellentadventure.blogspot.com). This year the adventure will take us
to Argentina and around South America.
Reflection on The Reign of the Last Caesar
I don’t remember much about the actual writing of “The Reign of the Last
Caesar,” except that it happened quickly, over the course of a couple nights. I felt that
the story could have been longer and I would have liked to expand it, though when I
turned it in I found out it was twice as long as it was required to be: I thought the
requirement was a minimum of ten pages, and it was. But double spaced, not single
spaced as I had written.
Basically “Caesar” was my attempt to sledgehammer home a very simple moral,
but I don’t exactly remember what that was. I think it had to do with the inherent danger
in pursuing personal power at the expense of others. It also had to do with what I saw as
a vicious cycle in society: those that are mocked, stepped on, and oppressed all too often
come to believe that they really are inferior and go on to try to become like their
tormentors, venting their rage at anyone—or thing—weaker than they are. This
transgression usually goes unpunished and the cycle continues, but I wanted to portray a
worst-case scenario.
In high school I was really into John Steinbeck, especially the early novels that
most people think are oversimplified, or preachy, or too political. I liked the simple,
moral stories, which highlighted different aspects of Steinbeck’s socialist political ideals.
At the time, these black-and-white portraits appealed to my own fledgling political
consciousness and the view I had of the world around me.
I was influenced by the music I was listening to as well. It was a lot of grindcore
and “power violence” hardcore. This is music characterized by sheer brutality and speed.
The record sleeves would always have the same aesthetic—stark black-and-white, just
like the moral message the music preached: the government is evil, religion is evil, cops
are sadists and bullies, all authority is bad, the force of resistance is always good, and
above all that power corrupts. I’m sure this message affected mine, as their brief and
devastating songwriting affected my writing style.
One band in particular called “Man is the Bastard” was especially influential on
me with their messages. Most of their songs dwelt on similar themes. “Idjit Child” was
51
one about parents who project their self-hate on their children; the song ended with a call
for the “idjit child” thereby created to “rise above.” Another song called “Tyke” was
based on a true story of an abused and neglected circus elephant who ran amok and killed
his masters. These secular, moral messages resonated with me.
I decided to write a kind of “gangsta” story so that it would be widely accessible.
I knew it would be available to be read by all the English classes in the grade, so I wanted
to make something that would get the attention of even the street-minded kids who might
not usually care about literature.
My family lived in what passed for the “bad” neighborhood of Media, and there
were a lot of wannabe thugs and smalltime drug dealers there. At the time, some
cartoonish rappers like DMX had made having vicious Pit Bulls as pets popular. Some of
the kids in the neighborhood had gotten them to show that they were hard. I latched onto
that as a good symbol.
I was also seeing the usual high-school transformations and changes in the kids
around me. Uncool kids were becoming cool, popular kids were falling out of favor,
awkward nerdy girls were becoming pretty and sought-after. Some of my friends were
making money by selling drugs, making connections in Philly, getting reputations. I was
fascinated by how quickly people can change, and how easy it is to forget your old self in
order to live up to that new persona.
Around this time there was a shocking story about dog-fighting rings in
Philadelphia printed in The Philadelphia Inquirer. This article laid out the way in which
these dogs, primarily Pit Bulls, were bred and sold secretly and trained with brutal tactics.
I used some of these training techniques—the weights and the beatings and prodding—in
the story, but others, like mixing gun powder in with the dog’s food to make it hateful, I
left out because they seemed to too cruel to be real. There were also occasional scaretactic stories in the press about “killer” Pit Bulls that mauled babies and children, though
I don't think I ever heard of anyone being killed by one.
I sat down and wrote the story pretty quickly and then reworked it over the next
few weeks. The dialogue came pretty naturally, as did the “cinematic” point-of-view. I
think I was trying to rip off J.D. Salinger’s style. The way everything is described like
it’s on a screen, and the camera pans and zooms and cuts to different scenes is an
imitation of the prose he used in some of his short fiction.
The setting of Long Beach, which I’ve never been to, was stitched together from
gangsta movies like Boys N the Hood, Menace II Society, as well as a documentary I saw
on the band Sublime, Lowrider, car magazines, and the music and videos from gangsta
rap artists like N.W.A. Some of the scenes in the story were directly inspired by images
from videos like “Ain’t Nuthin but a G Thang” by Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg.
I had to write the shocking “twist” ending because those were always the short
stories I loved the most—the devastating ending that makes you rethink everything that
came before. “A Perfect Day for Bananafish” by J.D. Salinger is still one of my
favorites.
On reading the story now, I guess I can’t fault it for being bleak or mean-spirited,
because that was my own choice and I suppose that’s what I wanted to say at the time. I
think that we had spoken about expanding the second half of the story, to better illustrate
how Miguel’s life had changed and how having a Pit Bull was somehow tied into all that.
52
I never got around to writing those new scenes, and on this reading I feel like the story
needs it.
My worry is that people will read it as a simple “being-involved-with-drugs-andgangs-is-dangerous” type story. That was not my intention at all. I think if you don’t try
to read into it, the story might come off as an after-school special. If there was some
social problem I was addressing it wasn’t “gangsta” culture, but plain old abuse and
neglect, especially that of animals.
Aside from a few cringe-worthy lines, I still like the story, though I guess if I
featured it in an anthology I’d put it next to something a little more lighthearted.
53
Teacher Reflection
Pop Culture and the News as Inspiration in Emerson Breneman’s
The Reign of the Last Caesar
It might take more than imagination, but empathy—and sometimes a little
research—to write a story about a character living in circumstances that are utterly
foreign, not to mention upsetting, to the author.
Emerson Breneman creates an utterly convincing protagonist in Miguel, a
thoroughly likeable and sympathetic character, who, charmingly, is a victim of his own
physical slightness—nothing he can help, of course. Even after Miguel buys a Pit Bull
and puts on some muscle, he’s still no big shot—in fact, he’s still the butt of ridicule, and
we sympathize with his struggle. From the story’s opening details Emerson creates a
sense of freedom and unpredictability that is both exhilarating and unnerving, at least to
the reader who isn’t familiar with such a setting, let alone with young boys like Miguel,
who talks openly—even with his father—about doing drugs, fending for oneself, and
getting women; his world is alive with energy, and the dog tearing at meat in the back
yard isn’t shocking to Miguel’s family, only to the squeamish reader. That’s why it’s all
the more shocking when it’s the sister, not leftover steak, being mauled in the end.
This final twist seems beyond reality—“too cruel to be real,” to quote Emerson,
who, in his reflection, admits to avoiding some other “real-life” detail for this very
reason. But one need only read the newspapers or watch the nightly news to be reminded
that “these things happen.” The reader need not open his mind to the possibilities of
fiction in order to be convinced of such a story, but rather to open his mind to the
actualities of reality.
Emerson could have softened the blow of the shocking ending, by
foreshadowing—or even spelling out—if not the sister’s doom, specifically, then at least
some dreadful turn of events. But the truth is that there are clues; after all, this was a dog
bred for fighting, a dog that should have been sold by a seller with a license. More
important, the jolting finale better reflects reality and, as such, is more true. In the “real
world” the story’s ending would inspire the beginning of the news story—perhaps with
the headline, “Girl Mauled by Pit Bull,” and the facts would follow. In fiction—at least
in Emerson’s story—the author takes us behind—or before—the shocking “headline” and
gives life to the story.
As in many of T.C. Boyle’s short stories—one is called “The Love of My Life,”
whose basic plot calls to mind the real-life news story of a teenage couple who disposed
of their newborn baby in a garbage dump—what seems amazing often reflects popular
culture and current events. Of course, whether inspiration comes from real-world
observation, from personal experience, or from the outer reaches of one’s imagination,
the writer must make it his job to make the fictional story feel true. These authors create
not only convincing stories—out of seemingly outrageous or unspeakable acts—but even
likeable, empathetic characters—out of people we might otherwise assume, too
conveniently, to be plain psychotic or evil—that is, if we only got the story from the
news.
54
Exercise
Scan newspaper headlines for stories that seem so horrible, upsetting, or outrageous that
the stories seem hard to believe— “too cruel to be real,” too outrageous even for fiction.
Reserve your judgment, and write a short story—or even just a character sketch—in
which you empathize with—seeking to understand—the main character, for whom,
ordinarily, you might not be able to summon patience, let alone compassion.
55
Have-Nots Like Us
Joshua Jordan 2000
I can’t say why, exactly, but I
wanted to erase my foster parents. I’d
lead them into a field of high grass or
something and watch them wander right
off a cliff. And I wouldn’t miss them.
But then I realize they’ve never really
done anything to me. They just kinda,
well, annoy me.
Them and their
“ideals,” the way everything has to be
backwards.
They’re not mean or
anything. In fact, they’re pretty nice to
me—I can’t imagine anyone’s parents
ever being more lenient to their kids than
mine. I can’t imagine what their parents
were like, or imagine they even had
parents for that matter. I say this
because I think about this a lot—in a
world where it’s a wonder that I give
half a damn about anything.
My real parents used to take us
out to the gas station on 252 to get our
tree at Christmas. I remember walking
around the rows of trees, all leaning up
against each other, still with bunches of
ice in the middle, holding the thick limbs
to the trunk. My kid brother, Ben,
would be running around, shaking them
and getting ice all down his neck; he’d
start crying and I’d laugh at him.
Anyway, we’d get the biggest, bushiest
doug-fir and have them stick it in that
great big machine that wrapped it up.
I’d always tell Ben he’s next in the tree
wrapper and he’d start crying again.
Mom would yell at me and dad would
laugh. We strapped that big green shrub
of ours to the top of our electric blue ‘90
Subaru that my old man had taken the
liberty of souping up himself, with some
shiny rims and a big ol’ spoiler. He
spent an entire summer once grinding
the cylinders, polishing ports, and
carefully reassembling the engine. He
thinks it went faster because of that. If it
did or didn’t, it was his claim to fame.
Anyway, there we are, tearing over the
reservoir on 252 in our electric-blue
suburbia terror, nine-foot doug-fir on
top, blasting Elton John.
This is
freedom.
Chrome-wheeled, fuelinjected freedom.
Now Bob and Joan take us out a
million miles into nowhere, PA, with a
hacksaw and some thick-ass gloves that
still do nothing for your hands. We
scour around like freakin’ lunatics
looking for the always-inconspicuous
trophy of our hunt, which usually turns
out to be some scraggly, shameful little
wretch of a tree. Meanwhile, you’re
fighting the battle of your life against
frostbite while Bob keeps yelling, “Now!
Ain’t this livin’?” Benny and I used to
go sledding in the quarry in our old
hometown. This monument of manmade fun, every kid and his mom was
there on a toboggan taking the “suicide
splurge” over near the granite cliffs.
Nowadays, we got the “backwoods
delight,” where if you don’t get lost in
the forest, you freeze your ass off and
die. Ain’t this livin’?
I hate living in the woods. Well,
it ain’t exactly deep forest, but it might
as well be. For the ten neighbors we
might have had in this zip code (if they
even deliver mail here), only one of
them’s my age. We don’t have TV. We
don’t have a computer. I have to steal a
newspaper from school to find out
what’s going on in this damn country.
One advantage—I’m seventeen and have
been driving for over five years now on
my own; like I said, if my foster parents
are anything, it’s lenient—or just don’t
care at all. But they talk a lot, especially
at dinnertime, about this crazy stuff like
political freedom and why God might
not exist. They always agree with each
56
other, but it always seems like they
argue, so then I take a side and then
things go crazy. They can’t seem to deal
with the fact that, yes, I think there is a
God (and, no, not because my parents
dragged me to church every week), and
that I’m satisfied with the way the
country is run and the way people live.
All they wanna do is up and “run away”
from whatever it is they think is driving
this world down the tubes. They wanna
fly away and settle down in some big ol’
house in the woods, with no TV and no
computer, and chop their damn tree
down in nowhere, PA, and take us
sledding down freeze-your-ass-offmountain. And look where it got them.
Look where it got me. This ain’t living.
This is bullshit.
My foster parents are all about
attaching meaning to everything I say
and do. Maybe that’s what makes me
want them out of the picture. They catch
me this one time with an eighth and this
piece I made from blown glass—and
instead of the furious lecture, I get this
explanation from Joan of why she
completely understands. The “desire to
escape” and all this shit. She says she
went through the same thing.
Sure…went through. I do it because it’s
something to do. Same reason I go hit
pinecones at the house with a bat or see
how long it takes spit to fall off the
quarry cliffs. I’m just bored as all hell,
that’s all.
I’m really starting to like Ben a
lot. He used to be a pain in my ass, but
he’s learning to take advantage of Bob
and Joan. I guess it’s because he was
four when they took us in. What I’m
liking is the way he’s taking after me
and saying stuff that I’d normally say.
Get this—he’s got the flu the other week
and she’s all pampering to his every
need. Yeah, you know, maybe they can
still keep lil’ Benny the model flower
child. Anyway, he was almost better
and still bossing her around. The damn
kid milked a common cold for a week.
She leaves the room and he’s all,
“Yeah, know your place.” I looked at
that boy and laughed my ass off for
about ten minutes. We both did. What a
riot. The kid’s learning well. He knows
he can use them for just about anything
he wants.
Well, except anything
invented in the last fifty years.
I
overheard my fosters talking about us
the other day—if there’s an advantage to
this old house, it’s the way you can hear
stuff through the vents.
She says, “Hun, what is it with
Tyler? I don’t know if he takes in a
word we’ve said in the past six years.”
And Bob, the Freudian wonder,
says, “Well, the boy had an obvious
connection to his parents, especially his
mother.”
“Yeah, but it’s like he started
growing up way too fast when he started
over.”
Leave it to Joan to say something
like that
“Well, what do you think we can
do, or should do?”
“I guess nothing. It’s just… I
don’t know. I’d like to see Benjamin
turn out different than his brother. I
mean, I do think he’s on his way.”
Shows how much they know. It
really surprised me they actually cared
this much.
“You don’t think he’s into drugs,
too, do you?” Bob said.
“Now, dear, he’s ten years old.”
“Well, I guess he can tell right
from wrong.”
That sparked Joan’s attention.
What a damn idiot.
57
So then she goes off, asking,
“Who are we to tell him right from
wrong?”
You complete human wasteland.
You are everyone to tell him that.
Bob concedes, “Well you’re
right. We can show him the door…”
“…but not open it,” she finishes
for him.
This conversation pissed the hell
outta me. I don’t really give a rat’s ass
what they have to say about me. It kinda
bothered me they’d let my kid brother
smoke pot. It was like they’re taking the
wheel of our old Subaru, like we’re
going right past the gas station on 252
out into the woods. It pissed me off that
they had actually thought about this
stuff. And what pissed me off the most
is how Benny was turning out like some
damn science experiment of these
washed-out hippies.
So I do have people I talk to back
in the real world. My friend Jesse lives
in my old town and we talk every once
in a blue moon. He tells me about his
car and this computer, the “new-fangled”
things I’d kill to get my earth-worn
hands on. With 600 MHz processors
and 2.8-liter straight-six engines, and a
shit-toad of other “worldly” wonders.
And I’m so damn Jealous. I tell him
about what? Evergreen? Hey, Jesse, I
saw eight squirrels yesterday! Bullshit.
I have nothing. I remember Jesse has
this concrete drain chute running
through his back yard that drains the
whole neighborhood’s runoff water. So
every time we get some rain, the chute
becomes this raging torrent that we used
to play in. One time, Jesse, probably
nine at the time, stuck his arm in and got
sucked down the chute, laughing his ass
off the whole way. I was worried at
first, but then I was half tempted to do it
myself, seeing how much fun this kid
was having. He made his way out the
creek it dumped into about a hundred
yards or so down, knees bloody and all,
laughing with hysterical excitement, half
in shock and pain, half in joy. That’s
what life is all about—when you’re
having too much fun to notice the blood
drizzling from your scraped-up knees. I
haven’t so much as broken a single bone
since I’ve been out in the boonies. I’m
wasting the damn best years of my life.
Well, I haven’t been totally
honest so far. There’s a reason I wanted
to stay. And of course, it’s a girl. I
mean, they’re already 99% of the
problem. Sure, I’ll probably sound like
every other sad sap in the world saying
that I’m never gonna find anyone like
her again…but I’m not. Her family’s
real rich and moved about five miles
away from me, in this development, in
some wildly conspicuous mowed-down
square of former forest. See, that’s
where I wanna live. Some artificial villa
of former rain-forest that’s becoming a
bustling suburb of some high-tech new
city, where the moon looks pink from all
the pollution we’re putting out, powering
our coin sorters and Cuisinarts. Well,
this girl lived in a white house with
white walls and had a white dog. She’s
two years younger than me, and dropdead gorgeous, in this weird cute way.
She had a cute little foul mouth, like she
felt all big using the nasty ol’ “F-word.”
We’d watch movies at her house and
play some lame-ass video games and all
the things I missed dearly from the real
world. She probably thinks I fell in love
with her. There was something in the
way she talked, acted, complained, about
everything. I wanted to change the
world so it didn’t hurt her anymore, even
though it probably didn’t even hurt her
at all. I didn’t need her to love me. I
didn’t need to love her. I just needed her
58
to keep me from going completely crazy.
That’s just what she did. C’mon, she
was my best friend and that’s just what I
needed her to be. And it was all my
fault. My entire damn fault. For the
longest time, I blamed her for
everything, how we were best friends
and gradually faded until I couldn’t even
bring myself to try to win her over
anymore. So, then, I kept telling myself,
well, don’t be mad, think how good it’ll
feel to forgive her. It didn’t feel good.
It was like the worst thing I’ve ever felt.
Walking away from her was the hardest
thing I’ve ever done.
But, whatever, you move on.
Well, until life throws you an awkward
curve, at least. Turns out I didn’t have
to get rid of my fosters. I was taking
Ben home from school one day and
instead of the formidable fortress of
limestone and wood, it’s an even more
imposing tower of flame and thick white
smoke. That’s the first time I’ve ever
been in complete awe—before this cliff
of fire. Benny lost his shit and started
screaming his little head off, “My stuff!
My stuff.” I don’t know what the hell he
was talking about; all we got are some
clothes and books. He kept trying to get
near the house, and I watched his little
body drop to its back, overcome by thick
waves of white heat. I squinted my eyes,
my head throbbing with bright pain and
flames.
I dropped to my knees and cried.
Now do not take this in stride, for I did
not cry when my parents died six years
ago. But I cried now, not for my clothes
or books, but for some weird reason I
imagined my real parents being in that
house. That I’d finally been there when
they died, the exact moment my life
turned into the dead-end quest for
nothing. There were times I truly hated
them for dying. I thought of my parents;
I thought of my little brother and the girl
down the street. Just as though I were
under a blanket that didn’t reach my
toes, I curled up into a ball on the grass.
I waited for either some sign from God
or just Mother Earth to swallow me right
there.
As for my fosters, something
tells me they weren’t in the house when
it went up. Maybe they’d caught on to
us, me and Ben, who we were gonna be.
Maybe they’re on their way to freakin’
Canada, to get even farther away from
the hustle and bustle of the world that
disgusts them so much. All I know is
they didn’t die that day. I don’t know
how I know it, probably the same way I
know God is up there on some cloud,
laughing his ass off at all this.
Things are looking a lot different
to me now. I feel like maybe Joan was
right when she was saying that stuff
about me growing up all of a sudden.
It’s like, I feel like I’m back in the past,
but as a different person. I get this same
feeling all the time anymore.
It’s
nothing in particular, just something like
that feeling you get breathing through
your nose on a real cold day. Reminds
you of last winter, right? Well, that’s it.
Everything that happens reminds me of
the last time it happened. We were
leaving the other day, me behind the
wheel of the ‘78 Jeep Wrangler Bob
must have found under some rock
somewhere, Ben asleep next to me,
following the police into town. It was
sort of ironic that every time I wanted to
go anywhere around here I had to pass
the girl’s house twice—going out and
coming back. So we passed her house
for the millionth time—but for the first
time probably ever, I didn’t look over.
Didn’t even occur to me till about ten
more miles down the road.
59
Anyway, I got plans now for me
and Ben. I see us finding our way back
to our hometown.
I wanna get a
computer and a cable TV, tons of loud
electronic equipment, enough inane
gizmos that I’m only gonna have to get
off my lazy ass twice a day. I’ve quit
smoking—not really a decision, but I
just got more stuff to do now. Ben and I
have always been a work-in-progress,
and I have this feeling we won’t have
too much trouble getting off the ground
here. I love my brother as much as I
ever loved anything, so I’m not letting it
happen any other way. I mean, the
system has the greatest remorse for
have-nots like us.
For the first time in six years, I’m
starting to notice how clear the sky is at
night out here, and how many stars there
really are out there. It’s a wonder how
many things you miss when you’re too
distracted. I’m sure ol’ Bob and Joan
would be proud of me, all making it on
my own, looking after my kid brother.
But, they’re long gone—they’re as lost
as their cause. I’ve been right here kneedeep in it since day one. Sometimes I
have to step back and relax for a minute,
because these days I feel like I’m seeing
everything I missed all at once. So right
here and now we got a ‘78 Wrangler,
some cash in hand, and the sky’s the
limit.
60
JOSHUA JORDAN
My drawings and prose first appeared on café napkins and collection envelopes in
Catholic churches in the late 1980s. I have since been a nomadic public school student,
and a writer—for hire, in spirit, and by addiction, receiving scattered and polarized praise
from the professional, religious, and academic communities on much of the eastern U.S.
coast. I am enrolled in colleges every other year; I am currently a high school track
coach in the afternoons and truck driver and fix-it man for a glass company in the
mornings. I live in central Philadelphia with three friends from high school and a cat. I
drive a 1990 Subaru.
Reflection on Have-Nots Like Us
I wrote “Have-Nots Like Us” in the spring of 2000—for ten hours, all at once,
with a high fever. It was the first honest, non-sarcastic thing I ever wrote. I would not
feel the desire (or, really, even learn how) to read or write honestly and non-sarcastically
until at least a full year later; still, my high school set and setting are important when I
consider why and how I write what I write today.
I was seventeen and had just begun to realize how optional going to school, or
doing anything, really was. I hated reading—I skimmed maybe half of the literature
assigned in school and read almost nothing else apart from brightly illustrated books on
modern physics, Matt Groening’s comic collections, and a page here and there from
uplifting New Age booklets my mother had bought on impulse at Borders and piled next
to our toilet. The day I spent writing this story was fueled by a specific, precious
presence of mind and heart that had been buried since I was about six years old.
This story is probably three separate autobiographical and biographical memories,
with names barely changed. There is a Jesse, and he still lives in Media, PA. There is a
girl that lived in a mowed-down forest square, and I was very upset over her. Her name
was Alexa. I was driven and eager to write like the ghost of Holden Caulfield, as I
imagine many resentful teenagers are—but I hadn’t even read The Catcher in the Rye,
only acted like I had, to be convincing in my cynicism in front of high school teachers.
My desire (or Tyler’s desire) for mental freedom was a caricature inspired by the popular
intellectual works of the Other Side of human experience, the side of thoughts I have
since decided to call “more lucid” than others. I had recently been exposed to movies
like American Beauty and Fight Club, clanky and ethereal music from the Talking Heads
and the Beatles, the accessible literary edges of Existentialism, and many other things
that I decided were all knowledge-I-had-been-born-knowing. Now, as a twenty-three
year old, explaining my story—which was a tribute to my personal muses as much as it
was a real moment of joyful storytelling—I can’t claim to be any more accomplished at
explaining the importance of things I find important. I can claim, however, that, since
twelfth grade, making my poetic points less transparent has become my struggle
whenever I try to be a writer. Since high school I’ve cared enough about passing along
insight to get very concerned with my discipline and delivery, thinking that my goal
should be to illuminate the subtlety and nakedness of personal secrets and to classify the
smells of being in love, and so I’ve often been frustrated hard and heavy over how
fleeting and volatile the glimpses of that goal always are.
Have-Nots Like Us is filled with lifted song lyrics and someone else’s thoughts,
but the confidence written in it is what redeems it to me now. I think it’s amateur but
61
valuable, one of the more clear, direct discussions I’ve had internally about certain
struggles: to try to pass something on to your parents once they’ve decided that they’re
your parents; to discuss what does and doesn’t help when one struggles to love a boy or
girl romantically; to struggle for freedom and still admit the need for things; and to face
the frightening realization of one’s freedom and find decisive confidence in using it
wisely. These themes certainly don’t matter, even if they apply—I’ve thought about
them all since then (in different contexts), but I wrote about them most successfully when
I had no agenda, and in that specific twelfth-grade moment, I was wholly ignorant to
themes, or even to the actual story I might have been telling.
One year later, I was unwelcome at home, unwelcome at Penn State University,
and unwelcome at several drug stores from which I was chased by police for shoplifting
cough syrup. I read Kerouac, Burroughs, Ginsberg, Kesey, Blake, and I lived in a
hammock by a lake on a lost little piece of land in suburban Philly. I learned a lot from
those few writers, how to capture in prose the urge to make love or the urge to throw up,
how silly even the smartest Buddhas are, and the value of pseudonyms in writing one’s
own non-fiction. I also lived in Vermont, Japan, hitchhiked through California with
enough money to make the trip on my own, all the while writing in small notebooks. I
wrote volumes, a life’s worth, up all night on Benzedrine, Dexedrine, Methyl-this-or-that,
just like my heroes—proclaiming the sudden completeness and heartbreaking happiness
of normal people and normal life, and I eventually had a full manifesto for the fall and
rise of the human experiment. My writing was my behavior: lustful, loving, erratic,
schizophrenic, serendipitous, and arrogant. Many quasi-friends I lost, from singing too
loudly at night, or from telling their parents how much they could be better parents, but
with a few friends I became permanently paired—and together in Portland, Vancouver,
Tokyo, New York City, we are still integrating, writing, studying the sciences, getting
resourceful, and scraping the bottom of the river we found as writers in 2001.
A friend told me: in order to live in a world filled with people, one must project
outwards the parts of people she truly admires. I think that in order to write for a world
filled with people, one must do almost exactly the same—but, in writing, one has the
freedom to be self-conscious, bitter, horny, amnesic, dirty, paranoid, or just lost and
miserable; what’s more, one can learn to love people for being equally pitiful when he’s
not writing. I have no explanation for why I have found this sort of empathy most in
writing, rather than through sex or drugs or family vacations; writing always connects,
and that's why I write when I write rather than do something else. Writing is the only
absolute way I’ve found to speak with any single person and be able to say “this fellow is
one of my lot,” no matter how much I might (in weaker moments, of much less calm and
human clarity) stay away from potheads, republicans, or college students.
62
Teacher Reflection
The Sympathetic Rant in Joshua Jordan’s Have-Nots Like Us
Nobody wants to listen to someone whining and complaining all the time; and yet
Holden Caulfield, the narrator of J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, is a complainer
of the first order, as well as one of our most beloved literary characters—and most
imitated, as Josh Jordan confesses. Why do we love Holden, and even seek to imitate his
voice, in spite of his disagreeable disposition? One reason may be that for all of his
complaining—not to mention hypocrisy—he is, perhaps unwittingly, funny, as he points
out the shortcomings of those around him. He is also a romantic, who fantasizes about
living simply, away from the cruelty of modern life—or away from the lifestyle
embodied in the adults surrounding him; he goes to great lengths to preserve and hold on
to innocent, beautiful things—and people—as they are. We recognize his fantasies as the
mark of immaturity even as we root for him, not for him to achieve his fantasies, but to
survive reality once he accepts it.
Like Holden Caulfield, Josh Jordan’s protagonist, Tyler, rails against phonies,
many of whom are adults, and, in effect, cries out for more “conservative values”—not
what we’d expect from the typical “angry young man,” a dismissive label too easily
attached to the Holden Caulfields (and Tylers) of the world. These boys aren’t avoiding
their parents because they want to live recklessly, without supervision; quite to the
contrary: they’re avoiding their parents—and adults in general—because, in their eyes,
their parents are living recklessly and failing to provide the necessary supervision for
their children. Driving this point home in “Have-Nots Like Us” is the wonderfully ironic
twist when it is the stepparents who run away from the kids, not the kids from their
parents.
“Have-Nots Like Us” is funny, in a dark way, just as The Catcher in the Rye is—
even if their narrators don’t intend to be funny, even if we aren’t laughing out loud. In a
way, the narrative approach of both Salinger’s oft-imitated novel and Josh’s story, is a
rant—or a story in the form of a rant; not coincidentally, the approach of standup
comedians is often a rant—that is, they complain about the failures of society in such a
way that draws us into their worldview. Often our laughter depends on a familiarity with
the subject matter. A comedian can earn the audience’s sympathy merely by asking,
“Have you ever noticed…?” winning nods of approval, and even laughter, before coming
out with the punch line. If we shake our heads no—we haven’t ever noticed…—we
probably won’t laugh, no matter what punch line follows. The truth is that listening to a
complainer can be a joy, especially when the complainer has a vision of the world that we
identify with—and it’s all the more a joy when the complainer makes us laugh, whether
he intends to be funny or not.
Exercise
Write a short story—or a monologue—in the form of a rant, from the point of view of a
character whose worldview is complicated yet sympathetic. Give him a specific
complaint, rooted in a personal experience that inspires the telling of the story.
Primal Scream Therapy
Laurie Beth Rines 2000
I used to talk the way everyone
wanted me to.
They would say, “Mari, hey,
how’re you doing?”
I would smile my saccharinesweet smile and I would reply, “I’m
doing really well,” “Pretty good,” “I’m
hanging in there,” “Good, and yourself?”
I wouldn’t say what I was really
feeling. I would answer, they would
answer, we’d pretend like we just shared
a moment or something, when really we
were just repeating verbatim the litany
we had been taught off of television.
One of the days before I ended
up here, I started being honest.
“I’m lonely as hell,” “Oh, I
stopped sleeping. I just stare at the walls
now.”
And they would stop and smile,
their equilibrium disrupted, and go on
their way. I would see one lean over to
the other and hiss, “Man, she’s
cracking.”
“Can you blame her? I’d be
fucked up too.”
*
Marjorie, this other girl in here,
is recovering from a coke habit that she
inherited off of her mother. Daddy got
her a Volvo instead of a BMW. She’s
one of those annoying pristine types who
took a linguistics class once and feels the
need to always correct your fucking
grammar when you’re talking to her.
“Actually, it’s not pronounced
sherbert. It’s just sherbet. There’s no
extra “r.” People just throw it in there.”
I listen to her preach to me about
how English is being corrupted and
changed, and I want to scream at her as
loud as I can: “It’s evolution, you stupid
bitch, why are you fucking with
evolution!”
But I don’t.
Recovering junkies are fairly
lethargic in comparison to recovering
coke fiends.
This place is a fairly crunchy sort
of place. My grandmother didn’t want
me to go to some bullshit detox where
they would get me off of heroin by
hooking me up to methadone, creating
an even nastier habit. I had two weeks
in almost solitary while the junk was
cleaned out of my body. The nurses
would come into my narrow little cell
and hand me little brown herbal pills and
then leave me. I was allowed one fiveminute phone call a day. I was allowed
one visitor a day. Not that I did either of
those things in the first few days of cold
turkey. I mostly foamed at the mouth.
Now I’m here. In group therapy
with all my fellow fuck-ups.
The
recovering addicts. The anorexics and
bulimics, all together to examine our
problems. Most of us are trying to
recover from the fact that we won’t ever
reach perfection. That it’s all fucking
bullshit. That I can take speed so that
I’ll never have to sleep again but I’ll still
never get all my shit done. That I cannot
eat for three years and I’ll still look like
a short, Irish Catholic girl who doesn’t
get enough sun.
Most of the girls sit around
between group therapy sessions and
have giant pissing contests about whose
daddy is richer and whose summer
cottage has more bathrooms. I mostly
keep to myself. I could buy and sell
each of them eleven times over but I
keep silent.
“I hear you were a junkie,” one
nondescript blonde said to me once.
“Do you have AIDS?”
64
“Unfortunately, no,” is usually
my response to this question.
*
One of the great things they have
here is this exercise that I can only
compare to those primal scream
therapies that John Lennon was into in
the seventies. When it’s your turn you
choose girls from the group to stand up
and play characters from your life. And
they just stand there while you say to
them everything you were always too
chicken-shit to say to your real family.
This one girl, Jessica, chooses me to be
her mother.
“You stood there! You stood
there while he did that to me…”
That’s another standard line.
Most people hate their mothers.
I hate my father. My mother is
dead.
*
When I was little I used to
imagine that I was just a figment of my
twin sister Julia’s imagination. I had the
bottom bunk of one of those red metal
bunk bed sets and I would lie awake and
listen to her breathe while I wondered if
I was really real at all. She just invented
me one day because she was bored of
being an only child. It was a comforting
thought to a four-year-old who had just
been introduced to the concept of death.
If I weren’t real then I would
never die. Ideas don’t die, people do.
Then Julia died.
*
“How are you doing, dear?” My
grandmother kisses me on the cheek and
hands me daisies, thirteen daisies,
wrapped in clear cellophane spruced up
with sprigs of baby’s breath. I’m sitting
Indian-style in a pair of plaid pajama
pants and an old Gin Blossoms T-shirt in
a red vinyl armchair. She keeps staring
at the red track marks scabbed over on
my arms. The nurse told me they were
going to scar. At the time I didn’t care.
Now that I see my grandmother staring
at them the way she is, I’m terrified.
“I’m not sleeping very well. It’s
noisy here. My stomach hurts.” That’s
the thing. In here they teach you to be
assertive. When people ask a question
from here on in, they’re getting a
fucking honest answer.
“Your older brother, Bryan, is
flying in in two weeks to come visit
you.”
“That’s cool.”
My older brother is twenty-nine.
He’s the by-product of my immigrant
father’s wild teen years. Julia and I were
byproducts of his yuppie Miami Vice
years. I see Bryan about once a year.
He lives in Ireland. It’s bizarre to have
someone so closely related to you speak
so differently.
“I saw Penny Hunter today at the
florist, she was asking about you.”
“What’d you tell her?”
“I told her you were on the road
to recovery.”
I have to smile at that.
It’s next to impossible to
communicate with my grandmother, a
woman who spent her life on the
outskirts of Syracuse, a woman who
hasn’t experienced in sixty-two years
what I’ve experienced in sixteen. She’s
telling me about how she saw the
greatest old movie on Turner Classics
last night and I want to scream at her
that the only movies I saw in the past
two years were watched off of a stolen
TV and VCR. That I don’t give a fuck
65
about Katherine Hepbum or Gary Grant
or what a sin it is that River Phoenix
died so young.
I held my fourteen-year-old
sister’s head while she died.
That’s a sin. It’s a sin when
someone you love dies, not when a
fucking movie star dies.
My grandmother keeps talking,
and I start to cry.
“Marianna,
Marianna,
oh,
baby…shhh…”
Next thing I know I’m a wet
shaking mess in her arms while she
hums that song she used to sing to me
whenever I cried when I was younger.
“Hush little baby, don’t say a
word…”
That’s all I really wanted. For
her to shut her mouth and really take
care of me. People keep talking at me,
but no one is listening.
*
It’s my sixth Tuesday in this
place and now it’s my turn for primal
scream. I choose this red-haired girl,
Sophie, to be my sister. Sarah is my
father, Rebecca my mother, Marjorie is
Bryan. They stand there, completely
emotionless and motionless while I
scream. I get inches from their faces and
scream that they never loved me, if they
cared they would never have left me.
That I’m a junkie because of them. That
I’m an alcoholic because of them. That
I’m destined to a lifetime of AA and NA
meetings because of their negligence.
They tell me I have a fear of
abandonment and a tendency to project
my problems onto others.
I tell them I already know that.
They sent me here for a cure, not for
redundant diagnosis.
That’s probably the one thing I
truly hate about this place with its pink
linoleum floors and white walls with
Mary Cassat prints.
The fucking
psychobabble. This, this primal scream
stuff, this is what they should devote all
of their time to.
But when it’s over and I’m
crying on the floor and everyone else is
either watching horrified or standing in
their stoic poses, all I can think about is
how nice it would be to shoot up and
pretend like this was all a bad dream or
something.
*
It’s my eighth Wednesday here.
The flowers from my grandmother are
dying. The nurse told me that I should
hang them upside down in front of my
window so they’ll dry out. Then I’ll be
able to keep them around.
I tell her I have enough corpses
following me around without adding
daisies to the roster. She smiles and tells
me that if I dry them out they’ll be
fragrant and beautiful for years.
The flowers are dying in the vase
when I leave my room to catch a smoke
in the smoking lounge before my
afternoon private conference with my
shrink. The one addiction that’s allowed
in here. Everyone crowds into the little
smoking room with its Goodwill sofas
and black-and-white television set. They
try to make the smoking room as
unappealing as possible to keep people
from really wanting to go inside. But
they don’t outlaw smoking on the
premises. That would be downright
inhumane.
I’m expecting to be alone in the
smoking room since most of the other
girls are either in group sessions or at
visiting hours with their families. But
66
there is a single girl there, smoking on
the green plaid lazyboy with the stuffing
coming out of the side.
She nods at me and smiles hello.
I nod and smile back.
I know her. She’s usually in my
group, but every other night she’s with
the anorexics. I was here two days when
she came in looking like the walking
dead like most of us do.
Geraldine Grace.
Ginny for
short, she told us, and as she spoke at the
first few meetings where she confessed a
two-and-a-half-year-long speed habit
that inspired her to start a six-monthlong cocaine habit. Her mother had no
idea until her chronic nosebleeds got out
of control.
Ginny was little more than a
skeleton when she came in. I’d say
she’s put on about ten pounds since
she’s been here.
She is puffing on Newports with
her knees pulled to her chest.
“What’s up?”
“Didn’t have any visitors today.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
Ginny is one of those types that
whenever they talk to you you’re
shocked to see that they’re actually
paying attention to you. She stares right
into your eyes with genuine concern and
the next time you see her she’s asking
about how you’re doing, remembering
things you barely even remember telling
her.
Today she’s staring at me with
eyes that have a new emotion behind
them.
I light one of my Marlboros.
She’s still staring.
“Pretty intense the other night at
group.”
My lips part in surprise. She’s
talking about Primal Scream. No one’s
supposed to talk about Primal Scream.
She’s breaking the rules.
“I know I’m not supposed to talk
about it. I just think that’s just such a
bullshit rule, you know? I think that we
all should just be able to talk about these
things. It just seems bogus to let it all
explode out of you without ever talking
about it again.”
I take a drag and stare at the
blank television screen. I don’t want
another psychiatrist.
“That’s just what I think
anyway.”
I look at Ginny, so self-assured
in her little yellow tank top that reveals
her protruded shoulder blades, so willing
to talk to a perfect stranger, just to avoid
silence.
“You know what I hate about this
place?” I ask her.
“Huh?”
“People always feel the need to
talk so fucking much.”
It’s a direct shot at her and she
sees it as such. She raises an eyebrow at
me. “I have to say, I think that’s
bullshit, Marianna Doyle.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Suddenly, I’m liking this whole
assertive crap a whole lot less.
“It seems to me you’re afraid of
talking,” she says.
I’m almost done my cigarette.
“You see, you come here, you
pull this whole crap in group whenever
anyone talks to you about how worthless
it is to communicate. You completely
shut yourself off from everyone in here
and then you explode like you did the
other night at role play.”
I have no idea why she’s saying
all this. Why she seems so angry and
hurt when really I’ve barely said more
than three words in a row to her.
67
“Like the other night when Karen
asked you if you were HIV positive.
Granted, it was a rude question—”
“It was a fucking rude question.”
“I’m not denying that!
But
you’re in the habit of giving these
cryptic answers and then getting all bent
out of shape when people don’t
understand you!”
“So, what, you spend a few
weeks in therapy and you feel like
you’re qualified to analyze me?”
I long for five minutes ago when
all I was thinking about was my
cigarette.
“No.”
There is a silence for a moment
and I’m thankful for it as I take the final
drag off my cigarette.
She’s still staring at me with that
look that I can’t diagnose.
“How did your sister die?”
Again, I’m startled by her
tactlessness. I stare at her.
“You seem guilty, you know?
Not that I’m not,” she said. “I mean,
we’re all carrying guilt around.”
“What are you guilty for?”
“Just the hell that I’ve put my
family through with all of this. The fact
that I probably fucked up my younger
brothers and sisters royally from
watching how dysfunctional I am.”
“Huh.”
I reach for another cigarette. I
don’t normally smoke two in a row, but
seeing as I’m being roped into
conversation, I’m thinking that another
cigarette could be my ally.
“And we’re all angry too.”
My eyes are burning. I’ve been
crying so much lately. They keep telling
me that it’s okay to cry. I don’t cry for
two years and in here I cry all day long.
And this Ginny chick keeps baiting me.
I’m not about to fucking pour my heart
out to someone who’s just as screwed up
as I am. But she’s waiting for an
answer.
“Hit and run.”
“A car?”
“A Volkswagen.”
“Did you see it happen?”
“I was fighting with my dad. I
was fucked-up. He started screaming at
me. I told him that I wanted to die, that I
was going to kill myself. So I ran out of
the house and across the street. She ran
after me.”
Impact. Suddenly it’s all too
vivid in my memory. Her body twisted
in the middle of the road. The stunned
face of the teenage driver who pauses for
a minute, then puts the car in reverse and
drives around us. My sister’s blank eyes
as she takes her final shallow breaths.
I don’t know why I told her. I
don’t even know why I’ve stayed this
long.
Ginny says something about how
sorry she is. I know she means it, but I
can see in her eyes as she puffs on her
menthols that she’s trying to figure out
exactly how she wants to respond.
“Do you miss your sister?”
I don’t answer.
“When someone dies, it’s okay to
keep talking about them. I mean…I’m
not sure exactly what I mean. It’s
just…”
I consider slipping out of the
room while she continues to stutter.
“Everyone’s gonna die one day.
You don’t have to be scared.”
I hate it when people act like
they know me.
“This is just me,” she goes on.
“You know, I’ve had tons of time to sit
down here and just think things through.
And it’s like my entire life I’ve blamed
the fact that I’m obsessed with dieting
on my mother because she stressed shit
68
like boyfriends and pretty dresses, and I
said that the media did it to me. And I
guess that’s all part of it, I mean, I know
it was. But, you know, I share some of
that. I can’t blame it all off of me. I
don’t shoulder the blame. But I know
that I’m the one who has to fix it.”
I stand up. “It’s been real,
Ginny, but I’ve really got to be going to
therapy.”
Neither of us says goodbye.
*
I was twelve when my mother
killed herself. She was one of those
eccentric, free-spirited types who wore
long floral-printed dresses and plastic
flip-flops all year long. I always knew
she was a bit off kilter, but I loved her.
She was my mother.
So there I was, twelve years old,
thrust into the home of my father and his
new wife. The father who left us when
Wall Street lost the glamour it once held
for him.
That’s when I started drinking
with the sixteen-year-old next door.
That’s when I would scream at him that
he murdered my mother.
“Man, I wish you wouldn’t say
that to Dad,” Julia would say to me as I
lay face down on the bathroom floor.
She always defended him. She always
defended me. I often wondered how
someone so mild could have shared the
same womb with me.
“He’s an asshole,” I would
respond. I would scream, I would stay
out to all hours of the night just to see
his reaction, but I would never cry.
Then there was the time I didn’t
come home for two days. The first time
that I ever shot-up. He was waiting for
me when I got home. I wanted to hurt
him; I wanted to hurt myself.
But instead, I killed my sister.
Ginny is examining me with that
fucking look again. I pick up an issue of
Good Housekeeping and sink farther
down into my chair.
And the next night, when I was
sober and my father was towering over
me, when all I wanted to do was crawl
into my sister’s bed and die, he screamed
at me.
“Are you happy?
Are you
happy!” he kept screaming.
My stepmother was pulling on
his shirt, begging him, “Gregory, please,
please!”
And he hit me.
And I held my bleeding nose and
I screamed back, that it was him, it was
him, not me, who started all of this.
That I would have been more than happy
to be with my mother in Tarrytown, but
he drove her to it by leaving her alone
with no money, by cutting her off from
her old friends, by spreading lies. And
he told me that my mother had been a
crazy whore, and that I was exactly like
her. I kept screaming that he was a
killer, that he killed my mother and then
my sister.
“As God as my witness,
Marianna, I would give my own life to
have seen you taken away in that body
bag rather than Julia.”
I left the next day.
And now, instead of thinking that
I’ll be seeing my father in two days, I’m
thinking about what Ginny said, because
she’s right fucking next to me, and she
keeps staring. And every time that she
lifts an arm up too high, I can see her
ribs sticking out of her belly, and I know
that she’s just like me.
*
69
I’m sitting on my bed in my little
room staring at all the get-well cards that
all the people I used to know in
Tarrytown were sending me.
The
daisies are brown, but I still have them
in the vase. I’m waiting for my brother
and I’m nearly chewing my hand off I’m
so scared.
The nurse comes in with him
behind her. He’s holding half a dozen
pink roses. More flowers. I don’t know
why people keep buying me flowers.
Don’t they know that what I need is
some permanence, that I’m sick of all
the beautiful things in my life dying?
He’s wearing a brown rugby shirt
and a pair of green cargo shorts with a
Mets cap, and for the first time in
months I feel a genuine rush of
happiness.
I jump up and hug him. He looks
exactly the same, and I can hardly
believe he’s on the threshold of thirty.
“Ah, Marianna, girl, I missed
you!” He’s laughing in his Irish way
that sends me into near hysterical tears.
“Baby, why are you crying?”
“Oh, God, I missed you!”
“Well, then, don’t cry! Let’s sit
down and have a proper visit!”
He’s so at ease with himself as
he settles across from me on a white
wicker chair. He asks me how I’m
doing, and then listens to my stories with
the same wide-eyed sincerity of Ginny
and Julia.
And I’m so blown away by his
sincerity that before I know it I’m
hysterical again.
He rubs my shoulder.
“Shhhh…” He’s looking at me
as if trying to gauge my reaction to the
next bit of information. “Dad’s coming
tomorrow.”
I nod. “I know.”
“He’s devastated about all of
this, you know.”
I wipe my eyes that didn’t cry for
two years and now can’t seem to get
enough of this once shameful practice.
“It’s okay to express your
emotions,” all the nurses and counselors
always tell me.
I wonder how Bryan can sit there
defending our father, the man who
abandoned both of us and our mothers,
the Christmas and Easter father.
“He can go fuck himself.”
“Shhh, don’t say things like
that.”
He rubs my shoulders and talks
gently about how Dad’s not such a bad
guy.
“I mean, it’s amazing.”
I take the bait.
“What’s
amazing?”
“You and Dad are practically the
same person.”
“We are not!”
“You are! Same temper, same
talent, same way of speaking. It’s
uncanny. That’s probably why you can’t
stand each other.”
I’m staring at my lap and he
kneels on the floor and looks up at me so
I can’t ignore his eyes that are so full of
sympathy and teasing anymore. He
looks so much like my father. We all
look the same. Julia, Bryan and I all had
the same hair and eyes and skin.
“Now, how about I put these
roses in that vase, so they don’t dry
out?”
I nod and he goes about taking
the roses out from their clear cellophane
and trying to arrange them amidst the
dead daisies.
“You should’ve been a florist,
Bry.”
He stays for another half an hour
before the nurse comes in and tells him
70
that I have to go to counseling so they
can prep me for tomorrow’s therapy
session with my father. Bryan kisses me
goodbye.
I’m staring at the flowers. The
pink ones that I know will be dead in a
week and the white ones that are already
dead. The nurse comes in and tells me
how lucky I am to have all of these
beautiful flowers. I smile.
“Well, there you go. Now, Mari,
I don’t think I have ever seen you do that
before!”
The flowers have filled my
whole room with odor. The sun is
shining onto my bed with the starchy
white sheets. But I’m detached from all
of that and I’m thinking about my father.
About how Bryan says we’re exactly the
same.
It’s all seeming a little clearer.
Like how Ginny says we’re all angry
and we’re all guilty.
The flowers are beautiful. I’m
thinking that I should do what the nurse
said, that I should hang them upside
down and keep them.
*
The next day I’m sitting in the
smoking room when Ginny creeps in.
“Hey,” she greets me pleasantly.
“Hi.”
“Why so sullen?”
“I’m nervous.”
“Dad’s coming today?”
“Yeah.”
She lights one of her menthol
cigarettes. “Yeah…when?”
“An hour.”
She doesn’t say anything because
we both know that she doesn’t have to.
“It’s just that I haven’t seen him
since the day after Julia died.”
I don’t think I’ve ever said that
out loud before. Julia died.
And the guilt that I used to feel is
replaced by a more stinging and acute
one: the guilt that I left my father. Not
that he left me, but that I left him when
what he really needed was family. That
when all either of us needed was the
other, we fought like little children
whose mothers never taught them how to
grieve. Who knew what death was but
never really understood what loss was
until they’d lost everything. “What are
you thinking?” I remember Ginny and I
smile. “I’d better go. He’ll be here
soon.” She smiles. “Good luck. You
gonna be okay?” I don’t know. I go out
into the hallway. I turn the comer to my
room, thinking that I just want some
water before he comes. I’m so thirsty all
of a sudden.
Then I see him coming down the
hall towards me.
I stop.
He hasn’t recognized me yet.
It’s been two years, and girls change a
lot from fourteen to sixteen in normal
circumstances, let alone the extreme one
that my father and I find ourselves in.
He’s carrying more pink roses. He sees
me, and for the first time in two years I
see my father’s face.
He’s aged. The wrinkles about
his eyes have become more defined. He
used to have only pinches of gray hair on
his temples and now there are only
streaks of auburn left.
We walk towards each other but
stop before we get too close.
His lips part, and I know that he
wants to greet me, but he’s choked.
I’m taken back to our last
meeting and I see the rage in his eyes
and feel the sensation of blood seeping
out of my nose and the taste of it on my
lips.
71
“I brought you these flowers.”
He has the same brogue as my
brother. He holds out the flowers and I
accept them with a quiet thank you.
“I
remembered
that
you
always…that you were always partial to
pink when you were a little girl.”
He is stuttering inanities, and I
don’t think either of us knows where to
begin talking. I don’t know how to tell
him that I’m ready to forgive him, that I
want a father and I want to be a daughter
again.
“Your brother, he told me that
you were…getting better.”
He’s crying.
He tries to laugh in that ironic
way that people do when they’re trying
to disguise how close to hysteria they
are.
We’re silently staring at each
other and there’s so much I want to say
to him. I want him to know I don’t
blame him anymore. I’m so tired of
being angry.
“I want to go home, Dad.”
He nods. “I want you to come
home too.”
And here we are in the middle of
the hall, close to each other, but not
touching. He’s wiping his eyes and
clearing his throat, and I’m the calm one.
The flowers are beautiful. I
wonder if he and Bryan got them at the
same florist. They’re probably sharing a
hotel room, my grandmother in the next
room down, waiting for me to be
discharged. Comfort rushes through my
veins and I remember what it’s like to
breathe without guilt.
My therapist walks by in the hall
and sees us.
“Mr. Doyle! You’re early! Why
don’t we just head on in.”
My father straightens up and I
keep looking into his eyes. I turn
towards the door to my counselor’s
office and slip my arm through my
father’s. And the two of us start to walk
with each other into therapy.
72
LAURIE RINES
I was born and bred in Delaware County, living in the more humble town of Lenni. I
lived there until my graduation from high school, when I attended George Washington
University and got a degree in Women’s Studies, Creative Writing, and English. Upon
graduating I got hitched and flew the coop, and am now living in Düsseldorf, teaching
English and waiting out the remainder of George Bush’s second term, or until my
husband finishes his degree, and then I plan to move back. My stories have been
published in a (now defunct) GW magazine, and in an online student literary magazine.
Reflection on Primal Scream Therapy
I think this story grew out of my fascination with the anti-hero, and I think this is
a theme that I still really enjoy writing about. These are the stories that I enjoy reading
the most—when you’re presented with someone who has just made so many mistakes
and so many decisions that were so obviously poor ones, but you still can’t help
sympathizing with them. Even more specifically, and strangely, this story was inspired
by an obsession with John Lennon and the song “Julia,” which is such a beautiful song
about the loss of his mother. It was from reading a biography of John Lennon that I
became acquainted with the idea of Primal Scream Therapy and the idea of how much his
losses affected the rest of his life and his work. My interest in Lennon is something that
is still puzzling to me, because I am such a fan of his work, but at the same time he did so
many things that I hated; he was cruel to his first wife, abandoned his family, and really
generally tended to be a prick. So through this I fell in love with the idea of creating
talented characters who had to overcome their own losses to find their voice.
The idea for the character of Marianna began long before I finally wrote “Primal
Scream Therapy.” I actually wrote my first story about Marianna when I was in middle
school, and wrote lots of anecdotal stories throughout high school. But being the way
that I am, nothing motivates me like a deadline, and I finally put it all together in the fall
of 1999, my senior year in high school, for our assignment. The idea was planted more
firmly in my head when I had a good friend enter rehab for anorexia and she described to
me a type of group therapy that I incorporated into my story really exactly as she had
described it to me. When I heard about her attending this, I was almost jealous and
wished that I could take a part in such an activity, sort of confronting my own demons.
The story really started from this scene and the final scene in my mind. Honestly, now
when I read the story it’s hard to remember a process of going from A to B, because once
I started writing and trying to put it into a narrative, it was such a cathartic experience.
Now, it’s hard for me to disconnect this story from what I was as a seventeen year old.
On the most basic level when I was writing this story I was an incredibly sad and angry
girl who felt that she had the right to be neither sad nor angry. I was from a solid nuclear
family, was well-provided for, and on my way to a good college and bright future. So I
was constantly guilty for my ingratitude. I think in writing this story about Marianna I
was creating someone who had the right to feel as miserable as I did at the time. And I
think it did me a lot of good because when I was finished and let other people read it, a
tremendous weight was lifted.
Now when I read it there’s quite a bit I would change, which is embarrassing after
the fact, because at the time I did not respond well to constructive criticism. What I have
really learned since is the importance of the editing process. I have since marched into
73
workshops cockily with stories I thought were finished only to have them ripped to
shreds. And in the end, they ended up being much better for it. Now I would lift the
dead mother right out of the story; I think Julia’s death is melodramatic enough. I would
also dedicate a lot more time to explaining her sudden change in deciding to forgive her
father, and Ginny wouldn’t be quite so direct and expository. I also might take out some
of the profanity, though I have to say I am a big fan of it. When I read the story now, I
am surprised by the violence of the emotion, and also by the immaturity of it. But I am
still proud of the honesty of it. I have decided to put this story to bed, because I’m not
that interested in revisiting it. And I’ll just say it: I’ve never done heroin. I’ve never
even seen it in real life; this entire story was pure invention based only on Trainspotting
and Smack by Melvin Burgess. If I were to improve this story, I would want to do a lot
more research.
Since writing this story I have written more short stories, but have really learned
about how lengthy the revision process is and how much a story can change during it.
The biggest mistake I made with this story was calling it finished far too soon. I minored
in creative writing in college, but have to say that by the end of it I was a bit disillusioned
and had participated in far too many “but what is a writer?” conversations. If you want to
be a writer, write something. Then shut up. Tom Wolfe wrote an essay where he talks
about how workshops are sandpapering fiction (I’m paraphrasing) and I can’t help
agreeing. Someone brings in a story, and it is attacked from every side for not fitting into
a mold, and it is changed. I feel my participation in workshops has affected my
enjoyment of literature. In a survey course in college we read “The Waste Land” and the
whole time I was reading I thought to myself that if T.S. Eliot had brought that into our
workshop we would have sent him home crying. So I think the main thing is to take all
advice seriously, but to really discriminate as to whom you trust.
Now I don’t write as much as I used to, because, living in Germany, I’m
experiencing a bit of sensory overload. I think once I return to the States and process the
experiences I’m having now, I’ll be more active. I have some stories that I’m still
revising, but I think I understand more that I just need to give myself time to think and
allow stories to flow. Too often I’ve boxed myself into an ending, which I think is one of
the problems with “Primal Scream Therapy.” I had decided on that final scene before I
reached it, so I think when it arrives it feels inauthentic. I think that in a rough draft you
should let your writing meander as you try to figure out exactly why you’re writing what
you’re writing. When I read this story now, I definitely see it as still being a rough draft,
but I still can’t help feeling a bit proud. Especially after my little brother read it years
later and came up to me and said, “Hey, I read your story…that was interesting…” I
guess the best part of writing for me is freaking out the people who think they know you
the best.
74
Teacher Reflection
Narration as Story in Laurie Rines’s Primal Scream Therapy
“Primal Scream Therapy” has a great dramatic arc, not only in the action, but also
in the narration—in the voice—which mirrors the protagonist’s change. In other words,
the story’s form reflects its content—the language and tone reflect the action. Marianna’s
voice softens, her cursing falls away, and in the end the lightness in tone reflects her
changed heart and mind—and all this goes hand in hand with the action.
In Modern Literature we read a short play, by Joyce Carol Oates, entitled “No
Next of Kin,” in which a teenage boy stands before the audience and tells a story about
journeying to a hospital to visit his father, who had left home years before and whom he
thought was dead. At first the boy is aloof and unfeeling; he turns angry and spiteful,
cursing; in the end, he is tearful, prayerful, and forgiving—all this in two short pages.
In Laurie Rines’s “Primal Scream Therapy” the first half of the story—the
“harsher” half, even with its dark tone and content—is wonderfully offset by Marianna’s
wit and humor, which not only keep the story intriguing but keep Marianna herself
likeable and sympathetic, in spite of her edge…or because of it. The story goes a long
way to arrive at the emotional ending, which offers relief, as if the story itself is taking a
deep breath after an exhausting run.
And yet, “sweet” as the ending is, it is not too sweet—that is, it is anything but a
“happy” ending, not one, anyway, that suggests that the characters will live “happilyever-after.” The final walk into therapy offsets what might otherwise be a sentimental
ending (that is, if the story ended too soon, before all of Marianna’s exhausting emotional
work that precedes it); the walk into therapy is less like a soothing salve on a wound than
it is a bitter pill that Marianna and her father must swallow together. Dramatic as the arc
is—the protagonist has gone from an angry, bitter, cursing girl to a calm, forgiving, softspoken girl—the finale is less the end of grief than it is the beginning of more, real, hard
work—work that, we are convinced, both Marianna and father are committed to doing.
Exercise
Try writing a short story, or even just a one-page first-person narrative, in which the
protagonist’s tone, voice, and language reflect her change in character. Make your
narrator tell a story in which she had to act in the face of conflict. Imagine that some
time has passed, now, and she is, in a sense, re-living the story—and also living a new
story—as she tells it.
In True Silence
Lee Goldsmith 2001
Flat was the land, speckled with
shrubs and the dry, gray rows of olive
plants suffering the desert’s glowing sun.
He walked on the baked, cracked dust
laid smooth against the earth like tightly
packed gunpowder once lit, a land
always smoldering but too dense to
explode with finality. Hanging off his
starved, struggling body, his white robes
flashed, glowing like the sun as he
approached his olives, his sustenance,
his trade, his work, with steps taken
through exhaustion.
He grasped one weak, puny olive
between his thumb and forefinger,
silently scolding the olive for its slow
ripening and fruition with a fretful frown
and worried eyes, like a father watching
his prodigal son walk away. He sighed.
It rustled the branches as they danced to
the only sound heard by the olive trees
all day. Every day it was his sigh, like a
paternal coo, that woke the trees,
coaxing them to grow. And slowly they
did.
They grew in a land fertile with
blood, hatred, and war. They grew in a
land as starved as the old farmer, with a
skin as brittle and weak. They grew in
an old land, weary of the life it has lived
so far, drained of its youth by constant
suffering under the glowing sun. They
grew in a land filled with the wisdom
that comes from age, the wisdom that
allows olive trees to grow on such
tortured land. They grew in a land that
refused to yield.
The farmer released the olive
and sat next to the tree on the hardened
ground. Looking out to the horizon
with a beaten gleam hovering in his
eyes, he scanned just above the rows
of olive trees that surrounded him. He
listened to the hollow winds as they
gently brushed the dust over the
ground, chiming like the fall of a light
rain on ice.
And while ice was foreign to
him and rain almost as much so,
neither was as foreign as absolute
silence. To him the chiming was
silence, as silent as he had ever
known. A silence only found among
the rows of olive trees, where he felt
ensconced by peace, as if he were
surrounded by a dome. Back across
the field stood his house. Overflowing
with seven kids, the house always rang
with hungry voices, hurt voices, scared
voices, or sad voices, clamoring for an
unsparable second of their parents’
attention. Small whines of taunt,
accusation, or, the one that made him
feel impotent, need, pierced any
thoughts he might have in the house.
So he fled to the olives, working hard
and thinking.
His eyes wandered above the
trees into the sky, and he floated high
over the land, gliding on the warm caress
of Allah’s hand. He felt a gentle push
lining him, fingertips pressed into his
surging chest. He breathed the air,
tasting the crisp wisps never breathed
before. His heart beat slower, calmly
pulsing, a massage surging through his
body. It soothed, relaxed. And as the
excitement built in his loins and spread,
flooding his torso and legs like water
gushing through a broken levy, his heart
continued to beat more slower. Very
slowly. Almost not moving at all but to
sound “pip-pip” subtly, not even
disturbing the ribs standing guard over
it.
Suddenly he stopped, his ascent
completed. Allah held him in mid-air,
above the earth. In true silence. A
silence he could feel, like Allah himself,
76
all around him. The silence, a kiss of
summer sunlight, wrapped his skin and
burrowed inside.
And the warmth
radiated outward.
The silence was
simple, was beautiful, was honest, was
love. And though words make them
different, as he hung over the trampled
ground, he felt no difference among
them.
And very suddenly a voice
slithered around his ankles, squeezed,
and yanked spirit, mind, and body back
into one.
“Papa.” The small child tugged
gently at his father’s robes. “Mama said
dinner is ready.”
Slowly, so as not to faint from
dizziness, the worn-out man opened his
eyes and stood, patting the little boy on
his black-haired head. “Okay.” The boy
sprinted back to the house, flailing his
arms.
His father followed with
deliberate, sure steps that shifted the
loose dirt off the old ground into small
clouds of dust.
Walking into his home, he was
greeted by his wife. “Hello, Yusef.” He
silently looked at the prepared dinner
table surrounded by six children, and
three empty chairs.
*
“Do we have enough?”
“We never have enough.”
Hafsun was polishing a pistol while he
entertained a trio of farm boys.
Mohammed sat at the table in the middle
of the room, which was the basement of
one of the city houses where Palestinians
sought shelter and revenge. “With the
Israeli air ships trying to bomb us out of
existence, even the best American guns
would not be enough.” Mohammed
stared at the center of the table and bit
his nails absently. “Hey, you, wake up.”
Mohammed’s head jumped and
he blinked away his thoughts. “Sorry.”
“Anyway. That said, we still
have plenty to share. The guns are
always coming in. It’s the people who
use them that seem to disappear. But we
can’t help that.” Mohammed was biting
his nails again. “Stop that. There’s no
reason to be nervous yet.”
“Sorry.”
“Ya know even that blockade the
Israelis have going out there hasn’t
slowed the guns.
Our network is
impenetrable. We have no worries. All
the same, I can’t wait until we take it
out. It will be just one more battle won
for the good guys.”
*
The city lies deep in the West
Bank, resembling Stalingrad after the
blitzkrieg had been deflected. People
occupy the city, as they always have, but
can’t walk a straight line for the rubble
scattered on the streets. The city, like
the land it’s built on, is old and tired. It
no longer cares to erode or cover with
dirt the pockmarks it bears like the scars
a soldier shares with his infantry-mates
on the road to the front line.
The land here sinks low beneath
the hills of Judea and Samaria.
Approaching the Jordan River, it
tumbles with burgeoning slopes of grass,
all withered away by constant footsteps.
The grass has not appeared in decades.
The people in the city haven’t noticed.
The land has.
The blockades are still standing.
Soldiers in patchy shades of gray and
blue shoulder large, black rifles and stop
cars as they find it necessary. Ten
soldiers wait at each site. One will lean
into the car to inspect; the other nine will
keep their trigger fingers ready. There is
77
no desire to harass. Harassment comes
with the tension, a blanket of accusations
with no simple recourse.
Mohammad was in the city many
times, mostly against Yusef’s demands.
Except for the quick trips for small
necessities,
the
city
remained
ignominious to Mohammad throughout
his childhood. Yusef would always tell
stories of the dangerous shadows in the
city and how they could swallow men
whole. Every story was the same. The
city ruined, and the country saved.
Mohammed listened to these stories for
as long as he ran to his mother for a hug
and kiss before going out for the day.
When he began relying on himself, the
shadows lost their romantic menace.
Without fear of the city,
Mohammed traveled there with his
friends often. Rather than a foreign
jungle, it became a second home for
him. He learned the small streets where
the armed soldiers could not follow. He
discovered the secrets hidden from the
soldiers that explained their presence.
He found he could be helpful to his
Palestinian brothers. The day there were
only six children at the dinner table, he
was trying to be helpful again.
Mohammed stepped onto the
streets with two friends. Leaving a small
shop with a well-armed basement, the
trio moved down the street listening for
the impending protest. They watched
the other Palestinians flow towards the
new blockade checking all outgoing
traffic. As they turned a corner, the
singing chants of anger lit the boys’ ears.
It was a unified pop in the air.
Punching into the heat of the Israeli sun,
the aural fists sprung from a marching
block of white robes. They moved
toward the blue guard who waited with
their guns held loosely on their
shoulders. The fists beat hard and
collected stray brothers off the streets.
Mohammed and his friends joined in
step; the chant grew louder.
The soldiers stood on a hill, with
rocks scattered over the dust, not higher
than the roofs of the city’s houses.
Mohammed watched as the soldiers
shifted and listened, unmoved by the
mob’s angry spirit. As Mohammed’s
feet landed on the hill, the soldier’s guns
dropped from shoulder to hand. They
remained pointed to the ground.
Again the chant grew louder. It
hung on the humid air and resonated on
itself. Building like bricks, one on top of
the other, the chant was a shield
ensconcing the marching mob. The
shield glided over the parched land with
the force of the stampeding elephants
raging behind it. And the shield kept
growing, brick upon brick. The mob
could no longer see over it.
As they marched and sang on,
hands grazed the ground, bringing small
rocks back up with them. The mob
looked ahead, and the soldiers’ guns did
not all seem to be pointed to the earth
anymore.
Suddenly, rocks were
launched, and Mohammed rushed
forward with the archaic charge to take
the hill.
Cries of hold fire from the
soldiers gave way to the eruption of
rubber bullets hailing down on the
Palestinians. The bullets landed heavy
blows, knocking each target to the loose
dirt. Before the first man reached the
hill’s crest, half of the Palestinians lay
flat on the ground. But the charge
continued.
Then there was a gunshot. One
man reached the top; he quickly grabbed
his stomach and fell.
Mohammed
stopped with the rest of the mob. The
Israeli soldiers were moving down the
hill, attacking. The Palestinians turned
78
and ran. Mohammed dashed for one of
his hiding spots, turning only once to see
both of his friends pinned to the earth
and arrested. He hid for an hour before
returning home.
*
Yusef faced Mecca in the corner
of the room behind the kitchen in a
reflective silence having finished his
final prayers for the day. He listened to
the laughter outside as his children
played in the waning minutes of dusk.
His wife sat at a small table next to him,
repairing one of his robes. Yusef turned
to her as he heard the farmhouse door
click open. “Is that him, Sharia?” She
nodded without removing her eyes from
the needle and thread.
Yusef stepped away from the
corner. He walked to the kitchen where
Mohammed had entered, his feet patting
against the creaking hardwood floor.
“Mohammed.” His voice stung the air
but wasn’t loud enough for his wife to
hear. His son only lifted his head,
flashing a scowl; he did not answer.
“You missed dinner.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Were you in the city?”
“You should have been there.”
“Don’t tell me what I should do.
I wanted you home for dinner. You
haven’t been home all day. There’s
work to be done in the olive field. You
are neglecting your responsibility.”
There was a long pause where
Mohammed’s scowl tightened against
his face, but his eyes would not lift from
the floor. “Must you go to the city?”
“Yes.” Here his eyes raised and
lent conviction.
“You’ve been warped. All that
time in the city has ruined you.
Remember what your prophet said? He
tells you today, even from his faraway
grave, that they are people of the book.
Where is your tolerance? Where is your
good nature? Where is your faith?”
“I have faith! I’m fighting for it
every time I go into the city. We can’t
let them dominate us like this.”
“Who is this we and us?”
“We are the Palestinians.”
“Who is that?”
“They are your brothers. We are
being oppressed by the Jews, and you
can’t even raise your hand to fight. We
are the rightful owners of this land. We
must take it back!”
“Allah does not care about
Palestine, Mohammed. This is no jihad.
There are no nations under Allah’s eyes;
there are only people: those who obey
him and those who don’t.”
“I am obeying Allah. Our God
would never allow the ignorant to rule
his people. God has given us the right.
Now we must serve him and use it.”
“Our God would never condone
what you do. Inciting riots and starting
wars. Bringing death and destruction to
our Holy Land. Would Allah approve of
these?”
“All in his name.”
“You smear his name.”
Listening from the other room
and growing tired of the fight, Sharia put
down Yusef’s patched robe and walked
into the crossfire. “That’s enough.” The
two men waited for her to continue,
silent. The children’s laughter wafted
back into the room from outside. “Go to
bed. You are both tired and need to
work in the morning.”
“You’ll have to finish what you
didn’t do today early in the morning. Be
in the olive field at sunrise,” Yusef said
before walking into his bedroom for the
night.
79
*
He watched the sunrise alone
among the rows of olive trees. The sun
splashed the ancient night sky with
watercolor strokes of orange and yellow,
seeping over the fading gray remnants of
night with tiny tendrils of light. Holding
a woven wicker basket, Yusef dropped
ripe, well-nurtured olives one by one
into the basket. He sighed at the
disappearing night, wearied by the
dreams the stars had visited upon him.
As the sun vanquished the stars once
more, he smiled.
Looking back to the farmhouse,
Yusef hoped to see his eldest son
walking out to the olive field to help him
harvest. He expected what he saw:
wind grazed grass and a still picture of
his resting house.
It seemed the
argument of the past night had not
reached whatever soul would listen
within Mohammed. Just like every other
argument. Yusef knew his words were
useless. But he could not help but hope
that he could somehow bring his son
back to the celestial path.
Yusef marched up and down the
rows of trees as he collected his crop of
olives. And as the sun slid above the
distant hills at midmorning and the sweat
began to pool in his long beard, Yusef
felt a hand on his shoulder. When he
stood and turned, Mohammed stood
before him.
“Go inside. Eat. I’ll finish
here.”
“They need water too. It hasn’t
rained for days. The ground is so dry it
might crack soon.”
“I’ll do that too.”
“Thank you.” Yusef walked to
the edge of the field and stopped. “I
need you here, Mohammed. I don’t
want you to go to the city.”
“Yes, Father.”
“This season has been awful.
This might be the smallest harvest
you’ve ever seen. We have to work hard
to get as much out of it as possible.” As
Mohammed began to work, Yusef
sought refuge from the oncoming day
inside, eating then lying down for a short
nap with his wife.
*
They came. It was sudden and
unannounced. From inside a cruising
car four friends called Mohammed away.
Time seemed important. They did not
get out. They did not stop. Their shouts
mingled and twisted together as
Mohammed dropped the basket and
raced forward to catch them. All he
understood was, “Allah’s will!”
The car slowed so that
Mohammed could slip into the open rear
door. All four friends tried to explain
the events that led to such an impulsive
pick-up.
Mohammed still did not
understand anyone until he reached the
city.
*
Gunshots could be heard as the
small troupe entered the city. They
echoed against each other, and it
sounded as though there was a
continuous hail of gunfire crisscrossing
the city. On the outskirts people ran in a
chaotic scramble trying to either hide or
find the erupted war zone. As the five
friends drew closer to the city’s heart,
the running was less; and the gunfire
grew louder.
The car screeched and spun to a
stop outside the house from the previous
day. All five leaped from the car and ran
to the door, all the while sheltering their
80
heads by ducking low and keeping their
hands up. They entered the house and
dashed down the stairs to the basement
to find Hafsun, who sat at the table
loading guns.
“Are you ready?” Hafsun asked.
“Of
course,”
one
of
Mohammed’s friends answered.
“Good. Grab whatever strikes
you and be careful. Only shoot the
soldiers.
Take any other Israelis
prisoner. We’ll deal with them later. Be
forceful.”
Mohammed hesitated as his
friends each picked up small automatic
handguns and left the rifle for him.
The group stood for a second,
weighing the weapons in their hands,
adjusting to the grip, and testing the
sights. They were ready to leave, but
Mohammed still hadn’t moved.
“We’re
waiting
on
you,
Mohammed,” Hafsun said from the
middle of the staircase.
“What’s going on?” Mohammed
finally asked.
“The Israelis fired at a group of
protesters. One of them was hit in the
head,” Hafsun answered.
“Rubber bullets?”
“No. Real bullets.”
Mohammed picked up the rifle
and hurried up the stairs with the rest.
*
Yusef woke from his nap at
midmorning, ready to go back to work
with his son. Sharia lay next to him, still
resting peacefully. He slid off the bed
and onto his feet. Walking to the
kitchen door, he looked out the window
for his son but did not see him through
the olive trees. He figured Mohammed
was bent over at work.
Arriving in the field, Yusef saw
the basket fallen and on its side, spilling
olives over the cracking ground. He still
did not see his son and knew that
Mohammed was not home.
Yusef
walked to his car, which had not traveled
to the city in nearly a month.
*
The bullets seared the air around
them. Mohammed and two of his
friends crouched behind a wall that at
some point rose fifty feet into the air and
now just covered their lowered heads.
The three would not move from behind
their barricade. Only every once in a
while would one of them raise a gun and
fire it, hoping a soldier would get in the
way of the bullet.
Mohammed’s two friends who
were not behind the wall had already
fled. One stepped onto the street, heard
the gunfire, dropped his gun, heard it go
off, and ran down the street. The other
made it into the heart of the city and the
battle with the rest. But when he saw
Hafsun get shot in his leg, he could not
go another step. He began throwing up
and collapsed on a rubble-cluttered
sidewalk.
Hafsun lay across the street and
back a short way from the three behind
the barricade. With his hands wrapped
around the wound on his calf, he pulled
himself hard against a building. He
could not keep walking; and when he
tried to aim his handgun, his hands
shook too much to be reliable. So he
breathed deeply and hoped the bullets
would not find him again.
Meanwhile, Mohammed and his
friends did not know what to do.
“We need to move,” Mohammed
said.
81
“I can’t,” one of his friends
answered.
“We’re not doing any good
staying here.”
Mohammed’s other
friend nodded in agreement. “Do we
know where the soldiers are?” The
others shook their heads. “We’ll have to
take a look then.” Their heads shook
again. Mohammed lifted his head and
turned it slightly at the same time,
scanning over the decimated wall for
Israelis.
“I don’t see anybody.”
Mohammed pointed back across the
street. “Let’s head that way and down to
the next alley and cut back in. Okay?”
The other two nodded, and the trio
started running with their knees bent and
heads down. Once they reached the
entrance to the alley, they stopped.
“You two start down the alley
and I’ll watch our backs,” Mohammed
said. “Go.”
Just as the two began down the
alley, a shot rang out closer than any
before it.
It reverberated in
Mohammed’s head as he spun with his
rifle, saw the Israeli soldier, and
squeezed his trigger.
The soldier’s
stomach exploded and his grays and
blues turned crimson. He dropped to his
knees, and then he fell face down.
Mohammed froze. In the back of his
mind he heard one of his friends
screaming and the other was not to be
heard at all.
*
Yusef drove faster than he had
ever felt the need to before. He could
hear the war zone around him as he
drove deeper into the city. It struck him
that the outer limits of the city were
silent in and of themselves. The only
sounds he had heard out there were the
echoes of the battle being fought within
the city’s heart. But now, inside the
battle’s limits, only his strongest thought
broke through the stream of noise. He
had to find his son.
The deeper he went the slower he
had to drive. While there were not many
people running through the streets, the
debris was hard to avoid. And the
slower Yusef drove the more impatient
he grew with his search. He felt the
futility of his situation wash over him as
he conceded to himself that finding his
son in such chaos would take all of
Allah’s power, yet his desperation to
save his son propelled him.
Yusef strained to see through the
windshield as a thick mix of dust and
smoke collected on it while he drove
down the city’s main street. Clutching
the steering wheel at the top, he leaned
his head forward and squinted. The dust
continued to settle and the car’s wipers
could not clear it away anymore.
Eventually, Yusef stepped hard on the
brake, opened the door, and stepped out
of the car, leaving it running.
Exposed to the battlefield, he
first noticed the pungent odor of burnt
toast and sweat that lurked in the air.
Next, the bitter taste of unsweetened
chocolate powder touched the back of
his tongue, followed quickly by the heat
of battle causing sweat to jump to his
skin. Then his eyes adjusted to the light
reflecting off the yellowed earth. All he
saw was a haze and scattered people
lying along the streets. Finally, he heard
the moans of the wounded and one long
scream approaching him as fast as he
had been driving.
A mass of swinging robes came
straight towards his car. The man was
looking back over his shoulder every
once in a while, and he had looked back
just before he slammed his right leg into
the front comer of Yusef s old car.
82
Yusef had watched the man run the
whole time, silent in wonder at his
familiarity.
“Ah, shit!” the man yelled,
hobbling back to his feet. “You could
have warned me.” Just then he looked
up at Yusef, quieted.
“Hello, Mohammed. We need to
go home.”
“Yeah. For now.”
“Help me wipe off the
windshield. Use your sleeve.” The two
rubbed the dust off the windshield,
spitting to lubricate the dust when it was
stubborn. Then they each got into the
car. Mohammed massaged his leg. No
words passed either pair of lips for half
of the ride away from the battlefield.
Keeping his eyes on his sore leg,
Mohammed spoke first, “I shot
someone.”
Yusef nodded and
swallowed. “He was a soldier. I don’t
know if he died. I know he wasn’t
moving when I ran.”
“You killed someone?”
“I think.”
“Does his being a soldier make it
any better?”
Mohammed still didn’t look up.
“No.” Yusef nodded again and pursed
his lips. “But I’d do it again if I had to.
He killed my friend. He would have
killed me two seconds later if I hadn’t
shot him first. I can’t stop fighting.”
Quiet descended upon the car again;
only the motor’s gruff rumble and the
crackle of rubber on pavement filled the
car with sound.
Yusef turned onto the only road
that would take him back home. With
Mohammed, he had reached the outskirts
of the city again, where the crossfire
faded into an atmosphere of suspense.
And just at the city limits, Yusef
accelerated the car up a slight hill. He
saw the two soldiers at the top and
wondered why they would waste their
time here while the battle raged at the
center of the city.
As the car made its way up the
hill, Yusef saw the soldiers, jaws split
and taught in shouts, cradling their guns
in one arm and waving towards his
oncoming car. One soldier took the
lead, approaching the car with his gun
pointed at Mohammed and a free hand
held up flat against the air. Yusef
ground his brakes until the car stopped;
the soldier stood outside his window.
Through the soldier’s yells in
Hebrew,
Yusef
looked
at
Mohammed who was staring at the
other soldier’s gun while sweat
beaded on his eyebrows. The gun
was pointed at him. Suddenly,
Yusef felt the door slide away from
him, and he tumbled onto the dry
dust outside. He pushed himself up
on all fours.
A leather-boot and cloth-covered
shin landed just below his chest. Yusef
heard his ribs crack before the pain
flowed across his abdomen like a flood
of lit gasoline. The soldiers were both
shouting in Hebrew; and when he looked
up at the one standing over him, Yusef
saw a finger pointing at him, at his face.
The finger pulled back and gesticulated
around the soldier’s own face. Then the
soldier looked back at Yusef. Yusef felt
the boot kick out his legs. He collapsed
face-first to the ground, lying supine.
The soldiers continued on in Hebrew.
While the one closest to him backed
away towards the other, Yusef took the
time to lift himself back onto his hands
and knees.
The soldiers stopped talking.
And the last word Yusef heard was,
“Adonai,” uttered by one of the two
soldiers. Then he heard a thudding
discharge that echoed back into the heart
83
of the city and mingled with the rest of
them. The bullet had entered through
the side of his chest and cut straight
across his heart before exiting from his
back. The blood pooled in his mouth
while he lay on the ground, numb to
Mohammed rolling him onto his back.
Yusef looked at his son. He saw the
tears dropping down his cheeks and
leaving their wet tracks.
He saw
Mohammed screaming with his mouth
wide but realized there was no sound
accompanying the sight of the scream.
There was no sound at all. Yusef felt the
silence crawl in through his ears and
descend to his chest. He smiled at
Mohammed just as the silence reached
his heart.
*
The soldiers had run off after
Yusef fell to the ground, but Mohammed
still guarded himself with a quick scan
of the area before lifting his father’s
body into the back seat of the car. He
tucked his father’s robes into the car to
avoid getting them caught in the door,
then took his seat behind the wheel and
drove straight home.
When he arrived home, his
mother was rushing from the house
confused by Yusef’s sudden departure
and bewildered by Mohammed’s return
without him. Mohammed grabbed her
by the shoulders and stood between her
eyes and the back seat. He wanted to tell
her. He wanted to console her. He
wanted to apologize. He said nothing at
first, but she began to cry as he
whispered his apologies in her ear.
After some time standing in each
other’s arms next to the car, they went
inside the house and called the kids
together. That night Mohammed sat at
the head of the table during dinner.
Afterwards, anticipating a long day’s
work in the olive field, he headed to bed.
84
LEE GOLDSMITH
I was born and raised in Media, Pennsylvania, a small town that ekes toward the edge of
Philadelphia. While growing up, my proximity to the city allowed me to explore the
various museums filled with dynamic paintings, the tortured sculptures of Rodin, and
dinosaur skeletons that dwarf small children such as I was. I now imagine that these
eclectic influences form the mallet that has molded my diverse interests in everything
from the graviton to Ancient Greek tragedy. The city, however, never attracted me into
its immoderate adventures; and even when I left for college, I never desired to live in a
city. Instead I have lived these last five years in a capital that is but a large town:
Annapolis, Maryland. Here I have attended and graduated from St. John’s College, a
small, liberal-arts school, nestled under the strong left arm of the Naval Academy wall.
At St. John’s there are no majors and no electives. The curriculum is set, and every class
is a seminar. We read the classics in every category: philosophy, from Plato to
Heidegger; physics, from Aristotle to Heisenberg; mathematics, from Euclid to
Lobachevski. Once again, as an undergraduate I managed to heighten and refine every
one of my multifaceted interests. I am now working for two organizations, which help
make seminars happen in many places—Touchstones Discussion Project and Aspen
Institute. These interim jobs are keeping me reading while I try to find a fit in graduate
school.
Reflection on In True Silence
When I wrote “In True Silence,” I had spent the previous two years trying to
remold myself as a writer. My writing influences as an early adolescent were Jack
London, Stephen King, C.S. Lewis, and J.R.R. Tolkein, all of whom wrap and unwrap
good tales, but none of whom manipulate language like a great artist. In my own writing
I had figured out how to write a gripping story, but my artistry lacked anything more than
the mundane necessities that come along with transferring a story from its vague shape in
my imagination to a more or less rigid form on paper. I realized my defect when I was a
sophomore in high school, and had since let myself dwell in lengthy descriptions of
moments and natural scenery. In the case of “In True Silence,” this mediation produced
in me the painting of the dusty dry land and the moment of transcendental ascendance,
which was the soul of the story as it occurred to me.
The story first planted itself in me one night early in my senior year. I lay in bed,
letting my thoughts unwind, but an image from earlier that evening insisted on remaining
before me. I can even now remember it: an Arab farmer, dressed in gray-colored robes,
pinches an olive, which droops down from a worn out branch, between his thumb and
fingers just enough to lift it up. The words associated with this image came in tow, “Flat
was the land, speckled with shrubs and the dry, gray rows of olive plants suffering the
desert’s glowing sun.” That is the first line of the story, whose main theme—the comfort
of true or false transcendence in the struggle to perpetuate life on earth—had been
conceived that night. I scribbled down the sentence while lying in bed and did nothing
with it for weeks, maybe months. I don’t remember how long it took me to come back to
that story.
I wrote very little at St. John’s that was not an exegetical essay, but that story
never let me go. At the time I wrote the story, I knew its greatest flaw was the plot,
which felt a bit shallow and contrived. And I have always wanted to rewrite it so that the
85
conflict between Yusef and his son receives greater complexity. I wanted to bring more
of their history to the present conflict and thus make the plot more than merely probable,
but necessary. When I revisited the story recently, however, I decided to steal its ideas
and use them in a treatment of Abraham and Isaac, which is an archetypal story for the
themes on which “In True Silence” expounds. I am now writing that and hope to finish
eventually. Unfortunately, at the pace I am currently writing, I will not finish it in the
next six months.
86
Teacher Reflection
Going to the Limit and Beyond in Lee Goldsmith’s In True Silence
Lee Goldsmith’s use of descriptive detail captures both the political and physical
landscape in “In True Silence,” but it is the author’s skillfully designed, steadfast plot
(Lee’s own misgivings notwithstanding)—his creation of suspense—that sustains the
reader’s interest until the story’s last line. Once the action hits its stride, we keep asking
ourselves, “What will happen next?” This question is the essence of suspense.
We anxiously anticipate the next, or final, “twist” of the story. In fact, several of
the twists might work as an ending. But Lee creates several convincing “false
endings”—that is, moments in which the conflict seems resolved once and for all. But
then we realize Mohammed is not done fighting and Yusef is not done trying to stop him.
And so we ask, “Now what?” What will Yusef have to do next to stop his son from
fighting? What will Mohammed do next in spite of his father’s pleas? Will Mohammed
die before he realizes the futility of war? Will Yusef…?
With the story’s relentless action, Lee achieves a sense of inevitable tragedy. We
begin to resign ourselves to the possible consequences of the characters’ willfulness:
Yusef may die when he drives into town to save his son; he may find Mohammed dead in
the streets; perhaps both will die, and Sharia will be left alone to care for the land…
We come to recognize “false endings,” as we anticipate the next turn in the story,
even as it seems the story might be over, as if we know the characters better than they
know themselves. For example, when it seems that finally Yusef and Mohammed are
driving home safely, once and for all, a discussion ensues, and we realize that
Mohammed will go on fighting. If the story ended here—and it could, satisfactorily—we
would conclude that perhaps nothing will change in the lives of these people and that
such lack of resolution is the point of the story.
Such an ending might be perfect, in fact, to dramatize the story’s themes: the
father’s love for his son, the son’s resistance, the futility of war. But by going on, the
story dramatizes these themes further and, as a result, becomes more moving and
arguably even more true. The extended action demonstrates—as if reminding us what
we’ve known all along—that, of course Mohammed will go on fighting and, of course
Yusef will go on trying to stop him, even if trying means dying. The ending is anything
but “happy,” though it’s worth noting that, while Yusef pays the price of his life, he gets
what he wanted: tomorrow his son will stay home to work in the fields.
Exercise
Write a story—or just an action sequence—in which you push your protagonist to the
limit and even beyond. Just when you, and your protagonist, may think you’ve had
enough, raise the stakes, by introducing more resistance, more conflict, another
challenge, testing the protagonist’s will, determining his character, until you can’t
imagine another scene worth writing—and your reader can’t imagine another scene worth
reading.
All That You Can’t Leave Behind
Jen Malkoun 2001
Dawn breaks above the red
horizon. I lift my head from the warmth
and comfort of a cotton pillow. Outside
a new day approaches; the sun rises
above the mist and cloud of night
evolving into early morning to create a
pastel of colors and textures. But inside
it is merely the beginning of yet another
passing day, in a continuing cycle,
neither anticipated nor loathed, but
simply accepted.
What is it now, seven or eight?
The years have been conveniently lost or
misplaced, and are seemingly uniform in
their passing. We have managed to keep
ourselves
occupied—busy—or
attempted to do so, easing into each day
and settling into each night, and have
become proficient actors, masking our
emotions and entombing our fears. But
death is a fierce reality to escape. It has
a looming, lingering effect, like the
skeleton of a burnt houseframe, barely
intact, just waiting to collapse with the
slightest April breeze as the fire
equipment is packed up and a single
yellow ribbon remains to ward off
curious on-lookers.
This is apparent in everything—
family gatherings, holidays, birthdays, or
that one song played on the radio that
will never carry the same tune as it had
once before. It is visible on her face just
the same. Bright adventurous eyes and
ruddy cheeks have been replaced with
tired lines, painful arches, and sagging
depressed skin, barely clinging to feel
the light of another day. The battle
wounds of a mother who has lost her
child—my mother.
“Felicia. Honey, get up! You’re
going to school today so don’t even try it
with me this morning!”
I refuse to gratify her with an
answer, just a slight movement from
underneath the covers to illustrate my
apathy.
“I said get up! Not this morning,
Felicia! Not today! I have too much
going on to worry about you and your
attendance! You’re eighteen now! We
shouldn’t have to go through this every
morning!”
Her voice is different too—edgy,
impatient exhausted.
I slowly but
tactfully move one leg and hit the cold
morning air of my room. Shit, I think. I
left the window open again last night.
Even though it is May, the nights
manage to retain a biting chill. She
enters my room and unsympathetically
replaces the darkness with the painful
brightness of synthetic light. And there
she waits, over my bed. I can just
imagine her stance, not to mention her
stare.
“All right! I’ll get up!” I shout
unhappily.
“Right now, Felicia! While I’m
standing here! Get up, now!” Instantly
the covers are strewn from my sleepy
body and thrown to the foot of the bed.
My skin catches the air as I immediately
follow my refuge with grabbing hands.
Realizing it is hopeless, I sit up rubbing
my eyes to meet the light and place both
feet on the soft carpet below. Pleased
with her triumph, my mom walks out of
the room and heads downstairs into the
kitchen. I am left all alone in the
coldness of the morning air, which
slipped into my sanctuary during the
night.
It is the same frigid, crisp air that
I felt one January night eight years
before, when I, along with my parents
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and two cousins, gathered around the TV
to watch that lovable saint bernard
movie.
I was ten, bursting with
excitement, eager to live, to be alive.
But no more than twenty minutes into
the movie there was a knock at the door.
A knock that would forever alter the
lives of every person in that room.
Things would never be the same—ever.
The shower water is refreshing,
cleansing my aching body and
replenishing my diminishing energy. I
think about her, my mom, and how she
used to be, how she was “before,” and I
long for those days. Those days that
seemed endless and untouchable. There
is laughter now. It took some time
reassuming its place in the house, but it’s
not the same. Something is missing,
lacking. We have all moved on, trying
to continue and establish new routines to
get us through each day. But avoidance
has set in, becoming ever so apparent
throughout the house and in my
relationship with my mom. It has
created a sense of uncertainty as I
embark
upon
a
new
journey,
approaching the threshold of my
future—college. I took a path of great
indifference on my college quest,
applications and such, perhaps because
of the lingering unresolved feeling that
inhabits my being, tugging and gnawing
at my heart, echoing inside of my head.
I didn’t care, didn’t feel the urgency that
my mom felt. And still, I ask myself, am
I ready? Can I leave, or, rather, leave it
all behind?
A knock at the bathroom door
stops my analytical thought process and
my shower, calling me back to the
surface of reality and the sickness of
early morning.
“Felicia,” the deep tremor of my
dad’s voice sounds from outside the
bathroom door. “It’s quarter of.”
I turn the water off and stand,
still bearing my body and soul, as I listen
to the pattern of water droplets plunging
toward the drain, gathering the dirt and
sleep of night, washing it all away. The
fog is thick and moist, clouding the room
as well as my thoughts. I reach for the
towel draped across the cold, heatless
radiator and wrap it around my body,
capturing its cotton warmth and holding
it tight, and my mind drifts again to that
unalterable January night.
Two
officers
dressed
in
midnight-blue
uniforms
appeared
opposite the glass screen door of winter.
Something was wrong and it ignited a
nauseating feeling deep in my stomach.
They solemnly entered the house and the
heat encircled them, replacing the chill
of night air. Removing their hats in an
unvarying
manner,
with
sincere
structure, they gazed upon the
unexpected faces, scanning the scene
and preparing their words. The police
lights rabidly flashed red and blue in the
driveway, and then the door was shut,
cutting off any prospect of possibility
and leaving the harshness of reality to
encumber our lives forever. Silence
engulfed the laughter and the smiles, and
gave way to worry, fear, and
anxiousness for the unknown.
“Is it my son? Is it Brian? What
happened? Is he okay?” my mom
inquired urgently. My dad’s strong hand
had found its place upon her weakening
shoulder, and I watched his face,
overcome with wanting and anticipation
for the worst. His frame stood tall and
statuesque, conveying a sense of
readiness.
“No, ma’am, it’s not your son.
You may want to take a seat over here,
please,” the one officer suggested,
carefully weighing his words.
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Combing my hair, I focus on the
fragrant scent of shampoo as it emanates
from each damp strand filling the moist
room. I wipe away the mist from the
mirror and gaze into my reflection.
Emptiness lives inside, but a burning
desire represses and overpowers its
force. It is a desire to live and to
experience. One which pulls me to
leave, to move on, and most of all to let
go—to let go of the pain and the sadness
which reverberates deep within the walls
of this house.
The next moments of that night
are not clear—erased, rather—from my
memory. But what is kept, kept at bay
behind the dam of my emotions, is the
sound of a mother’s cry, a mother’s
unforgettable, intense cry of disbelief
and horror. It had not been my brother,
indeed, but rather my older sister. A car
accident had relinquished the powerful,
the beautiful, the rare life from her body.
Screaming, I ran out onto the porch,
crying out for the world to know—know
that one of its angels had died. My tears
burned the skin of my cheeks as the
bitter air flooded to fill my soul. My
sister had died. And as the world came
rushing
around
me,
enclosing,
surrounding, and suffocating, I looked
upward, looked into the blackness of the
night sky. Penetrating its boundless
darkness, I tried to pull myself away,
tried to purge the pain which had
invaded my heart.
Inside, my mom had stationed
herself in a chair, grasping its arms, her
knuckles turning a fierce white. Soon
people, faces, arms, and hands all came
running. She began to scream, a scream
unlike any I had ever heard. Her feet
pounded upon the hard wooden floor and
her face, crimson with anguish, had
attained an animalistic character. The
moments and seconds that followed
blurred, space soon closed in, and limits
were set. Life no longer seemed infinite.
“Let’s go, Felicia!” her voice
shouts from downstairs, signaling that
my time is up. Dressing in a hurry as I
continue my daily game to beat the
clock, I run down the steps and grab a
yogurt for lunch from the refrigerator.
Passing my dad at the table as he reads
the news for the day, I manage to utter a
quick bye.
“Bye. Do you have your key?”
he answers.
“Yeah.”
“Have a nice day. Be nice to
your mom in the car,” he warns.
Right, I think, and shut the door
behind me.
The sun’s rays break
through patches of green leaves and hit
the sidewalk and my mom as she waits
in the car out front. I take a deep breath,
filling my lungs with the freshness of a
new day, and get in, placing my bag on
the floor. I turn on the radio as an
excuse to break the awkward silence.
The car rides vary from morning to
morning; today it is calm and quiet,
neither one of us looking forward to the
day ahead. I try to think of something to
say, some topic to discuss—nothing. As
my mind races, I change the station,
desperately trying to find a good song.
Was it always like this? I can’t
seem to remember. I can still talk to her,
can’t I?
We pull up to the school and I
gather my things in a rush, now
attempting to beat the sound of the
morning bell.
“Thanks,” I say.
“You’re welcome. Have a nice
day,” she replies.
I look back before I close the car
door. “I love you.”
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She looks straight into my eyes
and answers back, “I love you too. Have
a nice day. I’ll see you later.”
Carrying my load, I enter the
gray institution that has been kindly
bestowed the name “school.” Now I
must clear my mind and forget
everything I thought of earlier this
morning in the bathroom. Mustering up
enough strength to fake my emotions, I
feel dead inside, and walk through the
halls feeling not only alone, but lonely.
What do I have today? A chemistry
test?
Back home, sitting outside on my
front porch after another seven hours of
school, I think, delving into areas I
ordinarily choose to avoid. The thought
of next year pierces my subconscious,
needling to get out and be recognized. I
light a cigarette, a filthy habit I picked
up last summer, and sit back, staring up
into the endless green of the maple trees
and dream. I dream of what life will be
like for me, not in ten or even five years,
but simply in the one that swiftly
approaches now. I picture myself free—
liberated from all the grief, the guilt, the
sorrow of yesterday—uninhibited by the
unspoken misery that found its way into
our hearts—free from her death. I see
myself on a college campus with the sun
dancing upon my browning skin. The
thought brings a smile to my face. I
realize that these experiences merely
await my consent, and the heavy feeling
of emptiness is quelled.
A car pulls into the driveway and
once again I am drawn back down to the
surface, but this time I know what must
be done. I sit on the front step as my
mom appears before me. She stands
there, still, her eyes meeting mine. As
she climbs the steps slowly, I make room
for her next to me, and, releasing her
fear, surrendering her pain, she sits down
next to me.
91
JEN MALKOUN
For me writing has always acted as a vehicle for both exploration and expression.
Common throughout all of my writing (poetry, prose, academic research, as well as this
short story) is my fascination with identity. My studies in college led me to research and
explore identity within a Western structural-political framework as an attempt to
understand the fluid, ever-changing, and sometimes amorphous nature of identity. Yet,
critical to my understanding of this notion of identity is another concept: power. Having
graduated from college recently, with a B.A. in Sociology and Peace Studies, I am
currently living, working—and continuing to actively examine concepts of power—in
Baltimore, Maryland.
Reflection on All That You Can’t Leave Behind
When I refer to power, I don’t mean conventionally misappropriated use of
power—that is, the capability to use force unevenly—but power in a relational sense—
that is, the ability to enact change. It is this kind of power that my short story’s
protagonist, Felicia, discovers.
At the time of writing this story (in the spring of 2001), I found myself in an
environment that was based upon and revolved around identity—high school—a time
replete with questions about “who” one is and “what” one stands for, when everything is
in flux, from bodies and emotions to relationships and understandings; it was a time when
little made sense and even less felt as though it “fit.” High school is a time of perpetual
change, and yet it retained, for me, a daunting and encumbering feeling of limitation—
simultaneous feelings of wanting so much more and being trapped within the concrete
walls of a disconnected education.
Writing this short story (the first I had ever written) was my own way of
grappling with identity; the creative act of storytelling turned out to be an experiment
with the notion of power as the ability to enact change. Yet in order for change to occur I
realized the necessary precondition of letting go, of releasing, and relinquishing all that
impeded healthful growth. Writing this story was my method of struggling and working
through this realization. It is the story of a young woman (Felicia), faltering, as she tries,
headstrong, to move rashly past her pain rather than through it. It is through Felicia—the
visceral senses and raw emotions she experiences throughout the day, her unsettling and
stinging interactions with her parents, and her struggle to find her way “back” to her
self—that I tried to express the complexity, the “messiness,” of human relations. Using
the triad of Felicia, her mother, and her father, I hoped to impart upon the reader a sense
that death, and the effects it undoubtedly unleashes, is not only a chaotic disruption to the
status quo of their relationships, but also a rupture that brings forth an opportunity to
connect in new and unfamiliar ways, thus altering not only the nature and fabric of their
relationships, but of the individuals themselves.
While the story was an experiment with the concept of personal power, it was also
a reflection on what we as humans can and can’t leave behind, and how we struggle to
find the ever-delicate balance between the two ends of one continuum. During periods of
deep and immense change—such as leaving high school, entering college, or suffering
the aftershocks of death—we are, in some ways, sojourners, leaving all that is familiar,
sensible and comfortable, and entering the unknowable, and the unforeseen, full of
contingencies, full of new and different regulations. And the question soon arises: how
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do we negotiate what to leave, what to cede, and what to adopt, in order to adapt, in order
to survive?
This story was a meditation on the relationship between identity and power, an
exploration of the dialectic between the notions of individual choice and the force and
influence of context. Although burdened with the death of her sister, Felicia has a
choice: she can choose to grapple with the pain, to feel uncomfortable, and to feel the
sharpness of the change; or she can choose to be tormented—like the story’s image of the
“burnt-down house,” haunting and inescapable—by the piercing silence that continues to
separate her from her parents as well as her potential future.
In asking the question, what can we leave behind? I was exploring how we grow,
how we make decisions, and how we let go in order to move forward. At the time of
writing the story, I was listening to the newly released U2 album, All That You Can’t
Leave Behind, a journey through the challenges and triumphs of transition; it made an
impact on my consciousness and thus the title of the album appeared as the title of my
story. Stylistically I attempted to use sensations—like the coldness of morning air, or the
anxiousness of trying to find a radio station—to connect and transition from the
protagonist’s present circumstances to the past, and back again. These transitions were
critical to the story, for they not only provided context for the reader, but also created a
kind of textured, woven quality, drawing the characters toward one another, reflecting the
interconnectivity of their lives.
Since high school my writing has transformed into what I would like to call prose,
sometimes poetry, mainly attacking and engaging with issues of race, the consequences
and nature of economic inequality, and, of late, exploring my own identity as an ArabAmerican. I enjoy attending open-mic readings, and have even tried my hand at
performing some of my work, but for the most part my writing remains an intimate part
of me, and I share sparingly. “All That You Can’t Leave Behind” remains the only short
story I have ever written.
93
Teacher Reflection
Plot “Triggers” in Jen Malkoun’s All That You Can’t Leave Behind
Indeed, as Jen Malkoun herself reflects, transitions are critical to her story,
“creating a textured, woven quality…drawing the characters toward one another,
reflecting the interconnectivity of their lives.” Jen’s use of “triggers”—that is, action,
dialogue, and imagery that stimulate flashbacks and reflection—is especially admirable
because the whole story is written without a single line break; memories and thoughts
arise out of the current action, where the story remains rooted, from the moment Felicia
awakes to the moment she makes room for her mother on the steps leading into their
house.
Often flashbacks are offset from a story’s current action with a break, or a space,
in the text, or at least with an explicit leap in time, in the narration, but not in Jen’s story.
Instead, physical details seamlessly give rise to reflections and flashbacks: the sunrise in
the first paragraph triggers Felicia’s question about what time it is, a thought that expands
into the second, lovely paragraph about the years her family has lived in the shadow of
death; this thought of death triggers the thought of her mother, wounded as if from
battle…and the thought of her mother triggers her mother’s routine wakeup call; once
she’s in the shower, her father’s knock at the bathroom door triggers the memory of
police officers at the front door… And so the story goes, transitioning back and forth
between the present and the past, between action and reflection.
Jen’s technical handling of “triggers” is all the more admirable because the
structure does not feel contrived—or even arranged—by the author; rather, the
movement of the story reflects, naturally, the mindset of the protagonist. After all, nearly
everything in Felicia’s world—the sunrise, her mother’s voice, her father’s knocking, her
day in school—is a convincing catalyst for thoughts of her sister’s death, whose shadow
Felicia and her family live in.
The fluidity of the transitions, ironically, reflects Felicia’s emotional conflict,
because the grief is ever-present, like the air she breathes. It’s no surprise, then, when the
story culminates in Felicia’s fantasy of being “liberated from all the grief, the guilt, the
sorrow of yesterday—uninhibited by the unspoken misery that found its way into our
hearts—free from her death…on a college campus with the sun dancing upon my
browning skin.” In a sense, Felicia longs to be in an environment devoid of triggers…
But we, as well as Felicia, know all too well, by the time we reach this last scene of the
story, that freedom can’t be won by faking her emotions, nor by avoiding her parents.
Put another way: she can’t get free by avoiding the triggers that make her think of her
sister. To heal, Felicia knows deep down, her family will need one another, painful as it
might be in one another’s presence. New life “awaits my consent,” she realizes. The
same goes for her mother, of course; and all Felicia can do, for now, is make room on the
steps and hope her mother is ready to join her.
Exercise
Write a scene in which the physical action and/or observations of the character trigger
reflections, memories, thoughts, and/or a flashback. As in Jen’s story, the present action
might be less “action-packed” than the recalled action of the past; or, the inverse might be
94
true: the current action of the scene might be intense and suspenseful, while the triggered
reflections and/or past action might be relatively subdued.
95
Freehold
Michael Mastroianni 2001
The year off…
Nothing is a better testament to
personal failure than taking “the year
off.” It is a sad and strained declaration
to your family and friends, a pitch-black
mark in the middle of glorious white
announcements of success.
Where are you headed? Johns
Hopkins University. Well done! What
about you, son?
University of
Pittsburgh. Oh. That’s good. And you?
Yale. Very nice! Ah yes, and you? I’m
taking a year off first, but—
There is no point in saying
anymore. I have already testified that
the stress of high school has exhausted
me enough to hold my entire life back a
year, while my peers race to their
promising futures, for which they have
worked so hard. I had been lost in the
mix somewhere, a deformed student who
may make something of himself later on,
but I was now characterized by the year
off. All the others would be majoring in
English or Pre-Med Studies or
Accounting, while I would be majoring
in laziness.
Of course, my mother and
stepfather managed to mask their
disappointment and respect my decision.
I think they decided that arguing with
me would be a waste of their time and
therefore chose to ignore me. I wished
that everyone would ignore me, but I
was not so lucky. I was stigmatized by
long stares of disgust and even a curious
fascination; it seemed that people were
disbelieving that such a person as me
could even exist. They did not realize
that I was still human, I was still
intelligent.
High expectations had
driven me to the edge and back.
But I refused to give up. I
refused to show an outburst, or lose my
mind. I refused to show any emotion at
all. I worked harder than I had ever
worked before. At graduation, I was in
the top twenty percent of my class. I did
not attend the ceremony.
On that day, I finished fixing up
the 1979 Ford F-100 that I had bought
from my neighbor for a hundred and
fifty dollars. It was a classic piece of
junk:
no right rearview mirror, a
healthy-sized dent in the front fender, a
meandering crack in the right window,
one filthy hubcap and the others missing,
and the dark-blue paint tinged with rust
at all corners and points.
Taped onto the dashboard was a
picture of my father as I remember him.
He stood smiling in front of a battered
1958 Studebaker Avante, wearing his tan
Army uniform, with the great stones of
Monument Valley miles behind him.
His right arm held his massive hand over
the ancient rocks, making him taller than
the giants. He stood in the dirt path of a
road soon to be laid, and his expression
was triumphant and superior.
That was my dad. Captain John
Walter Freehold, late of the Army Corps
of Engineers, who was sent out to build
roads through the Navajo Indian
Reservation of Utah, Arizona, and New
Mexico. I hardly ever saw him in the
seven years when both of us were alive,
but I remember a new parcel arriving
almost every week at times, bringing a
new piece of Navajo craftsmanship to
my eager hands. There were bracelets,
trinkets, claywares, and the occasional
necklace for my mother. She had quite a
collection by the time he died.
In his last letter, he told me he
left a few things with a woman in
Kayenta, Arizona, named Colleen
Begay. My mother promised every year
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that we would drive out there in the
summer and look at all the places my
father had written to us about, but every
year the promise grew weaker. By the
time she remarried, she had forgotten
completely. It hardly mattered then; we
weren’t the Freeholds anymore. She
wasn’t my father’s widow; she was
someone’s wife. I wasn’t sure whose
son I was anymore, or what my name
should be. All I had of my father was a
photograph and a box of artifacts from
places I could only look up in books.
I found Kayenta on the wall atlas
of the United States when I was ten. It
was jammed into the center of the
Navajo Reservation, just a few miles
south of Monument Valley. I followed
US Route 163 up into Utah with my
finger, proud that my father had built it.
I started the Ford up and hit the
gas a few times. The engine protested at
first, then snapped into use. I had told
my mother that I was “just driving
around” for senior week. I hoped to go
to Arizona and find the Begay woman. I
didn’t want my mother to know. She
wasn’t a Freehold anymore.
After four days clunking down
the Interstates, I stopped for gas right
outside the reservation somewhere in the
middle of New Mexico. A giant rain
cloud appeared from nowhere over me,
and a half of a rainbow was cast down
over the sunburnt landscape. As I
marveled at the sight, a man and a
woman stood next to their sport utility,
ambivalent to the natural beauty. They
were arguing about the directions with
New York City accents.
You had the map! You were the
one driving. Now here we are in West
Jabip and you don’t have the first damn
clue, do you? Excuse me, which way to
the Grand Canyon? Which rim, north or
south? Uh, which is prettier? Hell to
beauty, which is cheaper? I’d say the
south rim is nicer, but it’s more
crowded, isn’t it? Brian, why don’t you
ever plan ahead?
Three Navajo men sat next to the
office, rolling with laughter. I smiled
slightly and got back on my westbound
path.
After a road dotted with Navajo
jewelry stands and signs for tourist
attractions, I barreled into Kayenta with
barely enough fuel to smell. My mind
had been numbed by constant country
music over the last fifteen hundred
miles. As I entered the dusty town, a
Chevrolet El Camino, older than my
truck, yet somehow untouched by the
rust, clanked by me on the left. My first
clue was the hot dry air that cannonaded
in my face when I opened the door at the
gas station at the corner of US 160 and
US 163. Looking up to the north, I
could see the shadows of the monoliths
at Monument Valley, that I had seen so
many times in my father’s pictures. US
163 was a spear straight through the
Navajo land, visibly straight for ten
miles at least.
“My father built this road,” I said
to the attendant, with a certain measure
of pride.
“Yeah? What do you want, a
medal?” the scrawny, toothless man spat
towards me.
I sighed noticeably.
“I’m
looking for a woman called Begay.”
He snorted down a raspy laugh,
“You’re kidding, right?” I looked at him
straight-faced to answer him. “Sheila
Begay? Mary Begay? Maggie Begay?
Hortense Begay? The older Jane Begay?
The younger Jane Begay? The middle
Jane Begay? Which one?” He gave me
a gummy grin that was painful to look
at.
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“Colleen Begay?” I answered,
somewhat ruffled by his appearance and
his rambling. It occurred to me later that
Begay was a name more common on the
reservation than Smith was in the rest of
the country. He stuck his bony finger
away from the giants to the north,
“South on 591, two miles or so. Be
careful.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s a dirt road. I bet your father
didn’t build that one, belagana.” He
turned away and hobbled back to his tiny
office.
I surveyed the small town with a
morbid fascination. Cars and car parts,
as well as other appliances, were
scattered in the red dirt in various
conditions of disrepair. A small dog, too
mix-bred to identify, scampered across
the road on its three legs. As the driver
of a great black Range Rover with
California license plates stopped and
accosted two small boys in ragged
clothes and baseball caps for directions,
one of the boys gave a wicked laugh as
he relieved himself on the back tire.
I shook my head in disgust and
slammed my creaky door shut.
My truck tumbled down the
bumpy road towards Colleen’s abode.
The house was little more than a tumbledown shack hovering in the center of the
Chinle Valley, clinging desperately onto
State Road 591. Behind it was a small
circular building with a hole in the
center of the roof. I knew this to be a
hogan, a Navajo home like many
distributed in plenty across the
Southwest. The unique circular structure
was designed on the basis that sharp
corners in a building is where evil hides.
I found the idea silly and superstitious,
but no more so than the medieval
Christian tradition of melting the devil
out of a person by setting him afire.
I walked up and knocked lightly
on the screen door, half-afraid that the
vibration would bring the house
clattering to the ground. After a few
moments, an old man with a mousy
moustache opened the door and stared
silently at my face through the screen for
an uneasy minute.
“What do you want?” he snapped
at me.
“I’m looking for Colleen Begay,”
I said, as respectfully as I could without
sounding patronizing.
“She’s inside.
Wait.”
He
vanished into the house, but reappeared
a second later. “If that truck’s a junker,
you get the damn thing off my road.
I’ve had enough of those dumped here.”
He ventured back into the darkness,
leaving me rattled. My eyes wandered
over the landscape and the junk in the
yard, giving the appearance of a
battlefield laid to waste long ago. I
glanced behind the house to see a
familiar specter, the shell of a 1958
Studebaker Avante, torn from glory by
rust and wear, baking in the Arizona sun
and harassed by the sands.
“Yeah?” A woman with long
black hair stepped to the screen,
frowning and studying my face.
“You’re Colleen Begay?”
“If you’re selling something,
shove off.”
“No, I just needed some
information.”
She scoffed as she pushed open
the screen and stormed passed me into
the yard. “Why couldn’t you stop at the
visitors’ center? It’s only the next town
over.” She pushed her hand into the sky,
pointing across the arid plain to the next
town.
“I wanted to know about John
Freehold.”
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“You took your time, pal,” she
said with a biting resentment as she beat
the dusty laundry drying on the
clothesline with her hand. “He’s been
dead ten years.”
“I was his son.”
She stopped suddenly in surprise,
or perhaps in confirmation of what she
had already suspected, “You were his
son, or you are his son? There’s a
difference.”
“I am his son.”
“Well, John Freehold’s son, what
do you want?”
“He said he left some things with
you,” I said, looking around the yard
expectantly, afraid that his great
heirlooms may be in this abandoned
wreckage.
“Well, I’d need to look around a
little. It’s around somewhere.” She
threw a gaze into the sun. “What else? I
have a feeling you didn’t drive out here
to pick up his old junk.”
“I didn’t know him very well.
What can you tell me about him?” It
sounded stupid as it left my lips, but I
didn’t know where to begin, for a man
so unknown to me.
“Ha!” She yanked a few things
off of the clothesline and threw them
towards the porch. “You know what he
looked like, so what else do you want to
know?
He built roads, he bought
trinkets, he ate at the Golden Sands Cafe
back in Kayenta every Saturday, and
when he got drunk he used to sing Elvis
songs.” I saw her smile for the first
time. “He made us all laugh. He made
everybody laugh.” She looked at my
sullen face.
“You drove a couple
thousand miles to frown at an old
woman?”
“Sorry,” I said as I turned my
head down. “I’m just a little…”
“Tense?”
“Sort of.
Not about this,
though.”
“What would you have to be
tense about? You must be what, sixteen
or so.”
“Eighteen.”
“Eighteen, then. You just got
yourself started, right?”
“Not yet.
I’m…”
I was
embarrassed to say it, even to a stranger.
“I decided to take a year before college.
I feel like everyone thinks I’m some sort
of a freak.”
She gave me a calculating stare
that made me flinch from the privacy of
her gaze. As she looked away, her face
broke out in a grin. I touched her arm to
find out why she had suddenly begun to
laugh at me, but she brushed me aside
and walked towards the house.
“You goddamn belaganas,” she
muttered to herself. “You think the
whole world is in a building, and either
someone’s talking at you, or you’re
talking at them. You know how many
people out here have been to college?
It’s a different world here. What did
your father say about us that makes you
so shocked that we’re not like you?”
I looked back in my mind to all
the letters from him, addressed to his
“good old sport” or his “chief.” He
never talked about the people, only the
work, which I found so fascinating. He
always told me about the big trucks and
the loud noises, never the battered
families that stood back and watched.
“We never wanted them here.
Those roads weren’t for us. They were
for the belaganas to get from here to
there or the Army to get to the missile
sites. My people were only in the way.”
She gave me the look of a moral victor,
triumphant over an ignorant and
unarmed victim.
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“We’re supposed to be lazy
drunks and layabouts out here, and
selling jewelry on the side of the road is
supposed to be a career highlight. We’re
the real Americans here, Freehold.
You’re just Columbus’s children.” She
stomped into the house, and noises of
dishevelment and frantic searching were
thrown out into the quiet air.
“What does the kid want,
Colleen?” I heard the old man say.
“He’s Freehold’s son, Dad. He
came to find his things.”
“Freehold? You get him the hell
out of here.”
“He’s not the Military Police.
Just let me find the box with his Army
things in it.”
“I should have burnt that ten
years ago! That guy wore a uniform in
this town for years when he never fought
a day in his life. I should have worn my
damn uniform!”
“Quiet, Dad!”
“I should have beat that man
after what he did to…”
“Quiet!” she shrieked. Three
crows fled the roof in terror, leaving
nothing but silence and the desert wind.
I turned away from the house as she
emerged from the house, feigning
ignorance of the scene, although we’d
both heard it all clearly, and we knew
that the other had too.
“This is for you.” She handed
me a cardboard box tied with twine. The
word “Freehold” was scribbled across
the top in black marker.
“Your father,” I began, doubting
myself. “Was he—?”
“He fought in World War II,” she
said solemnly. Brightening a little, she
said, “He doesn’t like foreigners like
your father.”
“Thank you,” I said softly. I
took the box from her and placed it in
the bed of the truck.
“Hey, Freehold!” she hollered to
me. “I forgot something.” She ran up
and placed a pair of captain’s insignia in
the palm of my hand. “Success isn’t in
your damn books. A desert pearl, your
father called me. I was his desert pearl
for years, and I was happy. Sometimes
that’s enough. It’s not your American
way, pal, but it can be for the rest of us.”
I nodded, and handed her one of
the insignias in return. Colleen smiled at
the ground, then walked back into the
house, majestically, invulnerably, like a
queen.
I peeked into the box. There was
a dusty tan uniform, a pair of
government license plates, a few old
trinkets, and a few photographs of
Colleen and my father. As I closed the
box, I saw Colleen’s father send me a
hateful stare through the screen, then
vanish into the shadows of the house.
I pulled myself into the truck,
reeling from the words that were now
lost into the desert wind. I do not know
which direction to go. To the north is
my father’s highway, and to the south
lies nothing but the interminable sky and
the untouched sands. There is nothing
else to do except start up the truck, run
the American flag up the radio antenna,
and find out where the road goes.
MICHAEL MASTROIANNI
After graduating from Penncrest High School in 2001, my parents moved to
upstate Pennsylvania and I left for the University of Pittsburgh. I worked a strange
assortment of jobs in many different places for the four years it took to complete my B.A.
in English writing. One of my favorites was working for The Pitt News, the student
newspaper, where I achieved national honors in writing and photojournalism. I am
pursuing a Ph. B. in journalism while continuing to freelance in different fields and
working on a collection of short stories.
Reflection on Freehold
I loved driving. My father and I took a trip around the country in 1999, and I
drove thousands of miles between my old hometown and my new hometown, bringing
my family’s possessions to its new house in 2001. I liked the miles ticking away, I liked
the speed, and I liked being able to stop and start whenever I wished. A quest would
often end the same day it began, but it would be no less important than a knight’s errand
or a mission of mercy.
It was in that spirit that Freehold was born. I never had a quest like his, a search
for a tangible past; in fact, he is not like me in several ways. But his story was cobbled
together from many things in my life. My best friend owned a 1979 Ford F-100 that
always seemed on the verge of self-destruction. My great uncle was in the Corps of
Engineers laying roads in Navajo country. My father and I spent time in Kayenta during
our venture across the nation. Friends of mine were taking a year off before college.
Combining all that with my love of a purposeful trip, I wrote “Freehold” over four days.
Being a journalist, I appreciate now more than ever that a story can be told with
the facts alone, but holding interest lies in the details. I loved how one segment of what I
wanted to put in “Freehold” blended into the next: my frustration with conventional
views of education, my desire to illustrate the Navajo as no more and no less than normal
people in their own surroundings, and even my exchanges with lost, blind tourists in a
land they didn’t care to understand.
Colleen was the queen of that story. She has a quiet dignity, insisting she have
her say while holding back the belligerence hidden in the darkness of the house. Like
many people I know and respect, Colleen doesn’t fight, but doesn’t surrender either.
“Freehold” spawned several themes that I went back to in college. “The Red
Earth” involved two Navajo code talkers who were separated back home by different
versions of a battle they fought together in. “Adventures at the Eighteenth Parallel” was
about a Puerto Rican woman who went back to her father’s home to discover who he was
and what he stood for. But none of my later short stories seemed as smooth or deep as
“Freehold.” After three semesters in the fiction track at college, I switched to journalism,
where my tendency to write quickly with minimal editing came in very useful.
In time, my memories of Kayenta and Monument Valley became overshadowed
by travels to faraway places and intense experiences. My love for the road became muted
by living in a city, where walking was easier and driving became nothing more than
aggravation. But when I am at my parents’ house in the mountains, I still find myself
looking at State Route 254 late at night, seeing the lights of cars and trucks fly past my
window as I wonder who they are, where they’re going and what their quest is.
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Teacher’s Reflection
The Road Story—Mike Mastroianni’s Freehold
“Road,” or “journey,” stories—stories in which a protagonist, perhaps along with
a “road partner,” or a likeable, wild group, travels an unknown world—can tend to
wander aimlessly, for better and for worse. Michael Mastroianni’s “Freehold” is an
unusual “road,” or “journey,” story because it actually ends with the beginning of the
“real” journey—the “aimless” one, that is. In fact, there’s not much, if any, aimless
wandering in “Freehold”; rather, it is quite specific in its narrative arc.
At the outset, Freehold resists the convention of going to college, and instead
heads west, but with a very specific mission in mind; still, Mike Mastroianni captures the
free-spirited sense of the open road, as well as a sense of the unpredictable, unplanned
story. Specific as the protagonist’s mission is, he is in for some surprises; what he finds
sets him on a path he never expected, a path even more wide open than the one he set out
on in the first place. Having completed his quest to discover his father’s past, he’s no
longer ashamed to admit he’s a man without a plan. Only now does the “real” wandering
begin…as he heads “home,” having discovered some new truth.
In what is perhaps the most famous “road” story of the modern era—On the Road,
by Jack Kerouac—the protagonist’s mission is much less specific than Freehold’s,
though, like Freehold, he seeks to escape the conventions of the east. And so Sal
Paradise, on the road, hitchhikes west—first to Denver, then to California—to meet up
with friends. It is anything but hardboiled suspense that sustains the interest of Kerouac’s
readers; quite to the contrary, it is the ruthless promise of episodic consistency, brought to
vivid life by the open-minded narrator-protagonist, whose only real “goal” is to resist
having one—certainly not the kind of “goal” that drives conventional stories. For
Kerouac—and his writer-cronies, the Beatniks—that was the point: to resist convention,
in both life and art, to embrace the next event and cast of characters that life may bring.
The reader of On the Road might wonder, how long can Sal Paradise go on like this, just
hitchhiking around, seeing new sights and encountering interesting people…but without
some greater purpose in mind? The reader might also wonder, how long can the novel go
on like this? Can the novel go on until the end like this and then just fade out or stop
abruptly…or will something “dramatic” happen, forcing Sal Paradise to act decisively, to
change his route—perhaps to head back east—rather than to continue to drift westward.
It can be invigorating and thrilling to read Kerouac; and it can be tempting to
want to imitate him—that freewheeling prose, that unplanned plot unfolding like the open
road…. Well, why not? Go for it. See what you, and your characters, discover. But be
wary of the fact that what might be fun for the writer—the sprawling, unplanned plot; the
wild, untamed prose—might not be so interesting to the reader. A good story can’t just
be about aimless wandering—or even just about well-written prose.
Exercise
Write a journey story in which the protagonist seeks something. He may seek something
specific, only to discover something else entirely. Consider that your protagonist need
not set out “on the road,” nor must he travel by car. One need not “travel” far at all, to
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take a journey, to alter one’s view, to enter new terrain, to move from one unknown
world to another.
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Pet Store Therapy
Noah Painter-Davis 2002
My life is a zoo. My house is the
cage I live in. There are many animals
in this cage. There are the damn cats:
George, Chloe, Sammy, Scampers, Has
No Leg, Punky, Sylvester, Mookie,
Kitchee, Idgee, and Bo Bo. There are
the family members: Ma, Prinsiss, and
me. My ma, she’s had a hard life.
Death, divorce, obnoxious kids, death,
divorce, obnoxious kids; it seems to be
the trend.
She substituted all this
tragedy and heartache with the company
of cats, one cat per tragedy. She loves
them; hell, she talks to them more than
her kids. She sings to them, feeds them
smoked turkey, whipped cream, and Ben
and Jerry’s Chubby Hubby ice cream.
She provides them with many lavatories;
there is a litter box next to the kitchen
table. Try to take a bite of sauerkraut
while George is doing his business. My
sis, she has got that permanent PMS.
She’s an actress type, and she expects
the royal treatment. But instead of
walking on the red carpet to the sound of
trumpets to sit in her throne, she’s
jumping over grass-induced vomit, piles
of spent Friskies, lazy cats, and litter
boxes. The trumpets are a mixture of
my mom serenading the cats, my mom’s
persistent bleeding cough, and my
sister’s throne sits with Has No Leg in it.
Me, well I’m a zoo in my own right. I’m
a ball of sweating nerves. My day is
composed of washing my hands with
soap and peroxide until they bleed,
jumping over cracks in the floor so I
won’t catch AIDS, and avoiding my
mom and her diseased, choking-onsandpaper cough.
When I was diagnosed with
OCD, my sister became Sigmund Freud.
Talking about penis envy and anger
displacement. Anything I did was a
symptom of OCD. If I pissed more than
once an hour, she would say I was
pissing with passion to release anxiety.
My ma, she wasn’t much better; now
that I avoided her because of my OCD,
she would need to pick up another stray
cat to offset the trauma. My ma picks up
crippled kitties in West Philadelphia
where she uses her heart’s endless
compassion by working with Special Ed
children. In my suburban neighborhood
of Media, my mom began getting all the
neighborhood cats neutered, causing all
the male cats to avoid my house like I
avoid doorknobs. Because of my OCD
my ma wanted to baby me and coddle
me, but I avoided her and anything she
touched, because I thought she had some
contagious disease. I wouldn’t touch her
famous brown-sugar curry chicken or
even give my mom a hug or a kiss. Hell,
if one of her blouses touched one of my
socks, I’d put a Ziploc bag on my hand,
pick up the sock, throw it down the
sewer with the Ziploc bog, come inside
and wash my hands for an hour, then
pour hydrogen peroxide on my hands.
Follow the maze of bloody cracks in my
hands to find the path to my pain.
Imagine fearing the person you used to
love the most. She thought this OCD
would go away like a cold, and we
would become the happy family again.
When it didn’t, she got vexed with the
empty bottles of Dove soap, the hours of
my sobbing and cussing, and the tripledigit water bill. My banging blonde
psychiatrist recommended I get a job to
distract my mind from OCD. She also
prescribed a job in which I would have
to confront my fear of germs. I took her
advice. Hell, she was so hot I’d stick
one of Iggy Pop’s worn needles into my
arm for her warm kiss. Ah, maybe not.
Well anyway, I took her advice and
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reluctantly I got a job at a pet store
called the Ark. I would expose my
hands to shit, piss, dirty money, and
dirty animals in order to conquer my
demon, end get back to living.
When I began working at the pet
store it seemed like my own private hell.
Piles of shit, puddles of
piss,
decapitated cricket heads, customers
with unwashed hands holding dirty
money, twelve-by-twelve poop-stained
tiles, which meant a lot of jumping over
cracks, and lazy co-workers. By taking
this job, I dove into a cesspool of all my
fears, hit my unbalanced-serotonin head
on the concrete wall of my life, shattered
my backbone, ripped out my guts, and
was made a paraplegic coward. But to
defeat OCD, I understood that I had to
expose myself to my demon, and I knew
the Ark was a house of my demons.
It’s my third week at this store.
In the past week I’ve already gone
through five Imodium A-D boxes to
prevent the runs, thirteen squirt bottles
of God’s Gift to Man—antibacterial
soap—and ten Clonopins, pills that are
supposed to stop my germ-induced
breakdowns. I’m beginning to learn the
ropes. As a pet-store worker one must
first smoke pot in the bathroom ten
minutes before work. After that, one
must take a bong hit every hour on the
hour during work, plus snort a pixie stick
of a variety of any other powders up
your nose.
To maintain energy
throughout a strenuous work day of pot
smoking and nose banging, one must
steel ten dollars out of the register to
purchase a dill-pickle-looking, worty
hotdog, and a Mountain Dew energy
drink.
Intermittently throughout the
festive workday an employee must
granny his way over to the register in a
scoliosis posture end sell some Catnip
Bubbles or Doggy Manicure paint. I
bypass the drugs and stick to avoiding as
many germs and piles of poop as
possible. I also enjoy running back and
forth down aisle one with the gumball
machine on my shoulders. I depend on
my Anaphranil, a serotonin-balancing
drug that combats OCD, to get me
through my nerve-racking day.
Work at the pet store has been
hell today. It seems as though someone
fed the dogs chili con carne and milk
stained with five-days expiration and
laxatives. Dave, my coworker, won’t
help in the marathon of crap, for he is
with his dime bag in the bathroom,
where aim is bad, toilet-seat piss is
plenty, and bathroom hot boxing is the
rage. Besides murdering his brain cells,
Dave enjoys decapitating our ten-centsapiece crickets with an expert rubberband shot, rapping about the tortures of
parvo and bowling with a rawhide ball
and dented Alpo can for pins. As for
me, I’m picking up shit, doing frantic
circles around the dog cubicles, with
doubled-up rubber gloves, and tears
hammering their way to my eyelids.
As my body trembled with germ
epilepsy, Dave approached with blazed
pupils, which were crying for Sore Eyes
Solution. Dave stood there astonished,
looking at me with my doubled-up
gloves, which were covered with Ziploc
bags. He gave me his expert advice,
“Damn, man, shit can’t hurt you. You
don’t need all the protective gear. All
you need is some hands. Watch.” He
nonchalantly picked up Pug-shit paper
and threw it in the trash can. My jaw
dropped when Dave, without cleansing
his hands, ripped open a bag of Doritos,
and started chomping. “Hey, you want
one? It’s on the house.”
“No thanks.” I took off my
gloves and threw away the Ziploc bag.
Once Dave went to bowl in aisle three, I
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look our my antibacterial lotion and
washed my hands.
The phone rang under the barks
of dogs, so I tore a piece of paper towel
from a roll and picked it up. Careful not
to touch the receiver, I said, “The Ark,
how may I help you?” The lady asked
about some kittens, prices, breeds, and
color. To her questions I crumpled my
face into an I-don’t-know expression.
What? I didn’t know there were breeds
of cats. Well, sure you got your lions
and tigers, but when it comes to cats I
thought the color and size separated
them. Damn, I have ten cats, but I don’t
know a lick about ‘em. “Well, Miss, we
have one kitten in right now. I don’t
know much about him. I’m more of a
fish expert, so I don’t know the breed.
But I can tell you it’s damn cute. If my
mom didn’t have ten cats I’d be itching
to take it home.”
“Phhhh…thanks very little,” she
said.
Her bitchy tone gave my humor
an itch and I just had to scratch it, “By
Sir.” I hung up the phone. I glanced
upward at the cracked clock that had
barely avoided the rawhide Dave threw
yesterday with me as the target. Hell, it
was only six o’clock. I was stuck
between two hells—the hell of germs
here and the hell of my mom’s cough
and my sister’s eyes. The only bright
side in this dark day was that my mom
was coming home late tonight because
she had some meeting. The less time I
have to submit to that cough the better.
Hell, I used to look forward to my ma
coming home early. It meant celery with
peanut
butter,
root-beer
floats,
conversations about Philadelphia sports
and future plans. It meant the occasional
free-throw shooting contest or a Flyers
game. I think of the good times and I
cry because the only obstacle between
them is some non-sensible bullshit
rambling in my head. I thought of how
my ma and I used to surprise each other
with gifts. She’d give me Cadbury milk
chocolate bars or a Michael Jordan
trading card. I’d give a flower or a little
poem in return. Damn, those were good
times. Well, she replaced my gifts and
love with those kittens.
Thinking of Ma, I went back to
look at the kitten. I was looking through
the glass, admiring the beauty of a kitty.
She had some unique colors, like taking
some melted orange sherbet and
dripping it on a furry white carpet. She
was pawing at the glass with them sweet
sherbet paws. Irresistible enough, so I
took her out of the cage. I petted her
soft fur as it licked my hand with a sweet
purr. It curled up in my arms and started
sucking on my shirt. Searching for her
mother’s milk that she was robbed of too
early in the stages of life. I thought of
how my mom would love to have this
kitten sleeping above her head. How she
would love to sing this kitten a song and
feed it barbecued smoked turkey. I
thought of how this kitten had strayed
away from her loving mother and was
now searching for her in my shirt. My
mom and I were close before OCD
separated us. We’d go to Eagles games,
root for Jerome Brown, sit in awe as
Randall left the pocket. We’d throw the
pigskin on the freshly mowed grass. My
mom took on fatherly duties, after she
composed herself from the pain of my
vacant Dad’s abusive departure. He
threw scalding hot Alphabet Soup on her
face, which spelled out words of
degradation that burned her heart. As
the kitten continued to wet my shirt, I
felt a sudden urge to hug my mom and
take her to a ball game. But then I
thought of that cough I feared. An OCD
fear is like poison ivy: you itch it with
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compulsive rituals like washing, but it’s
harder for it to heal. I itched my fear of
that cough with avoidance and denial of
loving contact.
My thoughts were interrupted by
Dave yelling to me that a man needed
help at the register. I was surprised that
a customer was in the store because of
the hurricane downpour of rain that had
been pounding the area all day. You’d
have to be crazy to drive or even walk in
that rain. I took the kitty from the
artificial nipple of my shirt; I patted its
head and put it back in its cage.
I drudged my way to the register,
seeing that a dirty biker was waiting to
buy two rats for some snake. The
register is a dimension of my hell, dirty
money taken from dirty hands. As the
toothless biker’s money touched my
hand, the anxiety crept up into my body.
My heartbeat thumped louder, as my
glue-stick fingers hit the germ-infected
keys.
My pedigree muscles from
benching IAMS dog bags tightened like
the American Boa around a sacrificial
mouse. In the back of the store I could
hear the sherbet kitty meowing. It
longed for its mother’s nipple.
Meanwhile the germs on my hands
caused a nervous rat to scratch its way
from my heart, tearing through my
esophagus, dying in my dry throat.
Tears seemed to seep from my turbulent
mind, crying down my face, dying in a
pool of sweat on my shirt. When the
biker was cared for, my OCD breathed a
sigh of relief. I could squirt my hands
with anti-bacterial lotion. I went for my
secret nook where I hid my lotion, but it
was gone. I searched frantically for the
lotion, feeling the germs devouring my
hands and nerves. I screamed to Dave,
asking where is that lotion I bring?
Dave hollered back that he was cleaning
up and threw it out. My mind circled.
The rat appeared in my throat again and
I choked on its sweaty fur. I hurdled the
cracks in the tiles, running for the
bathroom I have tried to avoid. I kicked
open the bathroom door with my shoe,
and was punched in the gut by the sight
of stale piss, mucus in the sink, and a
worn ashtray next to the faucet. I felt the
germs slicing off oxygen to my throat. I
felt like a heroin addict craving a fix. I
craved soap. I sat in the stock room and
cried, denied of my savior of soap. My
tears mingled with the sound of
Sherbet’s meowing. I staggered to her
cage, searching for solace.
I took
Sherbet in my arms and melted into a
corner. She kissed and licked my salty
tears, and then again went for my shirt’s
artificial mother’s nipple. Her licks,
kisses, and soft fur slowly sedated my
anxiety. As the anxiety subsided, pride
filled my heart because for this instant
my hands did not crave the soap, only
this kitten’s fur. It was an exposure
battle victory in the war against OCD. I
had touched stained money and I had not
washed my hands. It was a step. My
heart and legs felt the sudden urge to run
to my mother, to dominate my fear of
her dirty cough and give her a hug, and
tell her about my step. I followed the
urge. I exited the store, with Sherbet
under my shirt.
The summer rain
pounded my bare arms, but Sherbet was
safe under my shirt. I ran through the
dark, soaking wet, I jumped over
sidewalk cracks, I ran past stop signs,
block after block to the light of my
house.
I
approached my lighted
doorway, a safe haven from the violent
rain. I went to open the doorknob with
my sleeve covering my coward hand.
But I said, today will be a day of
redemptive pride, and I defied OCD
once again and opened the knob with
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one of my blood-cracked hands. I
entered my house that suddenly felt like
home again. I sat on a chair at the
dining room table, below a wooden
kitten sign that I bought my mom two
Christmases ago.
The sign was
engraved, “Strays Welcome.” I took
Sherbet from under my shirt. She once
again found comfort in the artificial milk
of my shirt. The milk dried and died, as
I waited, for my mom never made it
home.
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NOAH PAINTER-DAVIS
After graduating from Penncrest in 2002, I attended Susquehanna University. I wanted to
be a psychiatrist, but biology is too complicated. I wanted to be a therapist, but I can’t
stay in an office all day—besides some of my patients might be hot and vulnerable,
which would be a conflict of interest. So, I think I’m going to be a lawyer, a heavy-metal
singer, an ultimate fighter, or an actor, or a combination of these. I may try to get into
politics. Dubya inspires me in only one way: he was (and is) a screw-up, but still
became the president, not once but twice. So maybe I can. If everything goes bad, I’m
excited that my favorite psychology teacher told me that “if I got to prison I’d run it.”
Reflection on Pet Shop Therapy
My story was inspired by my experience with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I
find the disorder very painful, but also very hilarious because of some of the lunacy and
creativity it creates. I melded this experience with my family life and the zoo that still
exists here. Only nine cats now—George was hit by a truck a couple weeks ago, but an
“unnamed kitty,” who has a mysterious bump on its back that oozes, replaced it. As for
the story, I think the story was therapeutic; it seemed interesting and was easy to write
because I was living it. I would change much of my story. Rereading it for the first time
after three-plus years, I found that there were way too many adjectives, metaphors,
similes, and other literary words that evade me at the moment. It was so cute that it
seemed a little ugly. I would also change the vague ending—“my mother never came
home.” That was a little abrupt. I didn’t know how to end the story, so I just killed off
my mom. Some other possible endings could include: her coming home and showing
more love to the cat than me, me killing the cats so she would pay more attention to me,
suicide, murder, a love fling with one of the cats, or end it how it began—with stagnant
confusion.
I’m pleased at the honesty of my story. Most of the story is based off truth: the
rituals, my co-worker, the work environment, my mother, the cats as mechanisms for
coping with tragedy.
Today I write only poetry. I write when I’m pissed off, sad, or in love, which is
about every other day. A lot of inspiration for my writing has come from the band Tool,
NIN, the writer Jonathon Saffron Foer, my continuing experience with Obsessive
Compulsive Disorder, and my hate of the Republican Party and the religious zealots.
Anyway, I may write another story, some memoirs under an alias, because the stories
would be ridiculous and embarrassing even to a corpse.
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Teacher Reflection
The Setting As Battleground in Noah Painter-Davis’s Pet Store Therapy
In “Pet Store Therapy” Noah Painter-Davis captures the protagonist’s inner
conflict through his engagement with his external surroundings—not only the pet store
but also his home. Two opposing ideas make up the protagonist’s inner conflict: his
conscious desire to conquer Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and his unconscious desire
to reconnect with his mother, who is, like her home, anything but clean. The tension
between these two opposing forces—the conscious versus the unconscious desire—is the
driving force of the story. What Noah does so well is to make physical—or external—
that which is internal. That is, he creates the perfect setting for the protagonist to tackle
his problem, forcing him to act, or, more to the point, to interact with the setting.
What’s more, Noah establishes the unlikely setting of the pet store in a convincing
way, by having the therapist challenge the protagonist to seek work that would most
challenge him to overcome his neuroses. In the beginning, the protagonist avoids home
and dreads the pet store. Then, heroically, he takes on his OCD, eventually realizing his
inner desire to reunite with his mother. In the end, he races home with a pet-store cat of
his own. The bittersweet ending is thrilling and moving, especially when, it turns out, his
mother is gone—for good. We are left celebrating the protagonist’s triumph, while
sympathizing with his loss. The setting, in the end, once again reflects the protagonist’s
inner life, as he sits alone at home, longing for the embrace of his mother, while
embracing his newly beloved pet-store cat.
Exercise
Write a story, or a long scene, in which the setting serves as an arena for the protagonist
to tackle his inner conflict. Ask yourself: what setting would be most challenging to my
character? Immerse your character in this setting, pushing him to the limit and beyond,
to the “other side” of the experience, where he faces his inner conflict once and for all.
Perhaps consider a setting first and then imagine a character that would be challenged by
this setting. For example, who would dread working in a Styrofoam cup factory? Why?
Who would fear getting locked inside the public library overnight? Why? Who would
hate to be a passenger on a bus? Why? Who would rather do anything else in the world
than work in a pet store? Why?
Leaving Places
Jon Pitts 2002
If was mid-June end the last day
of my junior year at Upper Oakland
Heights Senior High School. Pushing
open the double doors I was met with the
towering sun that seemed to shine an
incandescent bronze on the concrete.
My blue Converse All-Stars strode
through the asphalt-gravel mixture of my
school’s parking lot as I reminded
myself that with each crunchy footstep I
would be farther and farther from a place
I had no wish to return to. Across the
bay they had abandoned Haight-Ashbury
and went south for the bright lights and
disco balls of the “City of Angels.”
Meanwhile, alcohol had gotten the best
of Berkley Village’s hero, Sal Paradise,
and forced him to go to a place far north.
After winning three World Series with
the A’s and capturing the hearts of
thousands of kids across Northern
California, Reggie Jackson went east for
the fat salaries and glamour of New
York City.
Walking to my 52nd Street
apartment I wondered to myself, as I did
many times during that age of my life,
why everyone felt the need to leave
places. Continuing to walk up the
crooked steps of the complex I reached
for my keys as I unlocked the third-floor
apartment that Mom and I shared for as
long as I could remember. Pushing open
the paint-chipped door and flicking on
the light switch, I gave out my usual
“hello” that never seemed to get
returned. Dad, too, was someone who
had left us. It had been thirteen years
before. “There are better opportunities
for an aspiring musician like me in Los
Angeles,” was what he’d told my mom.
“I’m not ready for a family,” was what
she’d heard. Walking across the thick
carpet that disguised the discolored floor
beams, I turned the knob on our 18-inch
JVC as images of Jimmy Carter panned
across the television set. Grabbing a
bottle of pop from the kitchen and
cracking the window, I situated myself
down on the green couch that seemed to
sink deeper with every nightly sitting it
endured during Barnie Miller re-runs.
The clock red 1:27, and before I could
help it I quickly dozed off.
“Peter! Are you home? It’s me.”
I was awakened by my mom’s voice
coming from across the hall through the
front door. With her face hidden behind
overflowing brown bags that read
“Jewel-T Groceries,” my mom returned
from one of her two jobs. She worked at
an insurance agency and her brother’s
car agency where she did billing on the
side.
“Yeah, Mom, you don’t need to
yell. I’m right here on the couch,” I
said, still half asleep and unsure of
where time had gone.
“I’m sorry. But listen, Pete, I’m
going to put the food in the oven for you.
I need to take a shower. It just needs to
be heated for ten or fifteen minutes. I’m
really in a hurry. I’m meeting a man for
dinner in about on hour. Okay?”
“It’s 6:00 already! Mom, I have
to go to Darryl’s,” I exclaimed,
thumping onto the carpet, still dizzy
from sleep. “We’re having a rehearsal
tonight. We have a gig at some VFW
next week.”
“That’s fine, Peter, but I don’t
want you coming home smelling like
that reefer. Mrs. Harkins suspects some
of the kids on the block have been
selling marijuana.” I appreciated the
concern my mom gave me as she tried to
play the role of double-parent, but I
couldn’t help but laugh inside at the way
she shot me those naive statements.
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Returning in the role of the teenage son,
I responded with an innocent chuckle.
“Mom, Mrs. Harkins also still
thinks Castro paid Johnson to invade
Vietnam… Listen, I won’t be late. Just
have a good time on your date.”
“It’s not a date, stop saying that.
It’s dinner…with a co-worker who
happens to be a friend of mine. And
that’s why I have to go now,” she said
with a firm and defensive look.
“Okay, Mom. It’s dinner.”
Hustling up the stairs, she yelled
down, “Don’t forget to take your food
out of the oven.” Turning to the guest
room, I began to gather my items, which
sat in the corner of the room. Sitting on
the far left was my beige Danalectro
transistor amplifier that was stained with
a brown hue due to the influx of
cigarette smoke it withheld while sitting
in the back rehearsal room of Buddy’s
Music Shop, the place where I had
purchased it several years back. Leaning
up next to it was its partner in crime,
hidden within a brown leather case with
twangy wires peaking out the top zipper.
It was a 1957 white fender telecaster that
had turned cream. I remembered vividly
the day it was given to me for my 13th
birthday. My grandfather handed it to
me with a big smile as he continued to
tell me how it was a gift from my father.
“You know, I think it was one of
his own,” he’d tell me with that long
smile that pierced his dry and wrinkled
skin. I could only smile back. Deep
down inside we both knew that my
grandfather had bought it for me. But
years had gone by since those days in
which I was the little kid who ran around
the house by himself pretending to be
the latest childhood sensation on
American Bandstand. Holidays would
be a time when I’d get the family around
the couch and do my Buddy Holly
impersonations. They’d all give me
compliments and it seemed that the only
thing they were holding back was the
“your father would be proud” comment.
Dad was more than a musician, or so my
aunt would tell me before Mom would
interrupt.
“Don’t tell the boy fairy tales,”
she’d tell her sisters. I learned from
these accounts that growing up he played
the piano, bass, guitar, cello, a few wind
instruments, and he could even keep a
beat on the drum set. It was where I
inherited musical intuition. I had a gift,
was what my mom told me. I told
myself it came from him. I guess it was
the one gift a father could give a son
without ever being around him.
Suddenly smoke started to rise from the
kitchen counter as my mom stormed
down the stairs.
“God damn it, Peter, don’t you
smell that?” With her hair still wet and
only guarded by a towel, my mom
dashed past me to turn the oven off,
almost knocking the speaker out of my
hand. Still spaced out and storing, I
continued to peer out of the aged and
foggy windows that looked down upon
the concrete maze that was Packson
Avenue.
I finally gathered myself.
Picking up my amplifier, I began to drag
it across the room with my guitar
strapped around my back, ignoring the
sounds of my confused mother.
I
mumbled something, in regards to not
being hungry, and ducked out the front
door. As I walked down the steps, my
senses were flooded, the fusion of burnt
grilled cheese and the summer night.
*
It was about 11:30 and the third
time during the long night that we had
done Boston’s “Foreplay—Long Time.”
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My eyes burned from the cigarette
smoke that seemed to swirl about Darryl
McMahon’s basement like sand on a
windy desert. With my eyes closed as
my fingers jumped around the fret board,
I got lost in the moment. Pretending to
be Jerry Garcia, I took a solo with my
eyes closed. Suddenly the moment of
ecstasy came to a halt with the blinking
of fluorescent ceiling lights.
“What the hell! You have got to
be kidding me,” yelled Tim Lewis from
his seat behind the drum set he could
barely see over. Interrupted in the
moment by Darryl’s mom, a 1970’s
version of June Cleaver, the perplexed
and frustrated group one by one stopped
playing their instruments as she yelled
from the top of the stairwell of their twofloor home in the nicer part of Oakland.
“Boys… It’s getting kind of late.
And, Darryl, you need to get up early
tomorrow. I think it’s time you should
pack up.” Mrs. McMahon yelled from
the top of the stairs in an innocent voice.
Tim, the wise-ass of the group, got up
from his stool.
“Darryl, man, your mom has to
be stopped. I was feeling something
there, man. I mean, I really was. We’re
gonna have to find a new place to
rehearse.” The band continued to argue,
while I kept quiet and began to wrap my
torn wire around the back holster of the
amplifier. Filing out we all smoked one
last cigarette, realizing that much hadn’t
been accomplished in the two-and-ahalf-hour practice. But every night that
seemed to be okay. We would dance
around a few tunes for over twenty
minutes apiece and live things up for the
moment. And that, with the help of
Darryl’s older sister’s secret brownies,
was enough to get us all high.
As I made my way home, lights
from the city’s transit bus up ahead at
the edge of Packson and 49th Streets
served as a beacon. It was after twelve
and I was still exhausted from the long
night. I followed my tall shadow down
the empty street, wondering if my mom
had been let down by another man who
was not worthy of her. The sounds of
clashing loose chain nets and bouncing
basketballs resonated as white kids were
challenging black kids in a pickup game
under the yellow-orange lights that
hovered over the courts. Taking oldman steps, I carted my equipment up the
stairs and pushed open the door that was
suspiciously left open. One small lamp
was enough to show my mother’s aged
face that leaned up against the couch.
She was both motionless and still, her
cheeks still red, as dried-up tears could
be seen on her face from the doorway.
On the floor lay stacks of picture albums
covered in dust and faded labels and
emblems. She didn’t say anything,
trading looks between me and the
unoccupied space that lay behind the
half-open door. Before I could make it
to the top of the steps my mom stopped
me.
“Peter,” she said softly. “Peter,
your other grandmother called. She
wanted to let us know that we wouldn’t
be getting a check in the mail.” She
choked on her tears as she continued to
give me the message. It was all because
of a phone call she had gotten that night.
My grandmother on my father’s side,
whom I rarely saw, had called in a
casual fashion, like a distant cousin
checking in to say hello, or a librarian to
remind you a book was overdue. It was
a simple message: her son had died two
nights prior. He had been killed in a
fight outside a jazz club in San
Francisco. He had been right next-door
all these years. My rationalization had
come to a halt. There had been no
113
exciting music ventures in Los Angeles
that I had dreamt of, and no spreading of
his compositions in the coffee houses of
Greenwich Village. He had never truly
left us.
*
Labor Day block party flyers and
back-to-school advertisements layered
the telephone poles outside the
Greyhound station.
Along with an
ambitious wad of cash, packs of
D’Addario guitar strings stuffed my
pockets. Mom had left forty minutes
ago and the only words she left me with
were to call every day. Across the
terminal a boy about my age, with a
sweatshirt that said the words, “Go
Ducks,” kissed his mom and dad as he
boarded a bus headed for Eugene. I
lifted up my guitar before the light
drizzle could stain its brown leather
case. Clutched tightly in my hands were
two items: a damp sheet covered with
phone numbers and addresses my mom’s
sister had given me, and a bus ticket that
read “Terminal 4—Departure: 4:50.”
Out of nowhere the sound of a bus
engine wailed as it pulled under the
overhang and came to a stop. People
made their way off the bus. A man from
inside the station came outside. Along
with a ladder, he had in his hand a
bucketful of large cardboard letters that
would replace the word “Oakland” on
the front of the bus. My watch read
4:17, and when I looked back up the
letters “L,” “O,” and “S” were already
stuck to the front of the bus. It was brisk
out and summer was almost over.
114
JONATHAN PITTS
I am a senior at Providence College in Rhode Island, currently student-teaching
American Government at North Providence High School.
Reflection on Leaving Places
Aside from a couple hours at the Los Angeles International Airport, I’ve yet to
reach America’s last frontier, and the dream of doing so served as inspiration for the
setting of “Leaving Places.” In terms of making the story into a timepiece, I was
intrigued with the idea of setting it in a period just after one of contemporary intrigue.
After interviewing my European History teacher, Rob Simpson, for a length of time, I
came up with a list of pop-culture references—sports, music, TV—that I felt would help
detail and support my conceptualization of the broken neighborhoods of Oakland,
California, in the mid-1970’s.
As I wrote, attempting to capture the feeling of a foreign era was as important as
developing a strong plot, which I knew would come naturally. I was reading a lot of John
Updike at the time, and I wanted to give my story a similar kind of broken-hearted
middle-class Americana, which I felt the audience could sympathize with. I wanted to
write a story about youth, coming of age, family, and music, set in a place that was
dichotomous to the conception of the free-spirit one imagines at the corner of HaightAsbury in 1969, long before this sort of idealized counter-culture fizzled and American
youth left Golden Gate Park for Studio 54. My goal was to remind the reader of the
unique power that is the passion of youth.
Playing and listening to music my entire life, I wanted to highlight the unique
power of musical expression and how this creative art, examined at a modest and
individual level, can help humanity endure and drive to meet their passion. I tried to
write “Leaving Places” while using selective and concise wording, to leave much to the
reader’s imagination. As the story closes, the last location where I leave the protagonist
is at an Oakland bus terminal. Here the character is en route to Los Angeles, a place
saturated with ambitious and naïve musical aspirations. The reader sees only the letters
“L-O-S” appear on the bus marquee—this is as much a reference to the city Peter is
destined for as it is to the idea of his being “lost” in his dreams and passion.
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Teacher Reflection
The Story Arc—and Scene Arcs—in Jonathan Pitts’s Leaving Places
A story in which nothing changes is probably not much of story. In Jonathan
Pitts’s Leaving Places, Peter, the protagonist, changes dramatically: in the opening scene
he starts out wondering, sadly, it seems, why “everyone felt the need to leave places,”
and by the last scene he himself is leaving Oakland for Los Angeles. Peter demonstrates
an emotional change as well as a physical one: he has matured, realizing the truth of his
father; in the end he is beginning a journey. This change—or change in value—is the
overall arc of the story, which itself is made up of individual scenes that have their own
arcs—that is, every scene is marked by some change in value.
Not coincidentally, given the story’s theme—and title—every scene’s arc
revolves around the notion of “leaving places.” In the first scene Peter has just left high
school, thinking of his father, who left Oakland for Los Angeles, and of Reggie Jackson,
who left Oakland for New York; the scene ends with Peter arriving home, where life is
secure and predictable. There is a physical arc and an emotional arc: he leaves school,
and then he arrives home; he is pensive about “leaving places,” particularly about his
father having left years ago, and then he escapes his thoughts by watching TV and dozing
off.
The second scene begins where the first left off: he awakes on the couch when
his mother arrives home; by the end of the scene he leaves to go to Daryl’s. In addition
to this physical arc, there is an emotional arc as well: tension rises progressively from the
moment his mother sets foot in the house, rushing to get ready for a date, instructing
Peter about his dinner in the oven, and warning him about smoking marijuana.
In the beginning of the third scene Peter and his pals are jamming in the
basement, smoking cigarettes, just before Daryl’s mother interrupts; by the end of the
scene he is, once again, leaving. There is also an emotional arc, if a subtle one: first
Peter’s mother, having warned him about marijuana, and now Daryl’s mother, seem to be
effectively hindering the boys’ freedom; but by the end of the scene Peter admits that the
band’s practices, “with the help of Darryl’s older sister’s secret brownies, was enough to
get us all high.”
Arriving home again in scene four, Peter learns of the death of his father, who
never lived out his dreams and “never truly left us.” The final scene completes the
story’s overall arc, revealing Peter as a changed “man,” poised to leave home, to pursue
his own dreams in Los Angeles, the letters “L,” “O,” “S” replacing “Oakland” on the
front of the bus.
Exercise
Write a scene containing both a physical and emotional arc. First, outline your plan for
the scene. For example, before writing “Leaving Places,” Jonathan Pitts might have
written in his outline: “Scene One. Physical arc: Peter leaves high school on last day of
school…and then he goes home. Emotional arc: He’s thoughtful about leaving places,
especially about his dad…and then he escapes his thoughts by watching TV and dozing
off.”
Stasis
Scott Pritchard 2002
Glasses clinked loudly as guests
made their rounds. There was a sweet
holiday reverie in the air as people
mingled, supplanting worries and
obligations with mistletoe and eggnog.
The Christmas tree stood alight in the
vast hallway as a beacon drawing people
together. Martin Forester looked around
nostalgically, watching his mother.
Sweeping through the house, her face
gushing with charm, she catered to
people with the reassurance and poise of
a time-tested flight attendant in a plane
that was spiraling toward the ground.
She carried herself with practical
elegance and an understated aura of selfimportance while she happily received
her guests. The house filled every year
with a family that was still growing in
spades. Hugs were exchanged, kisses
were distributed, and then after crème
brulee they were shuffled out the door
until next Christmas.
Walls vibrated with distant
memories
embodied
in
kitschy
knickknacks and tired platitudes.
Plaques hovered everywhere on well-lit
walls declaring such things as “Home is
where the heart is,” and Martin studied
them with pointed concentration, hoping
to find a truism that could help him get
through the night (this was a brilliant
conversation-avoidance tactic, as well).
He felt self-conscious around his family,
thinking about the plaques. Life came
conveniently packaged in these gift-card
aphorisms for the Foresters. It was their
creed, and, to his mother, the final word
in all affairs. Both parents had countless
siblings, so they felt it was necessary to
preen and indulge their only son. They
shoved the idea of family down his
throat, coddling Martin while balancing
the worldly life. Hers was a variety of
suburban sophistication—grace without
the jaded cynicism, in the end, always
willing to make punch and lemonade and
live in a house that placed comfort over
fashion. He watched her fondly with a
smile.
With drink in hand Martin
walked around the house trying to keep a
low profile. Between sips of scotch he
noticed the dim outline of his father,
huddled into the corner like a frightened
deer. Martin gazed into the fray with a
thoughtful stare, catching his father’s
eye. The man walked slowly, carefully
plotting every step, limping with the gait
of an aged prizefighter. His barrel chest
and huge muscles that Martin
remembered as a child had been whisked
away on the wings of old age; in their
place, a more delicate, refined frame
remained. The man behind it wandered
towards him. His father’s demeanor
suggested a well of infinite patience and
reserve, undaunted by the continual
passage of time. It wasn’t far from the
truth, and it never failed to unnerve his
only son.
“So how have you been, son?
It’s been a while.” Martin noticed his
eyes dart around as he spoke, probably
contemplating a quick escape, but ever
wary of the threat of his wife, the
omniscient hostess. Martin waited for a
while to feel him out. He knew that his
father hated parties, due to an
unconscious aversion to small talk.
Knocking around sports scores and the
status of the market was unfathomable to
a man who measured his words in
spoonfuls as if too much would poison
him.
“Well, there’s really no reason to
complain.” Martin spoke softly, looking
down into the bottom of his glass, trying
to penetrate through the brown liquid to
117
the floor. He was unable to think clearly
and wanted to disappear among the
decorations. Either the drinks, the heat,
or the people placed him into a vague
lull of complacency. They walked on,
taking in the scene without a word
between them. Martin’s feet became
heavy, lethargically navigating the tiles
that felt like quicksand. A measured yet
enviable continuum among these circles
of happy nuclear families had once again
gotten the better of him. A heavy
blanket of guilt descended. He felt
anxious, desiring continuity and, at the
very least, some semblance of normality.
Life had been turning in reckless circles
recently, and family get-togethers were
too strong a reminder that he was still
alone.
As Martin looked into the face of
this man riding on the coattails of a
ripened American dream, he realized
that, for his father, everything had been
leading to these last couple years that his
son had frittered away like dust to the
wind—he was just an old, eager man
inviting his child to harvest the fields he
had sown, and preserve his legacy.
There Martin stood, thirty-six years old,
the only remaining bachelor in the entire
house, relegated to the position of
suspiciously single, and, to a group of
concerned parents and family, a bit
flaky.
“Really, your mother is going to
explode at this pace. She makes a run
around the house every two minutes. I
don’t know how she does it.”
“You know how she lives for this
kind of thing. She’s a special person…”
“Speaking of which, how is that
lovely girlfriend of yours? Where is she
anyway?” He was using his shrewdest
conversational technique: redirecting
everything
back
to
his
son’s
inadequacies. Martin spoke quickly,
“Not now, Dad. Let me just enjoy this.
It really is nice to be around normal
people every once in a while.” He was
from New York. That seemed to explain
a lot.
“Well, it seems everyone’s had
just about enough anyway. They’re all
heading home. Why don’t you stay for a
while?”
“We’re on a break, okay? There.
Things just haven’t felt right lately.
Cara’s
just
so…so
demanding.
Sometimes I think I just don’t have the
energy for her.” Martin automatically
jumped on the defensive. Between her
and the family, he never felt like he was
doing the right thing. There was always
a division, and Martin was walking a
thin line between fantasy and reality.
His father nodded gravely as if
someone had died. It was a genuine,
discomforting look of concern. He
couldn’t understand how anyone could
be happy alone. Martin had fought him
for years, but now as he stood under the
grand inquisition, he was starting to
think his father might be right. He had
been with this girl for over a year now,
and there was not one single reason that
he didn’t just take the plunge; there was
not one single reason why she couldn’t
be “the one.” It was perfectly sensible.
Of course he couldn’t concede this to his
father, however, because he knew the
path that this conversation was heading.
He had taken it many times before. It
happened every year. Visiting this huge
family was a perfect way to undergo the
irony of feeling lonely and dejected
among the people he loved. He eyed the
door, knowing it was time to go.
Martin patted his father on the
back and let out a quick stab at
assurance, “It’s only a temporary thing,
don’t worry, we’ll be fine.” He said this
regardless of how he felt. Things might
118
not be quite so temporary. Grabbing his
coat off the hook by the door, Martin
took a deep breath and prepared to
placate his mother, and tell her about all
the grandchildren that she could expect
soon enough. With hugs and kisses
dispensed and energy reserves depleted,
life could resume as usual.
They would be out on the town
by now on a normal night. Martin
pictured her in that slinky green dress,
attending a debutante ball where she
could spread her wings as the social
butterfly that she was, unhindered by the
practical boyfriend resigned to following
her around like a well-trained and
devoted puppy nipping at her heels,
waiting for a sign of affection. Tonight,
Martin had startled himself with the idea
that maybe she was it. A week earlier he
had been skirting around the idea of
moving in together and now marriage
was in the picture? His stomach turned
over in knots. It didn’t seem to matter
all that much anyway, because she was
sick and tired of a man who couldn’t
share the same apartment with her, no
matter how much she loved him. And
rightfully so.
He felt detachment again, an
unanchored sensation of not knowing
what was twenty-five years ahead of him
or even behind, clinging to his job as if it
was the last bastion of reliability in his
life. It centered him. Martin was the
owner of one of the endless line of chic
city restaurants with a big name, a big
price tag, a big following, and mediocre
food. As he passed it on the way back to
Bleaker Street and his apartment in
between honks and stop-and-go traffic,
he glanced inside the restaurant, bustling
as usual with the never-ending supply of
hipsters and suits that streamed through
the wide double doors and into his
wallet. The place ran itself. Martin was
essentially an intermediary who merely
had to sit back and keep the machine
running. He had put every waking
minute into that restaurant, and, even
now, he really wanted to be in there
making sure everything was all right.
Now there was a full-time manager. He
was passing the reigns a little bit,
reluctantly (at the request of Cara), and
although Martin still had total control, it
seemed to him that even the restaurant
was slipping away. It still took a lot out
of him not to be there tonight, even for
one night of the year; conceding a
Saturday to a green manager was
appalling. The restaurant was where he
met Cara for the first time. She was an
odd beauty—dark eyes and hair, lips that
were a little too wide and a chin that
almost receded, yet somehow it all came
together into a sultry, mesmerizing face
of caramel skin that could make a man
scream inside.
He finally pulled into the garage,
a subterranean palace for car owners in
New York City, unrestricted parking, an
unnecessary convenience (the car was an
unnecessary convenience as well) in the
ballpark of $700 a month. Martin pulled
in carefully, stepped out and pushed his
remote. The car beeped smugly to let
the world know it was expensive, and
now impregnable.
As Martin
approached the elevator, Cara wouldn’t
leave his mind for a second. She hung
there, a selfish specter creating a
tiresome ache that seeped throughout his
body and sweat out his pores. His
father’s few words, echoed around her
image, stood resolutely above her head
as Martin shrugged involuntarily, placed
the key into the lock and turned it slowly
as if the right timing might bring her
back. He imagined walking into his
apartment, hanging up his coat and
having a nice dinner waiting for him
119
from a smiling, doting wife. Maybe he
could even say, “Honey, I’m home!”
Those greeting-card aphorisms seemed
utterly inspired right now. He opened
the door, half expecting it to be true, but
instead was greeted by a dark apartment
with the hominess of a museum and a
barren Christmas tree.
Life could
resume as usual.
He turned the light on, walked
over to the couch and collapsed. Not
knowing what to do with himself, he
turned on the TV and absentmindedly
clicked through the channels.
The
screen
flared
obnoxiously
with
advertisements in the guise of holiday
cheer. Smiling faces and happy kids
opening presents that turned out to be a
new DVD player or a powerful vacuum
cleaner placed their insidious hooks in
Martin’s mind. Click. It’s a Wonderful
Life. Click. Here comes Santa Claus.
Click. The Family Man. Click. The
screen went blank. Holiday spirit had
infiltrated the Forester home.
Martin headed directly for the
liquor cabinet. He poured himself a stiff
drink and went to his room. On his way
down the ornate, spacious hallway he
stopped at an end table and picked up the
phone. He stared at it for a second,
visualizing the numbers he wanted to
press so desperately. She was out now,
though. It was supposedly better this
way; she would stay with her family and
Martin with his, and that would give
them both time to reflect on where their
relationship was going.
For some
reason, Martin didn’t even know what to
reflect on.
He entered his room and took out
a photo album. It was from their time
together in Paris, the romance capital of
the world. They drank wine, talked
about their lives, felt even more
sophisticated than being in New York,
and walked the streets hand in hand. To
Martin, that trip just felt right. It looked
right. He ran his fingers slowly over the
glossy image while closing his eyes.
During a walk through the arch of the
Arc de Triumphe, Martin felt as if it
were the gateway to a new world, and
the beginning of a long stretch of time
where everything would just be all right.
That’s all he really wanted. Now Martin
looked at it differently. Instead the Arc
fell in on them, crumbling over their
heads, leaving their hopes buried on the
Champs Elysee one summer night. It
was a moment forever frozen in time,
and now as Martin sat alone on
Christmas Eve, it marked something
else, not the beginning, but rather the
beginning of the end. If she’d only call,
he thought maybe they could get that
back, rewind to the hot streets of Paris.
Not only was Martin ready to commit, at
this point, he was desperate to. He
looked at them standing there under that
massive structure of permanence, and
started to cry.
*
She didn’t call. Martin, slowly
but surely—with the aid of busy holiday
crowds and the passing of routine-filled
days—began to create a soft shell of
resiliency that covered the hole
Christmas Eve had created. It was a
tenuous and shaky resiliency, one that
could be easily penetrated with
something as mundane as sudden change
in the temperature or shift in the wind,
but nonetheless a start. Strolling through
his empire, checking the counters and
food stock, grilling the waiters on
procedure, and filling the restaurant with
a sense of urgency and purpose, Martin
focused on the biggest night of the year:
the last. The week had slipped by into a
120
succession of forgettable days, days in
which the telephone lay silent as death,
mocking him with its refusal to ring.
Despite Martin’s gloomy disposition a
week ago, in the back of his mind he
really thought she would call. It forced
him to consider something else,
something in their relationship that
shook its very core, something that was
much more important than Martin’s
refusal to share an apartment. But he
had no idea what it could be.
Whatever it was, he decided that
it was her decision to call, he would hold
steadfast, and tonight, December 31st, he
was not going to sit in his apartment and
brood, but participate in the end of a
very, very long year. Satisfied that the
restaurant was prepared for its influx of
customers tonight, Martin once again
conceded control to his manager, who
had showed competence lately in
Martin’s absence.
There was a party tonight that
one of Martin’s friends had decided to
have.
After much internal debate,
Martin decided that he was going to go.
He was not going to put his life on hold
for her. She could wait for him for a
change. Confident and excited about his
tentative decision to resume life as it
should be lived, Martin made one last
sweep of the restaurant, chatting up the
guests and making sure every last utensil
was in place. He wanted tonight to go
without a hitch.
The party was in full swing by
the time he arrived. Champagne and
conversation were flowing freely, and
Steve Mason’s massive apartment was
bursting at the seams. Most people were
well on their way to bringing in the New
Year
in
time-honored
tradition:
inebriated. As Martin stepped through
the door, he smiled. Cara was not here,
she was not with him, and yet right now
he wasn’t thinking about her at all.
Steve looked up from the full bar where
he was sitting, and noticed Martin. He
quickly ran over to greet his friend.
“Hey, I’m really glad you could
make it. Things are really getting going
here. It’s great.” His face was beaming,
obviously ecstatic that so many people
wanted to spend the final hours of the
year in his apartment, and in his
company. Some people are just naturalborn hosts. Steve was a man who
affected sincerity in every possible
situation because it benefited him. He
wrote about people, studied their quirks
and motivations. He took stories from
the very kinds of people who were
attending his party tonight. Being a
good listener got him to the top of the
bestseller lists and a never-ending stream
of critics’ support that he downplayed
whenever possible. He needed people to
believe that he really cared about them,
which made Martin uneasy and
persistently self-conscious.
Martin
tended to withhold judgment on the man,
and, although friends, he was someone
that he never really felt he knew.
“Yeah, it seems like it.”
“Listen, Martin, you have a good
time, all right. Let me grab your coat.
Don’t worry about Cara. I’m sure you
two will be fine. But in the meantime
grab a drink and forget about her.” He
slapped Martin on the back and with a
quick wink he was off to revel in the
company of friends, and people who
were there for free drinks.
Overwhelmed, Martin just stood
in the doorway for a moment, taking in
the sight. People were everywhere.
Martin weaved his way through bodies,
and made his way to the bar. On his
way he caught bits of conversation about
such things as the “erudite yet pedantic
nature” of Foucault and similar topics of
121
interest at upscale Manhattan parties.
He sat down—not planning to move
until the night was over and quickly
beginning to regret coming—and
ordered a drink. All around him the
pleasant hum of conversation was filling
his ears. He let himself fade out and get
lost in the steady rhythm of the people
with their metallic, tinny voices. It only
took a few minutes for Martin to fade
away. Then something broke the trance.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother
you, but don’t you work at the Russian
Tea Room? I could have sworn I’d seen
you there before.” Martin glanced over
in the direction of this voice, and felt as
though he’d been hit by a bus. It was a
visible straightening of his body and
crinkling of the nose. He was about to
fall off the stool. The girl was attractive,
to say the very least. She had everything
Cara didn’t:
a wonderful, wellproportioned body (not too thin), short
brunette hair that was tousled in the way
that said I just woke up but I’m still
gorgeous, and full, pouty lips. Martin
wanted to sleep with her. Immediately.
It wasn’t even a conscious decision, but
rather something that just came up—
especially with a girl like this. Martin
shifted in his seat nervously, having no
idea what to say. Despite his experience
and success in the city in situations such
as these, his confidence left him and he
became small and totally impotent.
During the past year he had not had to
worry about the dating game, and, now,
as he sat there horrified, he realized that
he had forgotten the basics. He thought
about running home, getting a camera
and taking a picture of her, and then
leaving immediately as if he were a
perverted high school student. It seemed
the best thing to do in the situation—at
least something to remember her by if
she slapped him in the face and walked
away. He was in no position to act
confident around her or even talk to her.
He racked his brain for something witty
to say, but instead sat there awkwardly
with a toothy, billboard grin that affected
all the sincerity of a used car salesman.
Finally Martin managed to sputter a few
words in her direction.
“Um…yes.
I’m the owner
actually.”
“Really? Well, it is an absolutely
wonderful place. I try and go there as
often as I can.”
“I’m glad you like it. My name
is Martin Forester.” He was regaining
composure. Every second she deigned
to continue speaking to him was a step in
the right direction.
“I’m Kristen Valdez.”
Martin breathed slowly, settling
into normality.
Her words were
soothing and left him satisfied. After the
initial moment of focusing on her
beauty, he began to realize that she was
much more than something to look at, or
take a snapshot of and put on your wall.
They talked into the night, Martin
becoming more and more comfortable
and engaged, and she seemingly
absorbed in what he had to say. As they
sat and talked, the rest of the party
funneled away; they sat together without
receiving or wanting distraction. They
connected in a wispy, fleeting way,
comfortable as only tipsy people in the
throes of total anonymity can be, and
Martin felt renewed. She was pleasant,
interesting, and Martin was easily able to
run the entire gamut of conversation
with her. They touched on politics, New
York parties, her job, his business. She
asked him about his life, and their
conversation took a somewhat pleasantly
serious and intimate turn.
He felt
connected, ready to open up to her, to let
everything come pouring out in a tidal
122
wave of exasperation and regret that had
built up inside him for the past couple
weeks. But then he stopped himself. He
looked into her face as the light glinted
off her eyes, and realized that wasn’t
what he wanted to do. He didn’t care.
He wasn’t here to bitch about his
problems; for the moment he was
completely and utterly engaged in life,
and perceptions and responsibilities were
quickly pushed out of his mind. Martin
told her about Cara, but almost as an
afterthought, a relationship on the rocks,
with him having no idea of its status. He
knew this was not a smart thing to do.
He never saw himself as the type of
person who cheated on a girlfriend, but
were they even together? She nodded in
complete understanding, confiding in
him that she was in the same situation.
They commiserated for a while, lightly
and playfully, and then she shrugged and
said, “Oh well. Life goes on.” She was
absolutely right. He knew that the real
world would eventually come crashing
back, and they would go their separate
ways, but, for now, he was satisfied.
Meanwhile, all around them the
party was reaching its apex, and party
favors were being passed around like
bullets, arming the guests for their
valiant expedition into a new year. Dick
Clark commanded the attention of the
room, and Martin turned in respect. On
the screen, the silver ball had begun to
drop, weighted with the baggage of the
entire city. As it descended, it seemed to
expand, taking on all the tribulations of
the previous year, and, above it, 2002
levitated in neon brilliance, gleaming
against the vast, starry night with the
annual promise of renewal for all those
who desperately needed it. The city’s
heart beat as one, while they stood
focused on the ball, letting it purify them
and fall away, seeping into the cracks of
the broken sidewalks. Hope rose up
steadily to meet the sign in the sky from
heating vents in forgotten alleys. They
clenched their party favors with nervebiting anticipation and held breath.
Then it hit. The crowd exploded. It was
time to move on. Martin savored the
moment. Kristen turned around to face
him, and he calmly put his hand behind
her head and kissed her. She returned it
passionately while they closed their eyes
fulfilling promises made, connected, yet
at the same time, lost in the ecstasy of
millions starting again.
The party was still going strong,
and Martin had been mulling something
over. He wanted to say something so
she wouldn’t just walk off into the night
alone. He wanted to take her back to his
apartment, knowing that it was a bad
idea that would probably leave him
twisted up in knots with guilt when he
woke up, but, again, he didn’t care. He
knew that nothing was going to come of
this; either tonight or tomorrow, life was
going to resume independently of both
of them, and they would go their
separate ways, caught up again in its
rapid stream. They had tonight. Martin
was feeling brave, and a little giddy
behind the alcohol, so against his better
judgment he asked her, “Do you want to
go back to my apartment where it’s
quieter? It’s only a couple of blocks.”
He didn’t think that it would work. She
didn’t seem like the type of person who
would go back to the apartment of a
person whom she’d randomly met at a
party. For some reason though, she
agreed, Martin hoping it was that she felt
the same way about him, or it could just
be that she wanted closure from the
other man in her life.
If mutual
exploitation was all he could get right
now, Martin still did not feel in a
123
position to object. Cara had never
called.
The walk was long and
suspenseful, as Martin tingled with
anticipation. They walked down the
street, the air sharp, pricking at their
necks.
The city was alive, with
remnants from Times Square spreading
out to engulf Manhattan in chaos.
Streamers hung from buildings, and
people raised their fists to heaven,
screaming on the violent fringe of
insanity into endless midnight. The city
was excising its demons. The purifying
ritual had begun. He looked at Kristen
intently as they walked up the stairs to
his apartment. This was the instant that
it was all about, surrounded by madness,
looking into the unknown recesses of
each other’s eyes—a tantalizing couple
of seconds before life went as it would.
It was pure potential, unmarred by postcoital bliss, regret, complacency, or even
satisfaction.
This was excitement.
Standing with her on that doorstep was
the purest moment they would ever have
together, and it felt amazingly good.
Martin opened the door and led her up
the stairs. It was enough to last a
lifetime.
*
The next morning Kristen and
Martin awoke side by side. Martin
reached over and touched her, eyes
groggy, still encumbered by lingering
sleep. His hand traced the smooth
contours of her skin, and, startled, he
realized that this wasn’t Cara. She felt
different, but her skin was soft against
his body and alluring, and Martin sunk
into the sheets and wrapped them around
his body. The warm sheets held him
softly, and aside from a pounding
headache, he was fine. As he lay on the
bed staring up at the ceiling, the
whiteness seemed to stretch on forever.
Everything was there, it existed, blank,
and looked exactly the same as it had
with Cara. Light shined through the
window, drowning the bed in a
comfortable glow. The night seemed to
have gone on forever, spent in complete
rapture, replaced by a lovely, sundrenched morning. She was amazing.
Over in the comer, a clock
chimed 10:00. Every single beat led him
further and further into the moment.
There was no guilt. Martin felt a quick
pang of sadness as soon as he looked
over at the phone on the bedside. He
picked it up and stared at it, envisioning
the numbers that he had wanted to push
for so long, but then he turned back to
Kristen, looked at her long, flowing hair,
felt the warmth of her body, and was
suddenly convinced that here on this
bed, in this apartment, that one night had
meant just as much to him as the past
year with Cara.
It was strangely
liberating. This morning, nothing was
missing.
Kristen stretched, rolled out of
bed and put on her clothes. She smiled,
kissed Martin on the cheek and headed
for the door, while Martin lay there. He
jumped out of bed to follow her, if
nothing else than to say goodbye. He
assured her that he would call her, but
she shook her head and put her finger
against his lips to keep him silent. There
was no reason to ruin the moment. She
smiled and turned away, melting into the
anonymity from whence she came.
Martin walked over to the
message machine and saw a blinking red
light. He stared at it for a while, but
decided not to push the button. He
really didn’t want to know what was on
the other end. Martin felt light yet
strangely anchored, inhabited by a
124
presence. He no longer felt like he was
living for the future. They had made a
mark on each other. He went to the
window of his apartment and looked out
at the sun reflecting off the glass
buildings under a brilliant blue sky.
Kristen was out there somewhere,
walking the streets, waking up for each
new day, engaging in life, just like
millions of others. Just like Cara. Both
of them stood together, side by side in
his mind.
He thought of them
approaching each other on the street
someday and bumping into one another,
and it made him smile. The city looked
beautiful and dense, vibrating with
energy, eight million stories weaving
together in a wonderful, citywide
tapestry. He pictured the sea of bodies
making their way along the sidewalks,
ants piling over each other, marching
with purpose and pride. The phone hung
in his hand like a weight. Martin
glanced at it and put it down. He put his
clothes on and prepared to head out into
the city. Life resumed as usual. For
now, that was enough.
125
SCOTT PRITCHARD
I am currently a senior at Oberlin College, finishing up my last semester. Initially, I was
planning on being a double major in both English and Politics, as I felt that they
complemented each other, while reflecting my different interests. It seemed to me that
Politics was a more viable major, in terms of exposing myself to a practical and realitybased avenue of learning, that the concepts within this sphere would be applicable to the
work I intend to do in the future, which remains, for now, to attend law school. However,
throughout the years, I found that my passion continued to lie in the world of literature,
while my commitment to political debate waned and that the ideas offered through being
an English major were ultimately more immediate and fulfilling in my intellectual life.
For my personality, literature was a more important avenue of exploration. Still, I had
the opportunity to study abroad in Ireland in a veritable nexus of interest as an English
and Politics major; the conflict between North Ireland and the Republic and the rich
canon of Irish literature made for a wonderful semester. Ultimately, I decided to drop the
Politics major to a minor so I could devote myself more to other pursuits, such as
philosophy, that I denied myself under the rigor of a double major. Although I am still
firmly committed to an interest in law and politics, I feel as though I made the right
decision in deciding to focus more deeply on English throughout my undergraduate
years.
Reflection on Stasis
When the opportunity to write a short story for class presented itself to me in
2002, I remember being very excited, as I had not written much prose on my own,
preferring to casually dabble in fragments of poetry. I knew that I loved to write words,
they came quickly and easily to me, but my biggest obstacle to the project was feeling as
though I did not have a deep enough understanding of the structure and mechanics of plot
that a short story entailed. I just liked to write, and I had a strong tendency to include as
many stylistic flourishes as I could think up. I knew that I wanted a simple foundation
for the characters I had been toying with, one that allowed me to put the interior
monologue and prose at the center of the story. So it started with an idea that I had been
grappling with at the time and extended itself from there.
Basically, I remember thinking a lot about what it means to be an individual and
how personal identity is shaped in an increasingly sterile world. I felt that I was uncentered, that my life was the embodiment of a postmodern lack of meaning. I felt
alienated from my community yet simultaneously defined by the people I surrounded
myself with. I wanted to write about starting over and the importance of happiness
outside of the context of others. I hoped to discover a spiritual locus within man that is
untouchable and irrefutably his own, by exploring the idea that dependence on another
does not have to shape who one is—that man is separate, distinct in his own right. In this
sense the story was an exorcism of demons, a need to break from the belief that living to
appease others shaped an identity. In writing it, I remember distinctly a feeling of
catharsis, trying to write my own insecurities into the character of Martin, while at the
same time knowing that I wanted something more for him—I wanted to write a story that
would affirm his humanity in an untraditional way, an ending in which he did not live
happily ever after with the woman he loved.
126
Reading through it again I do feel as though I was able to present some of these
ideas in a context that did end up amounting to being a real story, not just a series of
ideas. I tried to emphasize Martin’s insecurity in living for others, while at the same time
having him not understand why he was unhappy. I didn’t want the reader to think that he
was unhappy because of a woman—rather, that the cause of his unhappiness was
something much deeper and harder to pin down. That period for me in high school was
significantly geared toward immersing myself in darker, angst-filled literature, a typical
adolescent unidentifiable malaise. I was reading a lot of Kafka, Nietzsche, Sylvia Plath
and other dark writers. Ultimately this story needed to reflect these feelings of alienation
that were heightened by constantly exposing myself to these kinds of thinkers. I think
some of these feelings were given a voice throughout the story, but as I look back on it
now, some of it makes me cringe.
Since sophomore year in college I have all but given up on writing creatively. I
had a serious crisis of confidence, and while I have always been unbelievably selfcritical, I had never had the experience of receiving serious criticism from those around
me—that is, until I started taking creative writing workshops and began to share my
writing with people in this new, more intellectually rigorous environment. I had not even
wanted to participate in this anthology because I had lost all respect for my work and
couldn’t bring myself to look at it again. After showing “Stasis” to some of my peers at
Oberlin I was embarrassed at my lack of understanding of what New York life is really
like because many people who go to this school grew up in The City. They even made
me aware that one of the few streets I knew, Bleeker, was spelled wrong in the story
(much to my embarrassment I instinctively spelled it Bleaker). Some of the writing is
undeniably heavy-handed and awkward.
Despite these problems of overdoing it in places, I do still believe that my major
success was to maintain a consistency of tone in dealing with the intellectual and
emotional issues that I was trying to address. One of my favorite parts, during Martin’s
initial encounter with Kristen, when he believes that he wants to open up the floodgates
and push everything out into her, was probably the defining moment in the story. That he
cannot realize a healthy balance between lightness and heaviness, reflection and
immediacy, is the main thrust skewering his own sense of balance and identity. I then
tried to expand that idea—out of his own personal problems and into the city, where
everyone is struggling with what it means to be happy—ultimately offering the
conclusion that life is no more than a series of memories and moments, but hopefully
enough. The traditional feelings of emptiness that would come with a one-night stand are
not there; it was a moment of peace inhabited with the purity of unabashed hedonism.
I still struggle to write, and it angers me deeply. Looking back at this story, I
remember mainly its importance as an outlet for the frenzy of over-analysis that I put
myself through constantly. I no longer have that outlet because I don’t have confidence
in myself to articulate these ideas in a way that I’m happy with. In some ways, this story
never really ended for me; it is just constantly growing and evolving as I subject myself
to more and more ideas to explain who I am. It was difficult for me to even write this
response, but I’m glad I did. Maybe it will inspire me to try to write again.
127
Teacher Reflection
Verisimilitude in Scott Pritchard’s Stasis
Throughout “Stasis,” Scott Prichard achieves verisimilitude—the sense that what
we are reading is true and real—by capturing Martin’s keen observations of people and
things, through precise details that reflect his unique emotional life.
In the descriptions of his parents, for example, we learn not only about his
parents, but also about Martin. He observes his mother: “Sweeping through the house,
her face gushing with charm, she catered to people with the reassurance and poise of a
time-tested flight attendant in a plane that was spiraling toward the ground.” He observes
his father:
Between sips of scotch he noticed the dim outline of his father, huddled into the
comer like a frightened deer…. The man walked slowly, carefully plotting every
step, limping with the gait of an aged prizefighter. His barrel chest and huge
muscles that Martin remembered as a child had been whisked away on the wings
of old age; in their place, a more delicate, refined frame remained.
While his mother rigorously upholds the traditions of suburban merrymaking, his father
has been beaten down by years of it; what’s more, Martin can hardly bare such parties
himself, let alone witness his father’s sad decline, and so he hides behind his glass of
scotch and loses himself in “distant memories embodied in kitschy knickknacks and tired
platitudes. Plaques hovered everywhere on well-lit walls declaring such things as ‘Home
is where the heart is,’ and Martin studied them with pointed concentration, hoping to find
a truism that could help him get through the night.”
We get to know Martin—his desires and fears—not through technical,
psychological explanations, but through carefully wrought, precise physical
descriptions—not to mention effective metaphors, such as “time-tested flight attendant”
(his mother) and “aged prizefighter” (his father). When he meets Kristen, “He racked his
brain for something witty to say, but instead sat there awkwardly with a toothy, billboard
grin that affected all the sincerity of a used car salesman.” Such precise physical
description not only creates a vivid picture of the scene but captures Martin’s emotional
state; rich with association, the metaphors—“toothy, billboard grin” and “used car
salesman”—instantly conjure the sense of forced sincerity, with no need for further
explanation.
Exercise
Write a paragraph in which you strive for verisimilitude—that is, for precise descriptions
that seem true and real, like life. Try to reflect your character’s perspective—his or her
emotional state—through vivid physical descriptions, as well as through metaphors,
which are interesting comparisons of seemingly unlike things (like Martin’s mother and a
flight attendant) that, nonetheless, seem true.
Las Golondrinas
Pablo Sierra 2002
“La Migra! La Migra!” was the
Coyote’s shout.
They were coming, “they,” the
Americans. Clubs, guns, and dogs. The
Americans. The river, wrathful and
violent, roared below. Stroke, kick,
breathe,
swim.
Stroke…kick…
breathe…swim. Swim, a little slower
though. No! Don’t stop, not now. The
frigid water shocked the lungs, the
river’s rocky bottom piercing the feet.
She felt herself gasping for oxygen,
gasping for life. One last effort was
made to fight the indifferent current.
But no, the indifferent current would not
give, certainly not for one more, just
another immigrant. Unable to reach
land, she looked up, still floating in the
chilling waters, and placed her life at the
mercy of the Virgin of Guadalupe, the
protector of the people of the Americas.
The cruel light of the stars faded.
*
“May-ree-soul, are you still on
the phone? Who was that anyway?”
“No, Misses Johnson. I finish.
Nothing importante.”
*
The leader of a women’s activist
organization, Regina Johnson was a busy
woman, preoccupied with the recent
strides of the pro-choice supporters.
Frequently hosting banquets and other
social events for The Woman’s Right (as
she called her group), Johnson had been
looking for a housemaid, another
housemaid, rather.
Housemaid, she
liked the sound of the word—it
possessed a dignity of some sort. A
quiet,
don’t-speak-unless-spoken-to
dignity, that is. Anyway, her former
trusty housemaid, Chencha, had run off
to Los Angeles with the love of her life,
marrying him in the process.
“Imagine that! More Mexicans
in East L.A.! Perfect, just what the
world needs more of! You know they
just multiply like rats and before you
know
they’re
all
over
the
neighborhood!” were the kind of
comments heard at the La Jolla country
club, where Regina would converse with
her similarly well-bred and well-cultured
friends.
At any rate, the five bathrooms in
her San Diego suburb residence needed
cleaning. The San Diego high society
waited for no one, certainly not for
Chencha’s efforts. A couple of phone
calls to the right “people” was all it took.
It never ceased to amaze Johnson how
easy it was to find an immigrant to do
some sort of manual job. If Johnson
ever needed to hire someone through her
organization, she had to consult with
work agencies, headhunters, and
community programs. But for cheap,
backbreaking labor, the response time
was essentially nonexistent. Regina,
once a psychology major, marveled at
how a bit of immigrant work ethic, a
lack of official documents, and an innate
fear of persecution could force people
into the most underpaid, arduous labor.
In any case, the following day,
Ricardo Sanchez and Marisol Lopez
showed up at the backdoor of the
Johnson residence. Scraped, bruised,
and filthy, they had the appearance of
yet another couple of troubled outsiders
trying to make it in a new land. Johnson
had seen their type, scuttling across the
highway, flannel shirts ripped, small
knapsacks of food on their backs.
“They,” these inhabitants of the Third
129
World, were nothing more than parasitic
leeches, sucking off the hard-earned
money of the American people. Still,
when Johnson addressed Marisol, she’d
answered politely with a gentle, “Si,
Senora, I need work. Ricardo, too.”
Johnson hired her on the spot; she’d
make a good housemaid, the subservient
type. As for Ricardo, he didn’t matter
much. He could prune the bushes and
gather the grass clippings that no one
else would bother to clean up. Regina
didn’t really care either way; it wasn’t
like hiring Ricardo would exactly hurt
her pocketbook.
*
“Marisol, this is Don Ramon.
Hello, Marisol?”
“Si, si, Don Ramon. I'm here.”
A pale Marisol clutched the
phone, her brown hands gripping the
cord as if there were no tomorrow. She
hadn’t heard from Don Ramon in a long,
long time.
“Marisol, I'm afraid there’s
something you need to know.”
*
Home. Rio Azul. The scents
and the sounds of the land tantalized her.
She reminisced of how, in her teenage
years, the sensual rhythms of the salsa
sounds would penetrate her body, filling
her with life and movement.
She
remembered the smell of deep-fried
churros covered with what seemed like
endless coats of sugar. She remembered
the taste of coconut milk, sweet like an
infant’s touch. She remembered the
hearty
crunch
of
the
greasy
chicharrones, and the salty aftertaste that
they left in her mouth.
She’d been a masterful chef
once, creating exquisite dishes with what
little she could afford to buy at the
market. Mama Elena would prepare the
orchata drink, Emanuelito helping his
mami flatten the maize tortillas. Those
were the best memories she had of
home.
Occasionally, Marisol told
herself that she was just romanticizing;
life had never really been that good.
Years came and went, and whenever the
homesickness just got to be too much,
Marisol would submerge herself into the
story of her past and live out her life in
memories.
There was one moment she
particularly cherished. It served Marisol
as her bastion of freedom, her last line of
defense in a war against forgetting her
roots. Her favorite image was that of her
last Christmas at home. All packed up
and ready to go, Marisol had sat down
with the family one last time before her
voyage. At the Christmas table, the
three of them, Marisol, Mama Elena, and
Emanuelito were having dinner.
Emanuelito, Marisol’s child, kept trying
to swat a nagging fly with his bib, giving
little cries of excitement every time he
came close to doing so. All of a sudden,
a little golondrina, a tree swallow, flew
in through the window, filling the house
with its lovely song.
The little
golondrina sang an entrancing tune,
sending Marisol off with an angelic
goodbye.
*
The golondrina is the Latin
American pilgrim. She flies from land
to land, looking for the perfect place to
build her nest and raise her family.
Since she’s very rarely successful, her
song is often mournful and sad. In what
seems to be a timeless tradition, the
130
mariachi sing the song Las Golondrinas
whenever a good friend or relative
leaves his native land for another
country. It’s a very sad song, one of a
sorrowful farewell.
A donde ira? Veloz y fatigada,
la golondrina, que de aqui se va,
o si en el viento se hallara extraviada,
buscando abrigo y no lo encontrara.
*
She had just finished mopping
the bathroom floor. The party the night
before had left the house in a state of
complete disarray. Johnson’s friends
would be coming over soon for their
usual Thursday games of croquet and
backgammon. Unpolished bathrooms
simply would not do. Marisol sat down
on the floor, taking a break from her
monotonous duties. She didn’t mind
cleaning the bathroom, especially the
master bathroom. It had a view of the
bay, and a warm breeze always managed
to slip in through the huge glass panes
that made the window. Tired after a
long day of work, she stared at her black
Air Force Nikes. A sinister grin crept
onto her face. She had more money now
than she would have ever dreamt of
having in her native Rio Azul. Snapping
back into reality, she got on her knees
and started scrubbing the toilet. Then
Ricardo rushed in. His typical confident
stance was replaced by something she’d
never seen before. The self-assured
poise, the trusting smile, were gone. His
hands fidgeted, unnervingly. “Marisol,
telefono.”
*
Two years ago, Ricardo’s
calloused hands had pulled Marisol out
of the river. She was dehydrated, on the
verge of hypothermia. The desert sun
had scorched her skin, while the desert
night
had
chilled
her
into
unconsciousness. Ricardo had seen her
only once before. She was the girl that
Where
made
will
theit deal
go? with
Swiftthe
yetsame
tired Coyote that
the swallow
he’d paidthat
off.parts
Sheaway
was from
prettyhere
at twenty,
or iflooking
in the wind
for ashe’ll
job infind
the herself
States to
lost,
provide
looking
for the
for shelter
family that
at home.
she willHe
never
overheard
find.
her telling another woman of a sick son,
whose medical bills she couldn’t pay.
Hers was a common story along the
border. Ricardo himself was trying to
escape the corruption and violence of his
native land. He had family in the States
to help him get started.
Ricardo
remembered thinking that Marisol
seemed like a nice girl, and that he’d try
to get to know her better once they got
across.
When he saw her body being
dragged down the river, he ran back
along the shore. Lifting her from the
water, he noticed how her once
beautiful, lively lips were now an ashen
blue. He carried her for miles. The
Coyote, having received his fee for
getting them across the border, had
abandoned them the past night. Ricardo
knew their type, the Coyotes, that is.
They were the Charons of the modern
world, leading the soon-to-be-dead into
the Hades of California, a land obeying
the law of the survival-of-the-fittest. A
weak mind or body would never prevail
the lifestyle. And yet, when Ricardo
saw Marisol’s motionless body floating
down the Rio Grande, he knew he had to
save her. It’s a good thing he did, for,
unbeknownst to him, Marisol was
leaving not only life, but also a desperate
family with no hope, an innocent child
without a mother, and a village with
another reason to mourn.
131
It was Ricardo that had taken
Marisol, still unconscious, to his
cousin’s house outside San Diego. He
took care of her for days, until she came
back to her senses. Later on, when he
went out to look for work, he took her
with him. Those were trying times for
both of them. They both found work in
the fields, picking oranges and
strawberries from dawn till dusk. Some
mornings Marisol couldn’t make it out
of bed, such was the physical strain on
her body. Ricardo would then work the
weekends, in order to have bread on the
table for two. Marisol would never find
out, but her dependence on Ricardo was
reciprocal. He lived for her, and when
he came home from the fields, it was to
her embrace that he struggled home
every night.
But life in the field was too
strenuous,
twenty-first
century
enslavement at best. When word got out
that a rich lady was looking for a
housemaid, Marisol took it upon herself
to take herself. And Ricardo. Marisol
figured that whoever this woman was,
she could use a handyman around the
house, too. She was right. Mrs. Regina
Johnson hired them both, Ricardo as a
gardener, Marisol as a maid. Since
Marisol would be living at the Johnsons’
with Ricardo coming in every other day,
they’d still see each other, but not as
much as before.
It didn’t matter.
Together, they’d started a new life in a
new country. But as far as Marisol
knew, Ricardo had always been the
leader, the voice of reason and security
in her treacherous existence. He’d saved
her from the heat of the desert, from the
clubs and dogs of the Migra, and from
the exasperating apathy of the
Immigration
and
Naturalization
Services. He’d never steered her wrong.
Yet on the fateful afternoon, when
Marisol looked up and saw worry in
Ricardo’s eyes, she feared the worst.
Ay Virgencita, this is bad.
Please don’t let this be the INS. I just
want to get ahead in life, I just a want a
chance to live. I just want to work so
that Emanuelito can go see the doctor.
Ay, Dios mio, take pity of me. Marisol
prayed and prayed as she walked up the
hard marble steps to the phone.
“Mayreesoul! There’s a call for
you, hurry, come get it!” was Johnson’s
screech.
Marisol didn’t even hear it. She
was somewhere else, gone.
*
“Marisol, are you there?”
“Si, Don Ramon, si.”
“Marisol, I hate to be the one to
bring you these news. Last night an
earthquake hit Rio Azul. The house
started
swaying,
beams
fell.
Emanuelito’s
dead,
Marisol.
Emanuelito, he, he didn’t make it. I’m
so sorry. I don’t know what to say,
except that you should come back.
Marisol, your departure was a temporary
thing.
Remember?
Come home.
Regresa, Marisol.
Acaso nos has
olvidado?
Have you forgotten Rio
Azul?
She put the phone back on its
base without responding. Emanuelito,
her reason for living, was dead. Marisol
raised her gaze and saw the support of
Ricardo’s eyes. He didn’t know what
Don Ramon had said, and yet his eyes
were warm and supportive, not like
those of the boy who had impregnated
her. That, that had been a mistake. But
Emanuelito wasn’t; he had been
someone, a person, made of real flesh
and blood, not vague memories. He had
needed his mother, and she hadn’t been
132
there for him. Instead, she had been
here, buying sneakers, scrubbing toilets
on her knees.
As Marisol put the phone back
on the base, Johnson walked past,
catching Marisol’s eyes. For the first
time, Johnson felt uneasy before her
maid. There was a flash of disgust, of
repulsion, of loathing in the eyes of her
servant. Years or repressed anger, pain,
and hurt emerged in one instant,
unnerving Johnson. Marisol had said it
was nothing important. Marisol had
lied.
to happen we’ll all have to make
sacrifices. All right? So, as I said,
Thursday’s your off day. You should be
grateful for that. Grateful, Marisol,
comprainday?”
Si, comprendo. I understand I’ve
lost my culture, my family, my religion.
In gaining wealth I could’ve never had
at home, I’ve lost my son. What for?
What good was it?
Forgive me,
Emanuelito,
perdoname,
porfavor.
Forgive me, Virgencita, I’ve lost the
faith that saved me from death in the
river.
*
*
The only other time that Johnson
ever recalled Marisol making her feel
uncomfortable took place right after
hiring her. As Johnson showed Marisol
around the mansion, explaining what she
could and couldn’t touch, would and
wouldn’t clean, she informed Marisol of
the policy for the maids’ day off.
“Naturally, you’ll be living here
with the other maid, in her quarters.
You should be able to accommodate
yourself just fine, though. You’ll be
paid fifty dollars every two weeks,
mucho dinero, right? Ha ha. And of
course you’ll have every other Tuesday
off. Okay?”
Marisol didn’t answer with her
obedient “Si, Misses Johnson” after that
inquiry.
“Is there a problem, Marisol?”
“No, Misses Johnson.
But,
Sunday…can I go to the iglesia?”
“Now, listen here, Mayreesoul.
You’re a very polite, young girl living in
a very cold, mean world. There are very
mean people after you. Remember the
Immigration folks? They don’t want
you here, but I do, Mayreesoul. I really
do. I want to help you out, but for that
Weeks passed. Marisol never
told anyone of Emanuelito’s death. At
night, she cried desperate, rabid tears
into her miniscule cot. Pain, she’d never
felt this pain before. It wasn’t like the
childhood lashes from her abusive
father, or like the demoralizing insults
from the other maid. No, this was much
worse. She felt a piece of herself dying,
being absorbed by the material of the
stained, filthy mattress.
When Ricardo heard Johnson’s
scream, he ran up the stairs, finding his
employer at the door of the master
bedroom.
She was pale, hands
trembling.
Unable to express her
emotions, she had to be carried out. She
kept saying, “Mayreesoul, Mayreesoul,”
pointing to the bathtub. He saw her out
of the corner of his eye.
As he stepped into the bathroom
and closed the door, Ricardo noticed that
the window was open, a draft breezing
through the curtains. He found her
floating, as he once had. The river was
red this time, but placid and calm. He
saw her beautiful strands of black hair
drifting harmoniously on the surface of
the tainted water. In her ebony eyes, he
133
saw the reflection of the Rio Azul sun,
radiant and true. As he caressed her
lifeless face, he felt the humid breeze of
the tropics on his skin. Suspended in
this
surreal
apparition,
Marisol
resembled a Mayan princess, peacefully
dreaming through an eternal sleep.
Picking up the razor from the floor, he
remembered all the nights of passion, of
pleasure and tenderness he’d spend with
her in this house. He remembered how
they’d made love in the master bedroom,
when the Johnsons had left on vacation.
Looking out the window, he saw Mama
Elena, Emanuelito, and Marisol at the
Christmas table inviting him to join
them. He grimaced, the veins of his
arms bidding the razor to sweetly slice.
A certain lightheadedness came over
him at first, only to be followed by an
absolute peace and tranquility. Soon,
he’d be with them, sitting at a vast table,
eating Marisol’s exquisite churros and
chicharrones. Soon, they’d all sit at this
table, saying grace, thanking the Virgin
for the gift of life. Yes, soon, soon, but
not now. There was still life in his life, a
little brother in Mexico. A life away
from home who needed him, and he
needed it. As he walked out the door, a
little golondrina came to the windowsill,
her bittersweet song filling his soul.
A donde ira? Veloz y fatigada,
Where will it go? swift yet tired
la golondrina, que de aqui se va,
The swallow that parts away from here
o si en el viento se hallara extraviada,
Or if in the wind she’ll find herself lost
buscando abrigo y no lo encontrara.
Looking for shelter that she will never
find.
Ave querida, amada peregrina,
Dearest bird, beloved pilgrim,
Mi corazon al tuyo acercare,
My heart to yours, I will bring close,
Oire tu canto tierna golondrina,
I’ll hear your song, sweet swallow,
Recordare mi patria y llorare,
I will remember my fatherland and I will
cry,
Recordare mi patria y llorare.
I will remember my fatherland and I will
cry.
—Las Golondrinas, Latin American
farewell song
134
PABLO SIERRA
I wrote “Las Golondrinas” in 2002, during the spring semester of my senior year.
Nowadays, I am finishing my studies in World History and Latin American Studies at the
University of Pennsylvania. Next fall (2006) I will be attending UCLA to commence the
Ph.D. track in Latin American History.
Reflection on Las Golondrinas
A well-known farewell song in Mexican culture, “Las Golondrinas” recounts the
sadness of departing, of leaving one’s family for an uncertain future in a foreign land.
When I initially wrote the story I intended it to capture the struggle of adapting to life
away from home from the perspective of a poor Latin American woman. This involved
not only expressing the nostalgia found in every immigrant story, but also in exposing the
peril that immigrants crossing the Rio Grande face on a day-to-day basis. Writing the
story forced me to realize how privileged a life I’d led as a Mexican in the United States,
especially when compared to my compatriots’ struggles throughout the nation.
Rereading the story four years later, I couldn’t help chuckling and grimacing at
the text before me. I feel particularly bad about Mrs. Johnson, intended to caricature
upper-class white society, although not in the flat, racist tone that I now find in her
character. With the exception of Marisol, I find the characters in the story rather onedimensional, more façades than characters.
I feel that the story’s lack of character development is compensated by the
complex, unorthodox structuring of the narrative. A telephone conversation, the
protagonist’s memories, and the lyrics to “Las Golondrinas” intentionally disrupt the
narrative’s flow. Marisol’s conversation with Don Ramon could make sense only if it
paralleled the former’s life story in American society. An initial preoccupation with the
“migra” and the INS is followed by a period of adjustment and homesickness, finally
leading up to the news of the baby’s death, which of course foreshadows the
protagonist’s own failure and demise. In retrospect, I do not remember plotting out such
a complex succession of events or severing the phone call to fit such a pattern. On the
contrary, “Las Golondrinas” seemed to weave itself. Whenever I felt I’d exhausted the
possible solutions to a scene, I simply moved on to the next incomplete memory,
conversation, or song lyric.
Although there are a number of changes I’d make to the story, I would not change
that first scene on the Rio Grande. I remember taking a particularly long time writing
that first paragraph, trying to capture the desperation and sheer physicality of the
crossing. Short sentences, short breaths and an almost instinctual thought process gave
way to the passage. In essence, I wanted to create a scene that would defy the pejorative
connation of being a “wetback” by revealing the courage necessary to confront such
adversity. Ultimately, I wrote the story for my American friends, teachers, and fellow
students, with hopes that they might understand the humanity of a struggle that cannot be
contained by rivers, militarized borders, or economic exploitation.
135
Teacher Reflection
The Magical Structure in Pablo Sierra’s Las Golondrinas
Whether Pablo Sierra realized it or not as a senior in high school, he wrote a story
in the tradition of “Magical Realism,” which is, perhaps not coincidentally, a product of
his own Latino culture, made famous in the modern era by Gabriel Garcia Marquez,
whose fiction is deeply rooted in both history and lore, both grounded in realistic detail
and elevated by glimpses of the supernatural. Pablo’s story transforms as it progresses,
beginning in the gritty setting of the dangerous Rio Grande and ending up in a place that
only the lyrics of a poem, or a song, can begin to describe. The story’s structure—
“complex, unorthodox,” as Pablo himself describes it—is integral in achieving this
lovely, mystical effect. The structure is constantly shifting—in time, place, point of
view, tone—not so much, however, that we become disoriented or confused; rather, there
is a natural flow from one section to the next, as a relay team hands off the baton from
one runner to the next.
Remember the film critic Roger Ebert’s quotation from the Introduction: “A
movie is not what it’s about. It’s about how it’s about it.” The same is true in fiction.
You may feel your story idea is unoriginal—just another love story or just another
murder mystery—but it’s how you tell the story that will distinguish it, that will make it
yours, something nobody else could possibly have written. No “summary” could do
Pablo’s story justice: “It’s about a Mexican immigrant woman who swims to America,
gets a job as a maid, and then her son dies—and there’s this song…” You have to read
the story to appreciate it—it’s how it’s told that makes the story.
Exercise
When you’ve got a draft of a story—or when you’ve got an outline for one—reconsider
the structure. Are you telling the story chronologically? Is there a different arrangement
of the content that might serve your story better? Is every scene necessary? Or might the
story benefit from some major “reduction”? You need not “fill in all the blanks,” any
more than you need to tell the story in the order of the events as they occurred. For the
sake of the exercise—even if you end up preferring the original form—try rearranging
the story’s content in a way that might yield some interesting result (flip-flopping the last
two scenes, for example); also, try eliminating some portion, or portions, the absence of
which might yield some interesting effect. You’re not trying to create some cheaply
earned sense of mystery, certainly not by eliminating crucial information; rather, you’re
trying to stimulate the reader’s imagination, recognizing the magical power of
suggestion, putting some faith into the old adage that sometimes “less is more.”
Smoke and Mist
Andrew Choe 2003
Rain was falling.
It was
November rain, a cold, wet rain that
could have been pure white snow. The
big, fat droplets fell and burst into
oblivion on the black pavement of the
airport. The mist created a cold, gray
halo around the buildings. Scott had
always hated this kind of weather. The
cold rains of fall. They were completely
different from the warm showers of
summer. Sometimes it rained for weeks,
and then came the devastating lateseason hurricanes.
As he stared out his window on
the 747, he wondered if it was an omen
of some kind, this weather. It could be a
warning to stay away.
Well, the
gloominess fit the occasion just right.
His flight had arrived an hour late
because of the weather conditions.
Switching discs from David Bowie to
Yes, he prepared to get off the plane by
gathering his stuff. He had sat listening
to his mini-disc player the entire
fourteen-hour flight across the Pacific
Ocean and the continental United States.
His seatmate, a Buddhist monk, had
been silent the entire trip also. Aside
from his prayers and periods of
meditation, the orange-robed man had
slept for most of the trip. With his only
bag slung over his shoulder, Scott
walked up the aisle and out of the plane.
As he moved through baggage claim and
customs, he looked through the windows
and saw the dark gray sky. The rain
enveloped the world in a morbid blanket
of mist. He wondered if Paul had come
safely.
As if he had been summoned,
Paul’s head popped up above the crowd
of people at the end of the gate. He was
waving, and a smile split his face.
“Scott! Over here!” Paul shouted,
waving his arms more frantically. Paul
ran up and bear-hugged Scott hard
enough to crack his back.
“God, Paul, let me go already!”
Scott hissed into his brother’s ear.
“Oh, sorry,” said Paul as he
released him. He smiled sheepishly and
stuck his hands into his pants in
embarrassment, a childhood habit yet to
be broken.
Paul had changed. His hair was
now a series of raked-back spikes, and
he had grown taller, much taller. He
towered over Scott’s own five feet ten
inches by at least a hand-span. His smile
was wide and cheery, yet his dark
sunken eyes revealed that he had been
sleeping very little and that his soul was
burdened.
They weaved their way together
through the masses and finally made it
outside.
The rain had lessened
somewhat to droplets of water falling
from the heavens. Finally, he could
have a smoke. As he lit one, Paul’s
eyebrows went up, looking askance.
“I’ve been waiting the entire trip.
Don’t say anything.”
Paul just turned around and led
him to his car, a red coupe, at the bottom
floor of the multi-storied packing garage.
Before getting into the car, Scott
dropped the stub and ground it into the
pavement as his little brother turned the
ignition. Paul moved deftly through the
traffic until they had gotten out of the
airport and onto the freeway, where his
hands turned jittery on the wheel. Scott
couldn’t bear to see the kid so pained.
“So, how’s college life?” he
asked.
Paul’s eyes lit up as he began to
regale Scott with tales of youth and
innocence. Scott dozed off in the middle
of a story in which Paul and his friends
137
had been chucking pizza from the top of
their dorm. “It was so hilarious! People
would walk by and be splattered by the
stuff! The dean was so…”
*
It was his reentrance into the
U.S. for the first time in three years. He
consulted for a biotech company based
in North Carolina. It was for the eastern
branch of the company that he worked
the most, and so he had been living in
Kyoto, Japan.
However, he had not left with the
blessings of all. On the contrary, when
he left the country, it was made clear by
his parents that he was severing all his
ties. But he left anyway.
He remembered the fiery and
teary parting of the first-born with the
parents.
They had called it
abandonment, rejection, and stupidity.
He had called it freedom, liberty, and
individuality. They had tried every
tactic to keep him from going: guilt,
anger, rejection, and even money. His
mother, whose heart had broken every
summer when she sent him to camp,
could not bear to let him go thousands of
miles across the world. She had stood
weeping at the end of the gate while he
passed through and out onto the plane.
He remembered thinking that his mother
would probably go home and cry for
days.
His father was different. His
father had stood stoically behind his
mother without any emotion visible
upon his face. But Scott had known
then, and knew even better now, that his
father’s eyes had been full of rage, grief,
and pain. He had not forgiven Scott, and
Scott had expected he never would.
So when Scott stood with his
bags and said farewell, it was the last
thing he ever said to his father.
Two days ago, Monday, he had
woken up to the sound of the telephone
ringing at four in the morning. He had
ignored it for quite a while, until he
couldn’t take it any longer. He had
jerked up from his sheets and snatched
up the phone. The voice at the other end
made his anger dissipate with a few key
words. His father had passed away.
Lung cancer.
Forty years of hard
smoking had done him in. His father
had not lingered. He died one month
after he had been diagnosed.
Scott had immediately booked
his tickets and packed his things. He
had left only a sketchy voicemail for his
boss before he boarded the plane. He
had said only that he would be back in a
few days.
The funeral was Friday.
*
They pulled into the driveway in
the late afternoon, finally home. The
rain had stopped completely, and the sky
was beginning to clear up. As they
drove up to the house, Scott commented
on how much had changed. Paul pointed
out the new paint job, the new roof, the
various new trees, and the addition to the
house.
As they stepped out of the car,
Scott took one last pull from his
cigarette and ground the stub into the
concrete. Leaving Paul to take his bag,
he slowly walked up to the front door.
He opened the door and stepped in,
leaving the door open behind him. He
took off his shoes and walked towards
the kitchen. He saw the back of his
mom, as she stood bent over the counter,
making something.
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“Mom, I’m home,” he said
quietly, standing in the foyer. She
slowly turned around to face him. She
moved as if every bone in her body were
made of glass. She had aged. He saw
more folds and wrinkles. When he had
left, her hair had been jet-black. Her
hair was now mostly gray, streaked with
white. He realized now that she had
been using dye for years. She had
stopped bothering.
However, most
changed were her eyes. They had
sunken into deep craters, and their luster
had faded from them. He remembered
being scolded by her many times during
his childhood. Her eyes had been fierce
then. Their blackness had contained a
fire and shine that they now lacked.
“I’m back, Mom,” he said as he
came up and hugged her. She had been
making dinner, vegetable dumplings.
“Smells good.” He popped one into his
mouth. As he chewed the lump of
homemade food, he felt at home. He felt
her tears seeping through his shirt. “It’s
all right now, Mom. I’m here now.”
*
He woke to the sound of rain
falling on the roof. It was a quiet steady
kind of sound that could have lulled him
back to sleep. However, he noticed that
the rain was the only thing making a
sound in the house.
The house was devoid of all life.
His mother and his brother had left to do
their own business. Flipping the covers
off and climbing down the stairs, he
found a note saying that both of them
were out and would be back sometime
during the afternoon. His mother had
gone to church. Paul told him last night
that their mother actually went to church
every day now. He had said that she
sometimes went twice a day.
While trying to blink the
blurriness from his eyes, Scott opened
the fridge and poured himself a glass of
orange juice. As he sipped, he gave
himself a grand tour of the house. After
his long talk with his mother during the
night, Scott had collapsed into bed, so he
had not had a chance to look around. He
had slept in the guest room because his
old room had been renovated into a
second-floor sunroom.
As he gazed at the walls of the
house, he noticed that there were many
new pictures hanging.
They were
pictures of his father and mother at
various locations. Many were pictures
of them in the gazebo.
Their gazebo. His parents had
spent two years working up to that
gazebo. First, the brush in the back yard
had to be cleared. Then, the various
trees and saplings had to be cut down
and uprooted. Next, the grass was
planted and nurtured until it was well
rooted. Building the gazebo came next.
The hexagonal wooden structure was the
pinnacle of their co-endeavor.
It
spanned eighteen feet across and was ten
feet high. Elegant tracery made up the
panels, and the cedar wood was shined
to a gleam. It could fit up to ten people,
but in the pictures, the two of them
seemed to fit the gazebo perfectly. As
he picked one up to examine it closely,
he saw both of their smiling faces,
grinning intently at the camera.
However, as he looked around
once more, he realized that those
pictures had taken the place of others, of
pictures of him. No faces of Scott were
visible on the ivory walls of the house.
Scott only shook his head and walked
outside.
The wind was not blowing hard
enough for the rain to make it onto the
inner deck yet, so he sat on a chair and
139
looked out into the woods behind the
house. Most of it had been cut back by
his father and was held back by the
picket fence.
Although it was
November, the grass was green, and it
seemed as if the yard, especially the
gazebo, were an oasis in a dark
wilderness. As raindrops pattered on its
tiered roof, the gazebo was a sanctuary
from the rain.
Scott tapped a cigarette from the
pack and lit it. Just the smell of it
comforted him. The smoke made his
eyes water and his throat sting. Yet the
smell had comforted Scott ever since he
was a child. It was the smell of his dad.
Marlboros.
The pack of Marlboros had
always been in his jacket pocket. He’d
send Scott or Paul to get them, while he
sat in front of the TV or went for a walk.
He was never without the cigarettes,
especially while driving.
When he
started the car, he needed one. When he
got out of the car, he needed one. No
matter what the weather or the situation
was, he had to have a smoke. Be there
rain, snow, or tornado winds, his father
would always need his smoke before
going inside a building.
Scott remembered a time his
father stood, smoking, outside the
entrance of the church during a torrential
downpour. While other parishioners
came through the door with umbrellas,
his father had stood in the rain,
sheltering the cigarette with his own
body.
Scott had started smoking over
ten years ago. Now he found that he
could not stop, and lately he was going
through several packs a week. Actually,
it was more like half a carton. He didn’t
try to fight it anymore. The patches
hadn’t worked. Neither had the gum.
Nor had the simpleminded tricks that
people suggested. Yet he knew it wasn’t
due to a defect in the products or a lack
of brainpower. It was his lack of drive,
his lack of willpower.
Starting had been easy. His own
father had started at the age of fourteen.
Though admittedly it had been a
different time period when his father was
a teenager—not to mention it was
another country, Korea—Scott started
smoking with the neighborhood kids
around tenth grade. It was illegal to buy
them, of course. So he’d get an older
kid to buy them for him, or, in extreme
instances, he’d steal them from his
father. His father never noticed; there
were cartons all over the house.
Eventually his father found out.
To say the least, he was upset. Not upset
that he was smoking, but that his own
son would hide the habit from him.
Scott had been out the entire
night and had come home late. He came
in through the back door and, making
sure to skip the third and sixth steps,
snuck up the stairs. He dropped into his
bed as soon as he walked into his room
and pried his shoes off. He didn’t bother
to change his clothes, as he usually did.
So the smell of smoke radiated off his
body, but, more important, the pack of
cigarettes was still in his pocket.
The next morning, he woke up to
the sunlight straining through the blinds
on his window. Stretching and yawning,
he staggered down the stairs to find his
father already up and about.
“Morning,” he said through a
half-yawn.
“Good morning. Sleep well?”
His dad poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Eh, only so-so.” Scott poured
himself a glass of orange juice.
“Didn’t bother to change, eh?”
“Oh…I guess I didn’t. I was
pretty tired when I came in.”
140
Between gulps of O.J. Scott
checked for the pack and the lighter in
his pocket. They weren’t there. The
cold, acidic taste of the O.J. was now
bitter and unwelcome.
“Looking for these?” His father
pulled the pack and the lighter from his
own pocket. “I found them on the floor
of your room this morning. No need to
trouble yourself by making up lies.” He
put them down on the counter behind
him. “How many a week, son? How
many packs?”
“One. Maybe two sometimes.”
The O.J. had spilled over the top and
was dripping onto his foot.
“I won’t say anything else. I just
don’t want to see anything of the sort
again. I don’t need you making the
same mistakes that I’ve made. You
know how I can’t quit. So I don’t want
to know you’re doing anything of the
sort.
Understand?”
The O.J. was
soaking into his socks.
“Do you
understand? Answer me!”
“Yeah, I got it.” What a mess to
clean up.
Taking the pack and the lighter,
his father brushed past him and went up
the stairs.
*
After making a sandwich for
himself during lunch, Scott called
around to see if any of his old friends
were around. He got in touch with Nick
and Clara. They told him they’d pick
him up later that night.
He hadn’t talked to them for
years now, but they acted as though
nothing had changed. Maybe nothing
had.
The rain had let up a bit when
they came at about six o’clock in Nick’s
car. They pulled up the long driveway
as they always used to. Late-night jaunts
used to take them everywhere.
“Hey, kid. It’s been a while.”
Nick came up the front steps.
“Too long, man, too long. I’ve
missed you, old man.” Scott ushered the
two of them inside.
Nick and Scott shook hands at
first, but then hugged, and all the
awkward
years
between
them
disappeared. Nick had been his best
friend since grade school, preschool
even. He had lived just down the street
until Scott’s family moved to another
neighborhood.
They had been like
brothers. Either was always welcome in
the other’s house.
Nick smiled once more and
stepped aside for Clara.
She demurely stepped up and
gave Scott a shy smile. “Hey, you…”
At one point, Clara had been his
“one-and-only.” Somewhere along the
line, however, he didn’t feel satisfied
being with her. At that time, she had
seemed too plain, too reserved. She
never seemed to care and appeared
withdrawn—one point his mother had
always nagged him about. She had not
been an outgoing person. Anyway, it
had been over.
However, at this moment, it
seemed to start all over again within
Scott.
Clara refused to make eye
contact, and Scott immediately knew
something was up. Maybe they could
start over.
He awkwardly stuck out his hand
and looked into her eyes. Smiling, she
stepped up and gave him a hug.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she
whispered into his ear. “I’ve missed
you.”
Her “I’ve” might have been a
“We’ve,” and it froze Scott for a
moment.
141
“So where we going?” Scott
picked up his coat and looked for his
shoes.
“Well, just into town. The rest of
the crew is going to meet us at the bar.”
On the drive over, the three of
them discussed what was going on in
their respective lives. Nick worked at
his dad’s firm now, and Clara did
freelance artwork and some publishing.
When Scott asked about the rest of their
friends, he was surprised to hear that
some of them were married.
All the old couples that had made
up their group had gotten married.
Strange. Frank, now an architect, had
married Diane and fathered a son
already.
The three of them walked into
the bar to find that their friends had
taken a table and saved seats for them.
Nick, Clara, Frank, Diane, Steve,
Les, Pete, and Kristen.
They all
welcomed him with a loud shout and
many handshakes and hugs. Someone
handed him a beer, which he took and
downed.
Stories were told, and
everyone wanted to know what Scott did
these days, all the way across the world.
While he was nursing his fourth
beer, he felt warmth in his chest. He had
truly missed his friends. The runny
stories and jokes that Pete told had not
gotten old through the years, and Steve
was still as goofy as he had ever been.
Clara was as charming as ever. As the
festivities grew merrier, the drinks were
consumed faster, and not long after the
twelfth round of drinks, the guys had
begun to sing.
When the entire group was
politely asked to leave, they all made a
grand exit in style with much singing
and spilling of drinks. The singing was
taken into the streets, and until a local
cop asked them to disperse, they
rambled along the main street of the
town. Afterwards, they all split up and
went home, except for Nick, Clara, and
Scott, who remained.
As Nick and Scott walked and
sang arm-over-shoulders, Clara shook
her head, following.
“Man, Scott, you still are an
insane man,” Nick said. “You drink
alcohol as if it’s water, but in the end,
you’re more drunk than anyone else!”
He laughed and slapped Scott on the
back. “We have to get you home. Your
mother would be disappointed in me if
you came home late, you know?”
“Aw, come on! Just one song,
eh? Then a drink. One more for the
night, eh?” Scott staggered beside Nick.
“Clara, don’t you want a drink too?”
“Scott, I think you should go
home. Your mother is going to be
worried.”
“Ahhh, don’t worry about it. It’ll
just be ten minutes. For old time’s sake.
Just the three of us.”
“Scott, we’re serious here. You
have to go home.” Nick grabbed Scott’s
shoulder.
“You go home, man. Clara and I
still want to be out.” Scott shook the
hand off.
“It’s my car, remember, Scott?
Anyway, I have to take Clara home.”
“Don’t worry about it, man. Just
go on.”
He started to walk off down the
street, but Nick turned him around by the
shoulder to face him.
“Scott…Clara and I are living
together. We’re engaged.”
“Oh, well, then…I understand.
I’ll just go by myself. Go on then.”
Clara refused to make eye
contact and hung her head in a slightly
apologetic manner.
142
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you
before, Scott. I didn’t know how you’d
react.”
“Don’t worry about it, kid. Go
on.” He staggered down the street.
“Promise me you’ll go home,
Scott,” shouted Nick.
“Scott, don’t wander around.
And don’t drink anymore,” shouted
Clara.
“All right, all right. I’ll go home.
Don’t worry about it. You two just go
on.”
It was twelve o’clock.
*
It was raining again.
Scott
arrived home in a taxi at about four A.M.
He fell out of the cab, at which point the
cab driver picked him up and took him
to the front door. The driver rang the
doorbell and left. Scott was dead weight
in Paul’s arms as he was dragged inside.
He reeked of alcohol and cigarettes and
was soaked to the skin. Paul dragged
him up the stairs and into the guest
room, where he struggled forever to lift
him onto the bed. In the meantime, their
mother woke up, saw Scott, and went
back to bed.
All this information came later
from his brother. Scott actually had no
recollection of the night after he
separated from his friends. Of course,
he assumed he’d gone drinking
somewhere.
That was a safe
assumption.
*
The memorial service was at
noon and the burial ceremony was at two
on that rainy, dreary day. His plane left
at six. When he woke up to a blinding
hangover and what looked like bar-fight
bruises, Scott gathered his belongings in
his bag and put on his suit. He didn’t
have to make any arrangements for the
service.
Paul had taken care of
everything. Still, Scott was expected to
speak at the funeral.
What was he to say?
The limo pulled up to the house
at ten o’clock and took them to the
church. It was his father’s beloved
church, where he had volunteered
countless hours of his life. He had
organized social activities, fundraising
events, and even the weekly masses.
Scott had always thought that such
commitment to the church was strange
coming from a man who had admitted to
being a skeptic.
Its high-vaulted ceilings and
burnished brass light fixtures caught the
eye as soon as one walked into the nave.
They made Scott suddenly nauseous and
dizzy. The hangover must not have
worn away. It was his first entrance into
a church in more than three years.
Maybe the nausea was a reprimand from
God. A divine reprimand. Not as good
as a divine mandate, he supposed, but
good enough.
His mother had ignored him the
entire car ride and continued to do so in
the church. She went about her business
of making sure everything was in place
before sitting on the other side of Paul.
She went directly to her knees and
started praying. What was there to pray
about?
For some reason that had not
been mentioned to him—the casket with
the body was not borne into the church.
It already stood in front of the altar.
Strange. The man did have two fullgrown sons and many friends to entrust
his body to.
As the service progressed,
various people stepped up to say a short
143
eulogy for him. First the reverend spoke
of how his father had been a servant of
God, who had committed so much to the
church. Then came an employee of his
who talked of how Scott’s father had
taken care of him during bad times.
Next were various family friends who
spoke of his father’s sense of humor and
his steadfastness.
Then it was Paul. His brother
spoke of their father’s patience,
diligence, and bulldog stubbornness.
Various outdoor projects and family
anecdotes were used to release some
tension in the crowd.
“…So he spent day after day
trying to pull this one root out. He had
cut the tree down and pulled up the
stump, but this root refused to move. So
in end, he took out the flamethrower and
torched the ground all around it. To say
the least, we were surprised…” He had
paused to wipe tears from his eyes.
Nice touch.
Scott’s stomach
rumbled ominously, yet soon settled
down to minor convulsions. He felt
acidic buildup at the back of his throat.
“Now, I step down to allow my
brother, Scott, to say a few words in
honor of our father.” Paul turned to face
where Scott should have been sitting.
Gagging, Scott was dashing up
the aisle as fast as possible toward a pair
of doors that led outside. He fell to the
grass where he proceeded to regurgitate
his breakfast. He had to wonder, was it
the beer? Was it being in the church?
Was it the thought of speaking about his
father in front of those people? Maybe it
was just the bagel.
Couldn’t he at least have stayed
in there and spit up some bullshit for the
old man? It could have just been some
of the old-school-professional bullshit.
It was his father, after all.
Scott wiped his mouth and sat
up. Lifting his face to feel the cool rain,
Scott let the water run down his face. If
only the water could cleanse him. He
crossed his arms over his knees and
rested his head. The water ran in
rivulets from his hair down to his chin.
He waited for the rest of the
service by the alcove of the doors and
met his brother afterwards.
He
explained what had happened, and Paul
said that he understood. Paul was curt,
though, almost brusque. They made
their way to the cemetery in the limo
with the hearse and various cars with the
ridiculous flags following. It was a
cemetery near the church that seemed to
lack the usual decorations. There was no
fog, no crypts, no crumbling statues of
half-nude angels, no weeping willows.
Other than the tombstones, only the
gloomy clouds and the rain made the
cemetery seem like a morbid place. It
was strange how the rain hadn’t let up
much for days. The muddy hole was
pre-dug when they arrived, and after a
prayer from the reverend, the coffin was
lowered into the six-foot watery ditch.
Scott’s mother was surprisingly calm.
There were no mad jumps into the grave,
and burly men did not have to hold her
back from jumping in. Scott had always
believed such antics were obligatory or
at least customary. He was slightly
disappointed.
Under a canopy of black
umbrellas, the black mass of mourners
backed away from the grave and piled
into cars. The limo was going home,
and a few of the closer family friends
followed. They were to comfort the
widow.
The urge was strong now inside
the limo. He needed a smoke. His
hands trembled. He watched beads of
rain sticking to the window. As soon as
144
the limo arrived at the base of their
driveway at home, Scott stepped out and
lit one.
His mother took one look at him,
covered her mouth with a handkerchief,
and ran inside the house, weeping.
Family friends shot piercing glares at
him and waved away the smoke as they
walked by. A look from his brother said,
“What the hell do you think you’re
doing, asshole?”
He ground the cigarette into the
pavement and rushed inside to find his
mother crying on her bed.
“Mom, I’m sorry. I completely
forgot.” Scott stood in the doorway.
She turned to face him. The tears
had left trails in her makeup, and her
hair was a disheveled mess. Her body
seemed diminutive in the black dress.
The once overwhelming presence of his
mother had faded to leave only a shell.
“I’m all right now.” She stood
up and wiped her face with a tissue.
“Mom…I wasn’t thinking. I’m
sorry.”
“I understand. You never think
of others. You never did. You only
think of yourself. You never show
consideration for anyone else.”
“Mom—”
“You know your father would
have killed you for smoking. He told
you to stop. I can just see him now
scolding you. He stood over you even
though you had inches on him. He
couldn’t stand the thought of you
smoking, making the same mistake he
made. He meant it, Scott, but if he
couldn’t stop you, I don’t think I can.”
She brushed past him and, wiping her
face with her handkerchief, she went
down the stairs to meet her friends.
Staring at the rain outside, Scott
stood in the room for a while. He went
downstairs and asked Paul if he could
borrow the car.
*
At the cemetery he walked
through the grass in the rain. Of course,
he had forgotten an umbrella. The water
ran down his collar and chilled his spine.
He’d probably get pneumonia from this.
Yet another stupid idea. Sure could use
a smoke.
The rain fell in sheets of icy
water from the gloomy sky. Morbid
halos formed on the tombstones as the
water pelted the marble slabs. Soft and
slippery from weeks of constant
downpour, the grass glistened softly as it
waved back and forth with the wind.
He walked up the brick walkway
toward his father’s grave. Each gray
stone he passed seemed to glare at him.
It was as if each inhabitant was offended
by his presence. The newly turned earth
of his father’s grave was still soft and
already beginning to show signs of
erosion from the rain. As he knelt in
front of the mound, Scott read the
inscription on the stone. “Francis Yoon,
Husband to Suzanne and Father to Paul
and Scott. May he rest in peace.”
May he rest in peace. Funny
words. No connotation of God or the
afterlife. The phrase didn’t fit a man
who had been so committed to his
religion and church.
He couldn’t pray for him. It
didn’t feel right. Instead, he stood up
and reached into his pocket. He picked
one out of the pack and lit it. Taking
long, deep pulls, he savored the taste.
He blew blue-gray smoke into the cold
air. As he prepared to take another deep
pull, he hesitated, then bent down and
stuck the half-smoked cigarette into the
still-soft earth by the grave.
145
“For you, old man.”
He left the pack and the lighter
by his father’s stone. As he walked to
the car, a gentle mist fell across the
cemetery. The rain was letting up.
146
ANDREW CHOE
I was born in 1984 in Seoul, Korea. I graduated from Penncrest in 2003, and currently I
am in my third year, as an English concentrator, at the University of Chicago. I am
interested in the publishing industry, specifically in the field of acquisitions. My favorite
authors at the moment are Borges, Eugenides, Nabokov, Poe, and DFW.
Reflection on Smoke and Mist
One of the most admirable professors I’ve had since coming to the University of
Chicago is an old literary critic by the name of Veeder. In every one of his classes,
Veeder begins his first lecture with Henry James’s dictum, “In the arts, feeling is
meaning.” Then he rattles out a progression of how a reader should “work” his way to
the meaning of a story or novel. First comes the context of the work, which, in turn, is
created by the content. This content is constructed from form or formal innovations
within the text. From these formal innovations comes feeling, or, rather, these formal
innovations must give rise to feeling within the reader. In the end, this feeling or feelings
give rise to the “so what” or the meaning and purpose of a work.
When I first listened to my professor rattle on about this, I had no conceptual
grasp of what he was referring to. However, after taking two of his courses, I profess to
be able to, at least to some degree, see what he means. A true masterpiece exists without
any frills, without bells or whistles, and every single word in a given text is specifically
chosen with a purpose in mind. In addition, Veeder says, no word other than the one
used in a given context is permissible because in the arts, such a thing as “a synonym
does not exist.” In other words, when analytic pressure is applied to a masterpiece, the
masterpiece never fails to respond by revealing the rich nature of its origins or purpose.
Though I cannot wholeheartedly swallow Veeder’s theory of the arts, as I am inclined to
believe that art does not need an explicit purpose, I believe that his conceptions of art are
useful in analyzing fiction. And so I can’t help reconsidering my own story according to
his criteria.
Now I cringe every time I read even one line of “Smoke and Mist.” Though
certain aspects of the story are good, there are too many glaring flaws to simply let pass
by. Following my method of madness at the time, I wrote the story without any idea of
how I would structure it, nor did I have even a simple purpose in mind. I simply sat
down, imagined a picturesque backdrop for the opening scene, and started typing away.
It is not surprising, then, that the piece is filled with frivolous details.
When “Smoke and Mist” is boiled down to what could be called its “essence,”
though the word seems pompous in this case, it is merely a story of a boy trying to
normalize relations with his father, who at the time happens to be a corpse. Considering
this initial premise, I would rework the story so that all the incidents and flashbacks that
occur are attempts and failures on the protagonist’s part to execute a normalizing of
relations by various means, such as asking for forgiveness from various other characters,
such as his friends, his brother, his mother, and even God. All would become attempts
and failures until he could actually come to confront his father “face-to-face.” In this
manner, the story would be a “high comedy” in the dramatic sense, as the story would
end on a positive note. I guess this was what I was intuitively reaching for three years
ago when I wrote the story, but without a conception of the bigger picture or even a goal,
I had no means of actualizing the true story.
147
Along with restructuring the plot, I would also eliminate many superfluous details
and even whole aspects of the story so that the story would better cohere. This process, if
executed according to Veeder’s criteria, would make the story whole and complete
without any extraneous details. Anton Chekhov’s dictum captures the spirit of this storywriting principle well: “If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the
wall, in the second or third chapter, it absolutely must go off. If it’s not going to be fired,
it shouldn’t be hanging there.”
148
Teacher Reflection
Motifs, Mood, and Pacing in Andrew Choe’s Smoke and Mist
This long story’s pace is slow and steady, like the falling rain that drenches the
landscape in the protagonist’s hometown, stopping occasionally, but never long enough
for the sun to come out and clear the air; the atmosphere, filled with “smoke” and “mist,”
complements the mood of the story, as well as the pacing of it.
In the opening scene, Scott considers the rain an omen, a sign to stay away. Why?
we wonder, but, for now, the author conceals the truth, which reveals itself only as Scott
faces it. In every scene, a new revelation propels the story forward, sustaining its pace.
For example, when Scott smokes his first cigarette, his brother is mortified, and, again,
we wonder, Why? We soon discover that their father died of cancer, brought on by
smoking. By mid-story Scott stumbles through misty streets in a boozy glaze, dismissing
the news that his ex-girlfriend, Cara, now lives with his old best friend. Then, hung over,
he manages to skirt even his duty to eulogize his father, ending up drenched, outside the
church, in a scene that echoes an earlier flashback in which the old man stood smoking in
the rain while his fellow congregants rushed inside under umbrellas. If only Scott could
forget the past and avoid the present entirely!
Meanwhile, smoke and mist—motifs worthy of the title—seem to cloud our
vision, or at least Scott’s, as the truth works its way into his consciousness; we begin to
realize—perhaps before Scott himself does—that he is avoiding the unpleasant truth,
avoiding any sense of his own responsibility, not to mention his own pain and loss.
Cigarettes and alcohol, along with the persistent rain, create a smoky, boozy glaze,
separating Scott from the inevitable truth, which finally comes from his mother, who tells
him he is selfish and cruel, her makeup smeared with rain and tears. At last, in the
appropriate rain, Scott confronts his father, with whom he shares one last cigarette, which
he plants in the wet soil of the dead man’s grave.
Exercise
Write a story—or even just a scene—in which the atmosphere plays a predominant role,
complementing the mood and pacing. Develop motifs—recurring images and ideas—
that weave their way into your descriptions. Be sensitive to mood and tone—feelings,
colors, sounds—and discover patterns of language and imagery that seem to present
themselves as you are writing, or even after you have written a draft.
Trajectory, Velocity
Eleni Solomos 2003
The car rolls steadily along the
endless stretch of highway, smothered
by the slate gray of the sky. The prosaic
plane of Interstate 71 is pockmarked by
a barn, a silo, a farm every few miles, a
rash of abandoned trucks parked
haphazardly and left to rust in the
expanses of hilly green.
His wife sleeps in the passenger
seat, her knees facing front, her body
turned sideways at the hips so that her
weight lies on her shoulder. In quick,
sharp glances out of the comer of his
eye, momentarily taking his gaze away
from the uninterrupted straight of the
road, he sees her in fragments: her
mouth slightly parted, her nose pink
from cold, eyelashes resting against her
cheek. The swell of her breasts. The
slight rounded bulge of her stomach, the
baby just beginning to show.
They have just passed the
billboard welcoming them to the state of
Indiana, then the subsequent sign
announcing their entry into the city of
Lawrenceville. The hand-painted sign
has been so ravaged by age that the paint
has cracked and faded into the grain of
the wood, giving the background a gray
tinge. A wreath with a red ribbon has
been hung from the bottom of the sign
and it smacks against the board with
each gust of wind. Paul takes his foot
off the accelerator. There are no cars
behind him, no cars in front of him, for
miles. The slight decrease in speed
awakens his wife, and she opens her
eyes, drifting for a moment in and out of
sleep. He cannot bear to take his eyes
off of her as she brushes a tangle of hair
out of her eyes with one sluggish hand.
She raises her head abruptly,
looks at him a moment, her eyes glassy
and bright, and shivers. The knitted
blanket she had covered herself with
earlier has fallen to her feet and she
picks it up and covers herself with it.
“It’s cold,” is the first thing she
says, baring her teeth at the steam
clouding the windows. Her voice is
ragged from cold and exhaustion. They
have been driving for twelve hours now.
One hand peeks out of the blanket and
she rubs her left eye with her knuckles.
“Where are we?” his wife asks,
yawning.
“We just got into Indiana,” Paul
says. She can see that his jaw is
clenched by the tautness of his cheek.
He does not take his eyes off the road,
although there are no cars to be seen
around him.
“Don’t you think,” she says after
a quiet moment, shifting her weight to
her other shoulder so that she can face
Paul, “that we should just find a hotel
and sleep the rest of the afternoon, stay
overnight? We’ve been driving forever.
You’re exhausted, I can tell. We left the
house at four-thirty this morning. At
least let’s stop someplace to eat. It’s so
gray out and it’s so cold and it’s going to
be dark soon. Please.”
Paul shrugs limply at his wife,
lifting his hands from the steering wheel,
uncharacteristically smacking them back
down in frustration with a soft slapping
noise, looking at her twice, quickly, his
face blank save for the barely
perceptible, bitter downturn of his
mouth. Upon their weary entrance into
Indiana the enormity of this awful trip
has struck him, a violent realization that
he is propelling their car forward into an
ugly and desperate situation that he has
little desire to get involved in. In his
profound exhaustion he has become
genuinely impatient with her for the first
time in his life, rather than trace the fault
150
in such a delicate matter back to himself,
as he typically did. Suddenly he has
little patience left for her meticulous
planning, her trying to make everything
right,
her
tragically
optimistic
rationalizations, though he knows that at
the root of such behavior lies a
staggering grief, everything in her life
done so as to avoid treading over such
fragile ground. Not that he is any
stranger to it himself.
*
Fifteen minutes later Elizabeth
and Paul park in the lot behind TOM’S
DINER of Lawrenceville, Indiana, and
get out of the car, the cold stinging their
cheeks as the frigid air hits them for the
first time in hours. The reek of stale
cigarette smoke and rancid coffee is
stifling as they walk together into the
diner. Elizabeth stifles a gag the second
the smell hits her. Christmas lights have
been strung over the lighted case
displaying desserts. The two stand in
line by the door, waiting to be seated.
Paul looks at his wife. She has
taken off her gloves and is staring down
at her hands.
The glare of the
fluorescent light makes the gold band of
her wedding ring look fuzzy.
“What are you thinking about?”
he asks.
“I don’t know,” she says, tracing
her fingers over the wood paneling on
the diner wall. “Do you ever walk into a
place and it reminds you of stuff? Like
it just makes you think of certain
people? Places you’ve been before?”
“Like?” he says.
“Oh, I don’t: know,” she says
absentmindedly, gazing at her slender
fingers against the dark wood, the harsh
light glinting off clear nail polish, her
small hands chapped from the cold. She
takes her pinky finger and links it around
Paul’s.
“Do you remember Mikey
Jones? He always smelled like cigarette
smoke.
And he always wore that
cowboy hat.” Mikey Jones, a young
man they’d gone to school with. Paul
looks around for a moment. A man sits
in the comer of the waiting booths, a
cowboy hat pulled completely over his
face and eyes, his hands in his pockets,
slouching. His wife is seated next to
him, bloated, nondescript. A group of
teenaged thugs laughs in the corner, also
waiting for a table. The picture of the
grimacing MANAGER ON DUTY of
the diner hangs above the cash register.
Tired, stooped waitresses plod around in
blocky orthopedic shoes, refilling coffee.
“Do you ever wonder about
him?” she asks Paul. “That pretty
girlfriend he had, the one with the long
red hair? He drove that stupid jalopy
truck that leaked oil and coolant all over
the place. And then one day he just up
and left, remember? And the redhead
cried all the time because she thought it
was her fault that he’d left, she thought
he’d gone crazy because she’d been
cheating on him? And he’d written her
all those pretty songs on his guitar.”
Paul nods to her, half listening,
half remembering. “I do remember
that,” he says.
“I don’t know,” she says. “He
was so serious, so old-fashioned. It
makes me think of him in here. The
country music. People outdated by
twenty years. I forgot how much I hated
this state.” She shrugs.
An ancient waitress walks up to
seat them, holding two menus.
Paul and Elizabeth sit at a booth
by the foggy window. The wrinkled,
stooped waitress brings them each a cup
of coffee and a small pitcher of cream.
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Paul pours the liquid into his
mug and stirs it with his spoon. He puts
one menu between him and Elizabeth.
Her hand strays into his lap, eerily
reminiscent of one awful late-summer
afternoon, many years ago, in the
aftermath of a terrible event: Elizabeth’s
father had come home early one
afternoon from work, finding the two of
them, sixteen, seventeen years old,
naked, upstairs, bodies intertwined, quite
enjoying what they were in the middle
of, and he, on the spot, cursing them
both, refusing to speak to his daughter
ever again. The next time they saw each
other was when school started again in
the fall, seated beside each other on a
park bench, their meeting place at the
end of each day. And in the midst of her
anguish that her family was being
outright hostile to her and Paul’s own
crushing guilt, blaming the trouble on
himself as he always did, for, in his eyes,
anything wrong in this relationship was
his fault, for she was too perfect to be to
blame for any pain brought to their
union—she had put her hand in his lap
and her fingers had wandered and he had
been disgusted with himself that he had
enjoyed it, in spite of the fact that he was
well aware that his enjoyment of this
(not thinking, for a moment, that hers as
well) had caused them trouble almost
more than it was worth.
*
Back in the car, he consults the
map for the nearest hotel. He finds one
that, according to his travel book, is
decent, about twenty minutes away.
The thought of a hotel excites
him. Something about the many-timesover disinfected history of the rooms
does it for him, not only the myriad of
dirty things that have taken place but the
fact that both those madly in love and
those utterly despondent have conspired
in the same room over time, passing
sleepless hours gazing at the same exact
ceiling, watching the grainy darkness
engulf the stucco if they stare hard
enough.
He also knows that his wife is
more wild than usual between the
chlorine-smelling sheets of a foreign
room, and he is suddenly rendered
restless and fidgety by a detached sense
of desire, lust that, from the beginning,
never failed to carry the burden of you
have no idea how lucky you are, you
don’t even deserve this.
She is
devastatingly beautiful, shamefacedly
aware of her startling loveliness in spite
of her self-deprecating manner, those
green-brown eyes, the long, sharp nose,
the plump lips and the long strawberry
hair, so lovely and efficient in manner,
so well-spoken and intelligent and
humorous that, for the life of him, he
knows that he would never be able to
explain what, exactly, she sees in him.
*
He remembers in college there
not being enough money between the
both of them to afford a hotel to stay for
a night. They would, instead, whenever
possible, which was rare, cram into each
other’s twin beds in their respective
dormitory rooms, for a weekend’s worth
of desperate groping. Faces buried in
each other’s shoulders, the sweet smell
of her long hair, words uttered while
clinging to each other, like I don’t know
what to do, I’m empty without you, I
need you to fill me up, and then, at last, a
guilty sense of finally having privacy:
that this time no one would walk in and
catch them, true love found out and
condemned.
152
Out of that sense of privacy grew
a certain defiance, and they were
meeting each other whenever possible,
in the city, at college, staying at each
other’s place for weeks at a time, until
the ultimate cockiness:
he finally
proposed, this novel idea he’d toyed
with in fantasies since he was seventeen
years old. Later she whispered into his
ear, Perhaps this time they’ll listen,
they’ll see that we’ve gone through
everything together, I would have been
so miserable if I’d never met you, we’ve
been together for years now, they’ll see
this isn’t an irrational thing, which it
might have been years ago. But making
known the secret that they had still been
seeing each other all these years, against
her parents’ will, reopened wounds long
ago healed, making fresh blood all the
more a shock, and the two were cast out,
her parents saying to hell with you both,
we will have nothing to do with either of
you.
And here they were four years
later, Elizabeth so full of optimism that
if it had taken only six months for her
family to resume a sense of normalcy the
first time things fell apart, then four
years would surely have given them the
time open their hearts again. And a baby
on the way would surely bring them all
back together.
“Paul,” she had said to him a few
weeks before Christmas, sitting together
sipping tea in front of their decorated
tree, fully aware of the fact that she had
sounded entirely too rehearsed, “you
know Katharine’s mother? Her father
didn’t speak to her over some family
thing until she had Katharine, did I ever
tell you that? Did you know that?” The
holidays had made her think that it was
time to try to patch things up again, that
she would be able to rest easy at least
knowing that she had made the effort to
bring her family back together again.
She was a grown woman and her life had
fallen perfectly into place, he a wildly
successful lawyer and she an editor at an
offshoot of a major publishing house.
They kept a beautiful apartment and they
made elaborate meals and they lived by
such embarrassingly maudlin, they knew
it, rules of their love: never go to bed
mad; never leave the house without
saying goodbye first; don’t be apart for
more than five days if one of us has to
travel without the other.
The first time everything had
gone to pieces, she remembered eating
dinner, trying to keep a stone face down
into her plate as her father told her
family how much of a disgrace she was.
Six months later the family had
somehow forged a relationship with all
of that smoothed over, and she had never
complained about the circumstances of
the peace. Her mother had told her that
if she found that there was any further
contact between her and Paul, she would
put a restraining order on him—a
ridiculous, harsh thing to say, but she
said it like she meant it, and that hurt
enough—and Elizabeth had curled up
into herself on her bed, late at night,
crying so hard that she would retch over
and over again, making a ball out of the
sheets and biting down on it to keep
from making noise, ending up gasping
for air as she eventually quieted down
between the damp sheets. So they lived
the next few years without phone calls,
without letters, without seeing each
other, knowing that the stability of
Elizabeth’s family depended on their
virtual separation, somehow still
remaining in love: the inexplicable,
uncommunicated trust that somewhere
the other person still whispers I love you
I love you I love you each night with
their face buried into the pillow before
153
they fall asleep, that they cry at
grotesquely sentimental commercials
and revel in the glory of the season
changing simply because they have been
put in touch with this ethereal gift that
makes them sensitive enough to realize,
in startling clarity, the severe magnitude
of certain things, like love, for one; their
own mortality, perhaps; and, always, the
magnitude of memory: either a punch in
the gut reminding them of a time or a
place, or the graceful reminders of those
who have passed quietly in and out of
their lives.
*
Back in the car Elizabeth decides
that there is no reason for Paul to be
quite so upset about all of this. If
anything, he should have realized that
her efforts to reunite the family was in
part to absolve him from the guilt he had
unnecessarily placed on himself. It was
his habit, she knew, but it was ridiculous
nonetheless. She could not understand
why he put her on such a pedestal, why
he was so convinced that she was
perfect. Many times she would start an
argument on purpose, simply to sling
insults back and forth, perhaps so that he
might see her, for a moment, as cruel.
Lying on the couch together in
front of the fireplace, after an offhand
comment about how young they were
when they got married: “You probably
only proposed to me because you
couldn’t concentrate on your work
because you couldn’t stand the thought
of me running around with somebody
else.”
“No, I told you that my life and
my work are two separate things, and
that the one doesn’t influence the other,
because even if we were to split up,
we’d said, we were always going to be
happy and do our best at everything only
because we’d taught each other that. I
proposed to you because we loved each
other.”
“Is that why you were so
obsessed with asking me if I ‘still loved
you’ every few minutes?”
“You were always starting
arguments! Every time we had a chance
to really talk to each other, it was only
because you were furious about
something. You were too apathetic to
talk to me just to say hello.”
“That’s because I couldn’t even
talk to you whenever I wanted to, unless
I was at college.”
“Obviously it ended up working
out,” was his stock response.
Working out, she thought to
herself, irritated slightly as she tapped
her fingers against the car door handle.
We are driving to Indiana on the day
after Christmas to see people I haven’t
seen in ten years because we left so that
I could marry you because I couldn’t get
married to you anywhere that my parents
might stop by and shoot you. And yet
she was far from bitter: this was as
perfect a relationship as anyone could
ever conceive, no worries of ever being
misunderstood on either of their parts, so
she had learned to keep her mouth shut,
for the most part. What kept her
unhappy was the years of animosity her
parents had for Paul, a guilt of her own
that their intrinsically unforgiving nature
was the source of his own guilt. She had
been making designs to solve this for
years now, well before they got married:
that perhaps one day, driving in the car
with her father, she would explain to him
that she had never been too young to
understand what a serious and complex
love was like, she had understood it
well, obviously, considering that the
relationship was still just as strong as
154
ever. Or someday her parents would
simply come to her and tell her that they
had decided to let bygones be bygones,
and that her life would benefit from the
presence of that boy Paul. Or perhaps
Paul would someday show up at the
house, carrying flowers, maybe? a bottle
of wine? and together Elizabeth and Paul
would
describe
their
ambitions,
ambitions they would have never
pursued so enthusiastically had they
never met, never filled each other’s life
with such a purpose. And her family
would embrace with open arms this man
who had changed their daughter’s life so
profoundly, smile in awe of their respect
and affection for each other, and
maintain their relationship with pleasant
get-togethers: a dinner here, a visit
there.
But such things never happened
out of the blue.
When, suddenly,
surprisingly, she was pregnant—
something they had not counted on for a
few years more, but something they
welcomed nonetheless—the first thing
she had thought was how this baby
might be the reason that they all get back
together, a catalyst for forgiveness, a
blameless and beautiful thing on which
they could all find a common
denominator. The holidays had rolled
around this year and Elizabeth decided
that, with this baby on the way, there
was no reason for them to remain
separated with her family any longer,
first dropping hints, then outright
pleading with Paul, describing her plans
of bringing peace to the family, and so
they drove on, the day after Christmas,
the roads empty, the air crisp, into the
stagnant blackness of the Indiana night.
*
Inside the hotel bathroom
Elizabeth bends at the waist so that she
is nearly nose-to-nose with the mirror,
careful so as not to bump or press the
barely perceptible protrusion of her belly
against the hard marble of the sink. She
squints and plucks her eyebrows in the
yellow-gray of the buzzing overhead
light.
Paul comes up behind her,
vaguely afraid, and places his hand on
the small of her back. She looks up at
his face and not his reflection in the
mirror.
She puts down the metal
tweezers and, reaching up, puts her arms
around his neck. He relaxes for the first
time in hours and wraps his hands
around her body. They hang on each
other and sway back and forth to the
staticky blare of the television Paul has
turned on in the other room.
*
Paul rubs Elizabeth’s feet as they
watch a movie on the television. The
sheets have been turned down; they are
dressed in pajamas. Despite his fatigue,
Elizabeth’s nervous machinations on the
next day’s events keep him lucid in his
conversation and his listening. Should
she call first? He doesn’t know. Should
they just stop by and walk in? He
doesn’t know. She is almost excited
about the entire situation, as if she is
making decisions for a puppet she
merely operates, a character she has
created, a game in which she moves the
pieces. In her years of stifled sorrow she
has become quite fond of imagining
what would happen if, what would you
do if, what would you say if. And the
baby, the baby, they’ll go nuts about the
baby. That’ll be the thing, you know.
They can’t resist. It’s perfect, it’ll all
work out, it’s just the thing.
155
It is not that late. It is not even
nine o’clock yet. Hands trembling, she
mutes the television during the
commercial and picks up the phone the
second that the digital clock, bolted into
the hotel night cable to prevent its theft,
turns to nine o’clock.
It is an answering machine. Her
voice is trembling as she explains who,
exactly, is calling, and why, and why she
and Paul are in Indiana, and why,
exactly, she felt compelled to venture
out to see her family, and how they will
be stopping by tomorrow morning.
When Elizabeth hangs up the
phone, in order to negate the immense
gravity of what she has just done, she
turns to Paul, who had been gritting his
teeth again, and says, Paul, we’re going
to have such a beautiful baby. He’ll
have my eyes and your sweet little nose
and your little pout. She kisses him
lightly on the lips and a genuine smile
spreads across his face.
*
The character in the television
movie is a tragic young woman, she
saves and obsesses over little tangible
pieces of her life that she saves in a box:
letters, pictures, jewelry, other small
items. Her family thinks she is crazy.
She opens the box again and again to
read and re-read these mysterious letters
she keeps. We do not know who they
are from or what they contain. The
letters bring the woman to tears every
single time.
“That’s not that crazy,” Elizabeth
says when the commercials come on.
She shuts off the television and leans
over to turn off the lamp. “I mean, I do
that.”
“Do what?” says Paul. He is
glad she has turned off the light. He
wants to go to bed. If his wife is at all
interested in any sort of lovemaking this
evening, they better get cracking. He is
fading fast.
“Save letters like that.”
“From who?”
“From you, silly.”
“I save all yours too.”
“I saved other people’s too.” A
hint of mockery in her voice.
“Like?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No, tell me.”
“Nothing.” Teasing now.
“No, really, tell me.”
“I’m a woman of many secrets.”
“Trust me, I know.”
“What is that supposed to
mean?”
“Hey, I wouldn’t want it any
other way.”
“A girl needs to have some
secrets.”
“Keep secrets from meeee?”
“Don’t be selfish.”
Out of the darkness, in response,
an exaggerated sniff of feigned sadness.
“Don’t worry, I love you the
most.”
A stiff silence. “Wait. What?”
She says nothing.
“What are you talking about?” A
tremor in his voice, his fierce loyalty and
devotion suddenly shaken. There is no
joking on this topic for him.
“Look,” she says, her voice so
tired, “in all honesty, now. You and I
met for a reason, I like to believe. Other
people cross in and out of our lives.
Following the same logic, this happens
for a reason. Right?”
“Right,” he says.
“A woman stays late at a meeting
and meets a man. They fall in love, get
married. This happened in her life for a
reason. The next week she stays late at a
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party and meets another man. The man
stayed late at the same party because his
meeting this woman was supposed to
happen in his life. So now what? You
forget,” she says, “that we’re all
intertwined. That’s all. I try to take
advantage of everything that is supposed
to happen.”
“What the hell is that supposed to
mean?” Paul is surprised at the edge in
his voice, as is Elizabeth, realizing that
she has taken this too far.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” she
says, and she means it. This she means
too. “No one even comes close to you,
really and truly.” She speaks some more
and then, after a few minutes, seems to
talk herself into sleep. Paul has faded
out, concentrating only on her arm,
which rests on his chest, a slight, warm
weight. He puts together the pieces of
what he sees as infidelities and pits them
against his overwhelming love for her;
every little twinge of envy he’s ever felt
when she is talking to others, which is
often, reminds him of how precariously
lucky he is. Of course, his love is
reciprocated, but she is right: other
people cross into their lives at a million
miles an hour, thousands and thousands
of people, and she is always temporarily
diverted. He really doesn’t care. He
needs air. He gets up in the bed,
achingly weary, and kisses Elizabeth on
the lips. For a second Elizabeth wakes
up.
“Do you still love me, though?”
Elizabeth can hear his voice asking her
in her mind.
“Of course I love you, I will
always love you, dufus,” she answers
back to herself. Her love is based on a
series of failed secrets. They will always
continue on. She has no concerns.
*
Paul goes and stands out in the
hotel hallway. His feet are bare against
the close-cropped, velvety carpet, the
diamond pattern stretching out down the
endless hall. Heavy silence. Electric
buzz. He walks toward the glaring white
light in the middle of the hallway, from
where comes the comforting, warm hum
of the soda machine, the low bass
rumble of the ice machine.
The
disinfectant smell. The periodic gray
lighting of the hallway. He stands stockstill, just staring down the hall, eyes out
of focus, aware of his stomach rising and
falling with every breath underneath his
striped pajamas. He curls his toes
underneath his feet and he turns around
and walks back down the hall.
Back in bed Elizabeth slings her
arm around his shoulder and breathes
into his neck. Despite his tiredness her
touch
makes
him
wide-eyed,
uncomfortably awake—and this worries
him deeply, as he was always the one
who could not sleep alone, needed
something to cling to in order to fall
asleep.
“I’m thirsty,” she mumbles into
his neck. For the first rime in his life he
ignores her. He pretends to be asleep.
Elizabeth is not sure whether he is really
asleep or not, but the thought of him
actually ignoring her for once appeals to
her.
She gets up and walks out, struck
by the same need for a moment of
aloneness as Paul. She walks around the
floor of the hotel a few times before she
goes back into their room. She feels a
bit dizzy, figuring that it is nerves and
exhaustion. She lies down, feeling off,
then a few hours later goes to the
bathroom, making sure to be quiet so as
not to disturb her husband, but when she
sees the spotting of blood she is clumsy
157
and panicking and he wakes up
immediately. He is more hysterical than
she is and they are making phone calls,
he running numbly down to the front
desk, she sitting, shaking on the hotel
room bed, crying and crying, and he is
running in and out of the room, people
coming in and out, and Elizabeth
realizes that any business she had back
in Indiana has suddenly crumbled to
dust.
And then, days later, well aware
of their mutual loneliness, Paul is at the
helm as they are propelled into the future
this time—rather than revisiting the
past—and his wife sits, broken beside
him, her back turned to him and her face
out the window. Her hand, however,
rests gently on top of his, and he knows
that they are still safe, far from any sort
of unknown. There are no cars on the
road in the early morning fog. His foot
is leaden on the gas pedal, and he is
thinking to himself of their speed, their
trajectory, velocity, hurtling toward
some great future faster than they can
handle it, they have been planning it
since they were mere children, and here
they are.
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ELENI SOLOMOS
I am currently a junior at Temple University in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, majoring in
English and minoring in art history and French. Alongside writing, I am passionate about
education; I am currently beginning graduate courses in Temple’s Masters of Education
dual-degree program, while working as a cross-curricular writing tutor in Temple’s
University Writing Center.
Reflection on Trajectory, Velocity
I wrote this story in late November of 2002, my senior year at Penncrest. I find it
interesting, exactly three years later, to find myself—usually violently critical of past
work—to still be content with a piece of high school writing. I think what allows
“Trajectory, Velocity” to hold surprisingly safe status among more recent things I’ve
written as a college student is the fact that, at heart, what it’s about—a love forbidden by
families—is a circumstance that is dependent upon the creation of fictions, of noble and
novel lies and everyday melodramatics, things that never fail to fascinate me or provide
fodder for my fiction.
What sets “Trajectory, Velocity” apart from things I’ve been writing recently is
the fact that that the story’s characters approximate full-blown adults, married and ready
to start a family. Anymore, I’m very hesitant to write stories about adult characters
because I feel as if I have little access to them. This is funny, as I had less access to
adulthood as a seventeen-year-old writer than I do at twenty, and yet I still find my access
to be nothing more than imaginary.
Elizabeth losing the baby was the suggestion of my best friend as we
“workshopped” the story in small groups, and I needed some sort of means to an end. At
first I thought inserting a miscarriage was far too easy, but I used it anyway because it
provided an actual, recognizable climax for the story’s quieter close. It ended up working
beautifully, though, as I realized, after the fact, that her miscarriage carried more weight
than just a blatant climax and a corporeal loss. Elizabeth and Paul had tacked hopes
beyond their own love for each other onto the baby; it was a steppingstone to
reconciliation with her family, to making elements of their lives approach peace, so their
child could know more than just immediate stability. Thus, it’s a twofold tragedy when
she miscarries the baby, as its inception—a desperate grasp at Elizabeth and Paul making
some sort of physical representation of their complex love, so as to possibly legitimize it
in her parents’ eyes—was steeped in tragedy to begin with.
Unfortunately, not all easily inserted, relatively extreme climaxes work out to
such an advantageous degree. To this day, I still struggle not with endings—the final line
of a story, spontaneously conjured, is often my impetus for all of the writing I’ll do to get
up to that point—but the climactic events that precipitate that divinely inspired, concise
ending line. Life is continuous; short stories are finite. At best, they possess the potential
to contain infinite possibility and resonance in their limited length. Sometimes I get very
frustrated when I have to work towards a climax that leads to an ending, as events do not
usually lend themselves to such dynamics in real life—conflicts are drawn out to
stalemate, intuitions don’t quiet down, and stories don’t end after the last line, however
precious.
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Teacher Reflection
Omniscient Point of View in Eleni Solomos’s Trajectory, Velocity
Eleni Solomos’s narrative choices allow her full reign of her natural talents—her
sensitivity of emotion, sophistication of prose, depth of insight, uncanny psychological
understanding—all of which abound in “Trajectory, Velocity.” A teacher might resign
himself to the notion that he cannot really teach a student how to write—or at least how
to write a good short story like this one; no doubt some students, or writers, demonstrate
certain “gifts,” intangible qualities that may be “un-teachable.” But every writer has her
own distinctive voice, as well as vision of the world, and one person’s voice and vision
are not “better” than another’s. When one sets out to write a story, she must “position”
herself in such a way that will free her distinctive powers as storyteller, in order to
exercise her voice confidently and to manifest her vision as best as she can on the page.
Indeed, in “Trajectory, Velocity” Eleni demonstrates a tremendous authority, and
admirable confidence, but it is important to recognize that she has made important
choices as the writer. Teachable, learnable choices. The most important choice Eleni
makes is to tell the story from an omniscient point of view, which gives her the ideal
“angle” on the story, not to mention the broadest “lens” through which to capture her
vision. Like a movie camera that both “zooms in” and “pulls out,” this omniscient voice
provides the author “distance” from the characters, so that we can observe them
simultaneously, from outside their consciousnesses, as in the opening of the second
section, “Fifteen minutes later Elizabeth and Paul…”
In addition, the omniscient voice allows the author to inhabit the minds of both
Elizabeth’s and Paul’s points of view fully, in effect, treating each character as a
protagonist, with whom we come to empathize equally. Like a master director, Eleni
“zooms in” to capture the perspective of Elizabeth; she “zooms in” to capture Paul’s
perspective, the transitions always so smooth that the reader never senses the slightest
interruption or confusion; and she “pulls out,” reestablishing the reader’s more distant
view of both characters, reinforcing the sense that this story is about this couple, as a unit,
with a shared, complicated history, of distinct and yet overlapping worlds.
Many, perhaps most, short stories are written from either the first-person point of
view or the close third-person point of view, each of which more or less “limits” the
author to the perspective of a single character, whose viewpoint defines the story. The
omniscient point of view might seem the more obvious narrative choice for an author,
who, after all, would not want to feel restricted—right? But, perhaps, as in life, we are
accustomed to seeing the world through one set of eyes—our own—and it is difficult
enough to make meaning out of things even within the confines of our own mind. In
fiction writing the omniscient point of view demands certain bravery, a willingness to
imagine ourselves inside the minds of multiple people and to assert our own storytelling
voices with such confidence that we expect the reader to assume our authority… That’s
the fun of it.
Exercise
Write a short story—or just a scene—in which you both “zoom in” to capture the distinct
viewpoints of two (or more?) characters and “pull out” to a more “distant” narrative
160
voice. Consider the movie camera analogy, and think of yourself as a master director—
and cinematographer—who, from a distance, captures the broad view of your story’s
world, and then, at closer range—after graceful transitions—captures the limited
perspectives of your main characters.
Megan and Michael
Julie Wasson 2003
He snored. That is why George
and Evelyn began sleeping in separate
bedrooms.
“You’re just too loud, dear. I
don’t get any sleep because I spend all
night trying to get you to stop,” Evelyn
explained to her husband.
In the beginning, George slept in
his son’s bedroom while he was away at
college. The room was right beside the
master one. The couple had put their
newborn son there so they could hear his
every cry during the night, and his room
had remained there ever since. Only a
wall divided them then.
The
sleeping
arrangements
continued, and for his next birthday,
Evelyn bought George an Aerobed.
George tore off the shiny paper
and examined the revealed box. “Nice,”
he said.
“It’s supposed to be therapeutic
for your back. At least that’s what the
infomercial said.” Evelyn fiddled with
her fingers and added, “I thought we
could put it in the kid’s old playroom.
We can make it your own little
bedroom.”
A few months after the birthday,
the Aerobed turned into a real mattress
and bed frame. The situation was now
permanent. George remained in the
playroom, surrounded by his grown
children’s old toys and games. The
room was down the hall from the master
bedroom, making the distance between
Evelyn and George even farther.
A sense of intimacy was lost
from not being in the same bed. It
wasn’t just the sex; there was something
else too. They always used to have early
morning conversations, and, before, they
routinely cuddled during the cold winter
nights. Now, George couldn’t even
share the latest product review from
Consumer Reports and Evelyn couldn’t
point out the silk blouses she liked from
Eddie Bauer as they read together in
bed.
*
Evelyn hated kicking George out
the way she did, but his snoring was
atrocious. About fifteen minutes after he
went to sleep, George’s mouth would
fall open, his tongue would slip to the
back of his throat, and the horrible noise
would begin.
The nasally gargle
gradually escalated as time went on until
it got so unbearable that Evelyn had to
smack George with her pillow, awaking
him from his slumber. Then, within ten
minutes, the noise would be resonating
through their bedroom again as if
nothing had happened. Until the snoring
stopped, Evelyn had no choice but to
forbid George from sleeping in the same
room.
From Breathe Right strips to The
Snore Extinguisher, George had tried it
all. The contents of his medicine cabinet
displayed the persistent effort to stop his
horrible habit. As a last resort, George
had even visited the doctor.
He
suggested losing weight, but that was the
one thing George could not make
himself do.
At five-feet, ten-inches, and two
hundred thirty-five pounds, George was
more than slightly overweight. All that
drinking in college had taken its toll on
the six-pack abs of his youth, and thanks
to a love for just about any food, George
now sported a rather large, protruding
stomach. The fact that exercise was a
rarity in his life didn’t help either. He
owned assorted aerobic equipment, but
like the anti-snore products, the
162
treadmill, the stationary bike, and the
gazelle rider were all collecting dust. He
wanted to change, but it was just too
hard. At fifty-five years old, all hopes of
regaining his normal life had diminished.
Gradually, he had fallen into the
monotonous routine of practically living
alone.
*
In the mornings, George awoke
to a faded poster of Sesame Street and
elementary
school
art
projects.
Although his daughter was newly
married and his son was rounding out his
college years, the room still looked as
though five-year-olds played in it
regularly.
“I just can’t bear to get rid of
these things,” sighed Evelyn when she
looked at the room. “My babies loved it
all so much when they were younger.”
Always careful not to trip on any
toys, George stumbled out of bed and
walked down the hallway to his old
bedroom. Turning the brass handle on
the door, he entered the room to find his
peacefully sleeping wife. Despite his
absence, she still kept her petite frame
curled up on the right side of the bed.
George tried to be quiet as he slid open
his dresser drawers, retrieving his jeans
and plaid shirt for the day, but Evelyn
was a light sleeper and usually awoke at
the slightest creek in the floorboards.
Rubbing her eyes, she watched as her
husband prepared to go to work.
After getting dressed, George left
the bedroom without even uttering a
goodbye. Downstairs, once his packet of
oatmeal was mixed with water, he
popped it into the microwave. Then
George poured cold milk over the
concoction—a ritual Evelyn had gotten
him started on. Staring blankly at the
flowered wallpaper, he slowly consumed
the breakfast.
The cuckoo clock from their
honeymoon to Germany went off at
seven o’clock, signifying the time for
George to rise from the table and head
out the door to work.
After hearing the front door slam,
Evelyn rose from her bed. Pulling on
her pink robe and terrycloth slippers, she
made her way downstairs. George’s
dishes were always waiting for her on
the kitchen table, and so she gathered
them up and rinsed them clean. Then,
with Good Morning America buzzing in
the background, Evelyn prepared her
own breakfast and planned her day.
There was always some sort of
cleaning that consumed the morning, but
her afternoons were typically free.
George used to call and see how her day
was going, but not anymore. In good
weather, Evelyn strolled around the
block or pulled some weeds in her
garden. When the rain poured down or
the temperature fell below fifty, she
stayed inside, watching her favorite soap
opera. Occasionally one of her church
friends stopped by and they drank
coffee, chatting about the latest gossip.
By far, Evelyn’s favorite way to fill her
afternoons was walking throughout the
house, looking at all the pictures that
adorned each wall. She had always
loved to take pictures and her passion
could be seen in every room. There
were plenty of pictures of her and
George, but most of the framed
memories were of her two glorious
children.
Evelyn had taken such great
pleasure in giving them their names.
George had let her name their firstborn
whatever she pleased. After searching
through various name books, she had
chosen Megan, meaning strong and able.
163
When their son was born, George had
wanted to call him Chuck so he could
grow up to be a tough football player.
Evelyn laughed when she heard
this and offered another suggestion.
“How about Michael, after your father?”
George shrugged his shoulders
and replied, “Okay.”
And so it was Megan and
Michael who smiled back at Evelyn
when she stared at their beautiful
pictures. Sometimes their two front
teeth were missing; other times their skin
radiated a deep brown tan from the
family vacation. Joy filled Evelyn’s
heart when she recalled the memories of
raising her children.
The sound of George’s car
roaring up the driveway always
interrupted Evelyn from her afternoon
routine. As George reentered the house
for the evening, she headed into the
kitchen to prepare their dinner. While
Evelyn chopped tomatoes and stirred the
boiling pasta, George watched television
in the den, his feet propped up on an
ottoman and an unread newspaper in
hand.
They always spent time in
separate rooms now.
Dinner was the only moment of
the day in which they had to come
together. There was no escaping, and
each night Evelyn made an effort to
converse.
“How was your day, dear?” she
questioned.
Like a child answering his
mother, George said, “Fine.”
“Ruth stopped by today,” Evelyn
added, trying to start some sort of
communication.
“That’s nice,” George answered,
twirling his spaghetti.
The only thing that ever brought
a twinkle to his eyes was discussing their
children. Evelyn knew this and so she
often tried to bring up a story about
them. Most dinners were over in about
fifteen minutes, but the nights when they
talked about Megan and Michael, the
light above the kitchen table stayed on
for a good hour.
Even after a talkative dinner,
their evening rituals distanced each
other. Evelyn enjoyed watching the
nightly primetime drama, while George
liked to watch war documentaries or
some old movie that happened to be on.
With the need for two televisions, they
were once again in separate rooms.
“Good night, dear,” Evelyn
called to her husband at ten o’clock.
That was his signal to climb up
the basement stairs to kiss his wife good
night.
“Sleep tight, hun,” George
always said.
Then Evelyn retreated to her
bedroom to prepare for bed. Just as she
slipped under her new striped
comforter—she’d thrown the old one
away—George appeared in the doorway.
After he used the bathroom off the
master bedroom, he turned off the light
and closed the door for his sleeping wife.
Under the covers in his own bed,
George kept the light on in his room.
Often he removed their old wedding
album from the shelf of countless other
albums, wondering what had gone
wrong. They had been so in love before.
Why was it different now? But George
never pondered their relationship for
long. Soon he fell asleep, and moments
later the snoring began.
As morning came the next day,
their routine continued.
*
One wintry day in December,
they received phone calls from their
164
children. Megan and Michael were
coming home for the holiday. George,
without being nagged, went up into the
attic and retrieved all the boxes labeled
Christmas. The couple spent the week
decorating their house with holly
wreathes and Santa Claus figurines.
They added little touches to every room
until the entire house was filled with the
Christmas spirit. Then George strung
colorful lights around the porch and
bushes just like Megan loved. While he
busied himself outside, Evelyn baked her
famous sugar cookies, decorating them
with the red and green sprinkles that
Michael enjoyed so much.
It had been a long time since the
whole family had been together, Evelyn
thought as she emptied out the last of the
decoration boxes—since before the
separate bedrooms.
The night before their children
were to come home, Evelyn and George,
together, assembled their fake Christmas
tree and delicately placed their priceless
ornaments on it. They even found the
mistletoe, and George was able to sneak
a kiss from his wife.
Just before noon on the next day,
a gray Ford Explorer traveled down
Evelyn and George’s street. Their sonin-law carefully maneuvered the vehicle
that was filled to capacity with luggage
and beautifully wrapped presents. He
steered the wheel with one hand, while
his other hand rested on the stomach of
his wife, Megan. They both looked at
each other and grinned. Mom and Dad
were going to be so happy.
Right behind the Ford Explorer
was a beat-up Toyota Camry. Michael
tapped his hands on the steering wheel to
the beat of the music. The back of his
car was filled with dirty laundry, a
computer, and a small bag of unwrapped
presents for his family.
Michael
couldn’t wait to see his old friends, to
eat home-cooked meals, and to forget
everything he’d learned all semester.
“Tonight, we will sleep in the
same bed,” Evelyn stated as the cars
turned into their driveway.
“Okay,” George replied.
“We both love our children too
much to do otherwise.”
“Exactly.”
As the children made their way
up the freshly shoveled walkway, Evelyn
and George stood in front of the open
door, his red plaid sleeve wrapped
around the waist of her green knit
sweater.
The lights were sparkling
outside, even in the daylight. The
cookies were arranged on a plate,
waiting on the kitchen table to be eaten.
Everything was perfect.
But not even Megan and Michael
could perform miracles. Take away the
Christmas tree, the holly wreathes, or the
Santa Claus figurines and only the bare
facts remained.
He had a snoring
problem, and she could not sleep at
nights.
165
JULIE WASSON
Since graduating from Penncrest in 2003, I have been attending the University of
Delaware, majoring in marketing with a minor in psychology. Besides missing my
creative writing days at PHS, I have been busy helping to run Delaware’s student dance
company and working part time in the on-campus housing office. Upon graduation and
entering the real world (yikes!), I hope to obtain a job in marketing/advertising and see
where life takes me.
Reflection on Megan and Michael
One night, I was trying to fall asleep without much success. Here it was, one
week before the big English assignment was due, and my short story was crap. I’m a
perfectionist when it comes to writing, and my current creation was as far from perfect as
you could get. Then, I heard my dad walk down the hall. The floorboards squeaked and
the door to the spare bedroom closed shut. Suddenly, a new idea popped into my head.
(People like to think that good writing comes from weeks of planning, but it’s the spurof-the-moment ideas that seem to be most successful for me.) Right then and there, I
reached into the top drawer of my nightstand, pulling out the green spiral-bound
notebook that is kept on hand for such occasions. From there, I wrote the first line to my
new and improved short story.
With the alarm clock set for 6:00 a.m. and the red numbers on its face already
reading far too late into the night, I closed up my notebook and went to sleep. I had no
idea where this story was going to go, but I knew that had to be the first line: “He snored.
That is why they began sleeping in separate bedrooms.”
In general, that’s how I like to begin my writing. I start with a basic concept that
I’m familiar with and let the story take off from there. The cliché line that everyone
always tells you is “write about what you know.” I hate to say it, but that is so true. It is
a lot easier to describe an apple if you’ve seen an apple, smelled one, and know what one
tastes like. However, never let the whole story be based on personal experience. After
taking a simple concept and some minor details, I always let the events and the real
meaning of the story appear on their own.
Consistency is another quality that I always strive for. All writers have their own
unique style. Mine is definitely simplicity. The idea was not complicated, so I didn’t
want my story to be either. Man snored. Woman could not sleep. They slept in separate
bedrooms. Throughout the entire story, I kept this simple motif. Perhaps I even took it
too far. I’ll never forget the reaction I got after my friends read the story. They gave me
this look and just said, “But nothing happened.” I simply smiled at them. That was the
entire point. This story, without saying too much, says everything.
Looking back now, I am definitely proud of my work, but I can not help
wondering how my story would have turned out had I fallen asleep that one night without
hearing the floorboards squeaking and the door to the spare bedroom closing.
166
Teacher Reflection
The “Simple” Style of Julie Wasson’s Megan and Michael
The “simple” style, as Julie herself describes it, enhances the sadness—or the
bittersweet-ness—of “Megan and Michael.” So much remains unexplained, unspoken,
unacknowledged—not just in the “simple” narration of the story but by the characters
themselves. The “simple” prose style reflects the content of the story. The author—and
the story itself—does not judge the characters or even explain the characters; there is
never a sense that one or the other spouse is the “good guy” or the “bad guy.” Most
important, the “simple” prose style also allows us to “judge” for ourselves.
We may wonder at times what we’re supposed to feel. One moment we might be
amused by the couple’s idiosyncrasies; the next moment we might be frustrated by their
apparent avoidance of each other, by their willing denial of some deeper problem in their
marriage; in the end, we might be both bemused and moved when they acknowledge their
“act” out loud to each other. The characters themselves, in their own quiet, understated
way, accept the changes in each other, and themselves—and so we too accept the story
and its characters without judgment. The narration never instructs us how to think, never
leads us toward a moral.
In Modern Literature class we read stories by Raymond Carver, famous especially
for his so-called “Minimalist” style; but Carver didn’t seek a “simple” style so much as
he sought—as we all should—a short story form stripped down to what was essential.
His style was the result of his vision, as it should be for any writer. He never judged his
characters, who were often “ordinary” working-class Americans, dealing with
“everyday” problems. On the surface his stories might seem “simple,” focusing on the
“what happened”—that is, on the characters’ actions—rather than on the “why” or the
“how.” As a result, the stories, especially their endings, can seem surprising in their
abruptness, stopping short of a satisfying resolution. But Carver’s understated style
contributes to a powerful sense of inevitability, a convincing sense that one action leads
to the next, which leads to the next…and that’s just the way life goes.
As readers, we might long for a satisfying resolution that we imagine exists in the
blank space just beyond the story’s last word—if only the author would let us have it!
Stories have the power to lead us to a sense of truth, often in spite of ourselves, in spite of
our expectation or desire for more—for a more pleasing resolution or even for more
disruptive conflict. Nope, Julie Wasson’s story seems to remind us in the end, as if
reminding us of what we’ve known deep down all along: this may seem unsatisfying or
unresolved—but this is it, this is how it goes. So much of the story’s power lies in what’s
not on the page.
Exercise
Write a story, or even just a character description, in which you strive for “simplicity,”
not only of prose style but also of circumstance and conflict. Strive to focus on essential
action and physical description. Don’t insist on a “satisfying” resolution. A certain
power of your writing may arise as much out of what you exclude as out of what you
include.
167
Cynical Girl
Rachael Elliott 2004
Two weeks ago, I was almost
convinced I’d be watching myself on the
late-night Ricky Lake Show as one of
those trashy, teenage moms that ends up
being booed off stage by the next
commercial break. I kept having this
horrible recurring nightmare. I walk
past a herd of Pro-Life protesters who
seem to all resemble my grandma and
open the door to what will be the most
painful and disturbing experience of my
life. I’m thinking, I’m lucky I turned
eighteen two weeks ago or I’d be
screwed. A preemptive abortion is what
I am about to have. A narrow tube
called a cannula will be inserted through
my cervix into my uterus. It will be
attached to a syringe where the fetus will
be extracted. Thank you Roe vs. Wade.
The doctor looks at me and shakes his
head in disappointment. My other two
kids are outside on the playground—I
can see them from my window. I turn to
the nurse who strikingly resembles
Nurse Ratched from Cuckoo’s Nest. I
start shaking and convulsing. That’s
when I wake up.
*
Last Thursday I was late for
school, but managed to sneak in the back
of my homeroom without the teacher
seeing me. I was tired as always from
staying up late watching Conan, not that
I could sleep anyway. I couldn’t stop
thinking about the fact that the clinic had
closed at three o’clock that afternoon.
I’d gone right after school and didn’t
make it there on time. What do they
expect high school females in need of
reproductive health care services to do?
It’s not like I could’ve asked my dad to
write me an early dismissal note so I
could go get some morning-after pills
and condoms. I woke up late and didn’t
have time to put makeup on, so basically
I looked like shit. As much as I didn’t
want to care what I looked like, I did. I
did a lot. Unfortunately, it’s always
been hard for me not to care about those
things. The day was going all right until
my classmates reminded me that I had
an English paper due fifth period—an
English paper I thought was due later in
the week. Luckily, I had just dropped
math and had second-period study hall.
Second-period study hall has been
saving me a lot. It sucks that Mrs. Stern
is a stickler for grammar and detail. I’ve
never been too good at either one of
them. I remember this obnoxious kid
next to me saying I should make up a lie
to my teacher about how I work late or a
family member died and that was why I
couldn’t finish the paper.
What a
douche bag. I would never do that. I
hate excuses and even though I always
have a good one, I never use them. And
anyway I had bigger things to worry
about than a stupid English paper. I
could’ve been pregnant for Chrissakes.
First period I have Earth and
Space class. Since my teacher just plays
filmstrips the whole time, I snuck out of
the room without him even noticing. I
went to the bathroom and sat in my
favorite stall. The sentence, Tracey
McGavin is a U.T.S. (USED TAMPON
SUCKER!!!), has been written in
permanent marker on the door of the
stall. Ah, the creativity of my fellow
female high school students. Tracey
supposedly is my friend, but she’s also a
huge slut. I never minded the comment
about her and actually still find it quite
humorous. As I sat in the stall, I hoped
168
to Jesus that I’d get my period. I sat
there for a good ten minutes when I
decided that, if I kept sitting there
waiting for it, it was never going to
come.
I went back to class and
concentrated on writing my English
paper.
By the second period bell, I had
finished my English paper. It was
absolutely horrible but not that bad for
doing it in forty-five minutes. The day
slowly dragged on and all I could think
about was that goddamn nightmare. I
couldn’t even imagine having to decide
whether to have a baby or to abort it.
This was a major distraction and because
of it, by last period I had failed one test,
a pop quiz, and the paper. I didn’t give a
shit though. At least I wouldn’t until
report cards came out. As I stood in
front of my locker packing my bag, Josh
approached me. He questioned me
about how everything went the day
before, and I explained to him how I was
in a hurry. He was pissed but still asked
to come along for the ride.
I parked my ‘84 Volvo station
wagon two blocks away from Planned
Parenthood. My mom works at a beauty
salon in town, and I didn’t want her to
know I was going there. I shouldn’t
have even cared. She probably wouldn’t
have cared. Actually, I really don’t
know how she would have reacted. But
still, I put the hood of my sweatshirt up
to stay incognito. I remember Josh
gently kissed my cheek when I opened
the car door to get out, but I resisted him
and pushed my head away. I headed
towards the clinic while Josh stayed in
the car.
*
Josh is my best friend. Well,
basically, my boyfriend, but we decided
not to call it that so it would be easier
when we break up. I always thought he
was too cool for me. When he first
kissed me I thought it was a bet with his
friends. It wasn’t. It turned out he really
liked me. He is not the best looker in the
world but easy enough on the eyes. All
that really doesn’t matter to me. He won
me over, which is not easy to do, with
his humor. He is the funniest person I
ever met. Making me laugh is quite the
challenge, but it’s always easy for Josh.
I was looking through his wallet once
when I found my YMCA membership
card from the previous year. He must
have picked it up in my room or
something. It was taken after one of my
sporadic once-a-month workouts. My
acne is thriving, not to mention my hair
is slicked back, sweat is dripping down
my forehead, and I am cracking up
laughing in the picture; I don’t
remember what at, but it must have been
pretty funny. I always tell him I hate
that he keeps that picture of me, but
really I love it. For once something I
can’t criticize. He doesn’t keep a senior
portrait or a school picture of me; he
keeps
my
embarrassing
YMCA
membership card. Soon after the day I
found that picture we started having sex.
*
So there I was, biting my nails in
this scheisty-ass waiting room of
Planned Parenthood. I would have been
there the day before, but it was closed.
Just my luck. It was my first trip there
and I couldn’t seem to grasp how
comfortable the skanks were that sat in
the waiting room with me. They talked
loud, chomped on their gum, and
laughed at each other’s lame jokes. It’s
like an errand for them. Like a trip to
the 7-11. I could never imagine being
169
like, “Pick me up some bread, milk,
eggs, and, oh yeah, and some emergency
contraception pills.”
I was embarrassed to be sitting
around such trash. But still, I deserved
to be sitting with them. Meanwhile, this
poor chubby redhead girl sat in the
corner covering up her freckled face
with a pair of sunglasses and a bucket
hat.
I sympathized with her—I
automatically assumed she got raped.
Then I felt bad because the only reason I
thought that is because she looked way
too fat to have a guy make love to her.
I’m such a bitch sometimes. As my
mind drifted away from my fellow
females in need, I returned to filling out
the form. I put my real Social Security
number but changed my name. I wrote
my name as Phoebe Caulfield—named
after my favorite fictional character’s
younger sister. I filled out all the other
pointless questions: Have you ever used
a condom? How many times have you
had sex? And then I handed in the form.
About fifteen minutes later, they called
my alias.
I went into an office in the back
where I started talking to this
enormously fat Spanish woman. I was
extremely embarrassed to have to talk
about something so intimate with a
complete stranger, but I put my head up
and got through it. She asked me when I
had unprotected sex, and I told her
Saturday. I was almost too late to use
the emergency contraceptive pills
because it was five days ago. I totally
bullshitted my way through the
conversation with the lady.
“We were drunk, it was a huge
mistake, never again,” I convincingly
said. She lectured me about how it’s
necessary to always use a condom. I
really don’t know why he forgot, or why
I forgot to remind him. It was definitely
a stupid mistake. Angry with myself, I
stayed silent. Tears began to stir up in
my eyes, but I held them in. She gave
me morning-after pills anyway. It cost
me seven dollars. I was to take two pills
that night and then the other two twelve
hours later. I left the “P-Squared,” as
called by the girls in the waiting room,
with an information pamphlet about sex,
a dosage of emergency contraceptive
pills, and a paper bag of condoms.
Planned Parenthood helped me out. I
really like what they do there and I’m
glad to know if I ever need help from
them again, they’re there.
*
People would be surprised about
how common it is for girls to take
morning-after pills and have abortions. I
can understand the morning-after pills
because they are taken right away and
the only effects are, well, it feels like a
huge hangover—drowsiness and the
spins. But an abortion scares the living
shit out of me. I can’t even imagine!
It’s so painful too. Megan Siwiki had
one back in the tenth grade. She never
talked about it, but unfortunately in high
school the whole school ends up
knowing everything you try to hide. I
remember sympathizing for her. My
friends all trashed her and said how they
would keep the baby and all this gay
shit. It is so much bull. You don’t know
what you’d do until you are in the
situation yourself.
I always try
reminding people when debating about
abortion that it’s not like getting a shot;
it’s a painful, disturbing experience. The
woman goes through a lot of physical
and mental baggage. I always try to
stick up for the underdog. Megan Siwiki
was one of them.
170
*
*
The whole car ride home was
silent. Before Josh got out of the car to
go home, I comforted him by saying,
“There’s only, like, less than a onepercent chance. It’s nothing to worry
about.”
Then, I drove over to my friend
Tracey’s. My friends observed my
frustration and decided that we all
needed to rent a chick flick and watch it
together. They rented “Ten Ways to
Dump a Guy,” or something retarded
like that.
All I thought of while
watching that movie was ten ways to kill
myself. I could only come up with eight.
I couldn’t believe that people actually
paid money to make that movie. The
only good it did was take my mind off
the fact that we forgot to use a freaking
condom. At the end of the movie, there
was a girl singing a song called “Feels
Like Home.” My friends all raved about
it. I know this song very well; it’s
written by one of my favorite musicians,
Randy Newman. My friends cut me up
so much all the time for listening to
Randy. I’ll be jamming out in the car,
and they’ll all be like, “Dude, this sucks.
Put on Buffet!”
Jimmy Buffet and his fans would
probably be rated number two and three
on my list of top ten things I hate. Right
up there with hangovers, homework, and
that ridiculously stupid Kate Hudson
movie. I guess that means I hate my
friends too. Well, anyway, the mockery
of my liking for Randy ended when I
told my friends the song they liked so
much was his. It felt good telling them
that he wrote that song. But the lame
bitches had to look it up on the credits
because they didn’t believe me. I really
don’t even like my friends. They’re just
kind of there.
I stopped at the Shelbyville Mall
before I went home. A man was lying
limp on the floor. Security-type people
surrounded him. They weren’t doing
anything but staring at him. If he was
injured, they weren’t even helping him,
and if he was dead, they were not trying
to revive him for sure. After I lost
interest in what I figured to be a cry for
attention, a guy came up to me and
asked, “What happened?”
“I have no idea,” I said. The guy
told me they were taking him away in
handcuffs. I felt bad. No one likes to be
handcuffed,
not
even
criminals.
Sometimes I wish I had the balls to steal
stuff, but I’m always stopped by the
thought of being handcuffed. I didn’t
want to end up like the guy that the
whole mall was staring at.
While
shopping for a new CD, all that I could
think about was how I wished I would
get my period.
I looked through
numerous CDs but couldn’t find
anything I liked. That always seems to
be a problem with me. There were huge
posters of different musicians hanging
up all over the Sam Goody. A huge
poster of Janis Joplin was right above
me. Unfortunately, I am named after
her. Joplin Breckin is my full name.
Pretty much everyone calls me Lin. I
hate my name. Especially when kids
would call me Joppy in elementary
school. That has to be the most not cool
nickname of all time. My whole family
is named after musicians. My older
brother’s name is Reinhardt and my
older sister’s name is Lennon. I would
prefer either one of them to my name.
Joplin is just—it’s just not a first name.
People always tell me how cool it is to
be named after Janis Joplin, but I really
171
don’t even like her music at all. And
then there is the fact that she is one of
the most famous alcoholics and people
to die from a drug overdose of all time.
I guess it could be said that I was
destined for greatness from my birth. Or
maybe it is just that my parents were on
a sick acid trip during the birth of all of
their children. I thought about how if I
was pregnant, I’d name my kid 50 Cent
or maybe J-Lo to keep the tradition
alive.
I was only in the Sam Goody for
about a half an hour. I ended up getting
nothing, nothing except for more
frustration from my indecisiveness about
purchasing a CD. I had to go home.
I pushed my back door open and
entered my quaint row home.
Surprisingly, my sister was home.
Unsurprisingly, her eyes were beat and
she was smoking a clove. She just is too
damn cultured to smoke cigarettes. I
was glad she was home. I thought it
could be my only hope to find some
reality; she’d at least comfort me.
“Baby girrrl!” She elongated my
household nickname in her scratchy
voice that fits her vagabond lifestyle
perfectly. Lennon has to be one of the
coolest people I know. Carefree and
optimistic, she is the complete opposite
of me. The last time we’d heard from
her she was braiding hair from a street
cart in Florence. That was three months
ago. I never really did get the point of
her going to Europe. Lennon always
talks about the museums there. I bet she
hasn’t even seen the majority of the
museums in our city. Ah, I still love her.
I hugged her more tightly than I ever
had; despite our six-year age difference
and the fact that she first left home when
I was eleven, we are extremely close.
She offered me some weed but I refused
it. Smoking weed never did much for
me, except make me paranoid about,
well, paranoid about everything. Before
I got two words in, she broke out her
picture book. I was flipping through her
photographs of Florence, Milan, and
London, when I stopped cold. My eyes
were wandering from the pages, and my
sister was well aware. She blew a ring
of smoke out the kitchen window and
told me to talk to her. The thing I love
most about Lennon is the way she
listens. Listening is a quality not many
behold, but Lennon, she has it. I wish I
had her patience. I went on and told her
everything—me failing my test, Planned
Parenthood, the shitty movie, and the
guy in handcuffs. Lennon listened, but I
couldn’t help thinking that all she was
focusing on was the fact that her
younger sister had grown up. I wanted
her to be worried for me.
“It happens to the best of us. It’s
really nothing. I’ve taken plenty of
morning-after pills in my day,” she said
as I poured a glass of water and
swallowed the pills. It was 6:48 p.m. I
shoved the other two in the pocket of my
jeans. I’d take them in the morning. I
thought her reaction was ridiculous. It
shouldn’t happen to the best of us, and I
really don’t think it does.
“Don’t worry, you’re not
pregnant,” she continued while blowing
another ring of smoke in the air.
The fact is, I realty didn’t think I
was.
That wasn’t necessarily the
problem.
“I don’t know,” I abruptly
responded.
I was disappointed with our
conversation. It’s not like it mattered;
Lennon would be gone in a week or two
anyway. She never hung around long
enough to help me through my
problems. She kissed me goodbye. She
put her clove out in a flowerpot on the
172
windowsill, slung on her tote bag, and
disappeared out the back door.
Goddamn pothead.
I read a note on the fridge. My
mom was bartending, so she wouldn’t be
home until three a.m. I wished she were
home. I would have told her, I would. I
inherited my sarcasm from my mom, so
she’d probably have just thought I was
joking and told me I needed an enema.
An enema was Mom’s cure for
everything. Thursday nights are insane
where she works. I knew she wouldn’t
be up until the next afternoon. My dad
was down at the local dive, Finley’s Pub.
That’s where he always is. I could never
talk to him about it; he’d call up
Reinhardt and his buddies and they’d all
beat the shit out of Josh with their bare
fists. My family’s useless in helping me
cope with my problems.
The cell phone has to be the most
annoying invention of all time. Josh
called three or four times, but I ignored
every one of his calls. I made myself
Bagel Bites for dinner and accompanied
them with a can of Pepsi and some
channel surfing. Before I could choose
between criticizing Friends or Seventh
Heaven, Josh knocked at my back door.
I let him in; I was going to have to face
him sooner or later. He sat across the
kitchen table from me and dug in on the
Bagel Bites.
“I don’t even know why I’m so
worried. Think about how long it takes
for some women to get pregnant. I can’t
be.”
He kept chewing and stared
down at the table for a while, nodding
his head like he was really
comprehending something deep. He
suddenly looked up. He used his sleeve
to wipe his mouth off instead of
grabbing one of the napkins two inches
away from him on the table.
“I love you and no matter what
you want to do, I’ll support you one
hundred and ten percent.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“I’m serious. I want you to know
I’m there for you,” he continued.
I turned my eyes to the thirteeninch television set. The pastor dad was
combing his daughter’s hair.
“Give me a break,” I muttered.
Josh was immediately offended.
“Jesus Christ, Lin. You know
you’re the most pessimistic person I’ve
ever met. All I want is for you to know
how much I care about you and that isn’t
even good enough. Nothing is good
enough for you. I try so hard and all I
get is your cynicism.”
I was so easily torn apart. I
wanted to cry. I wanted to punch a wall.
I wanted to just run away. I kept my eye
on the pastor dad who was now hugging
his daughter. From the corner of my eye
I could see Josh’s wrists holding his
tilted head up out of distress. He lifted
his head up and stared at me. I couldn’t
look back. He said, “I have to go,” and
made his exit. Still staring at the
television I whispered, “I’m sorry,” but
just like with everything else, I was too
late.
*
Before I went to bed I climbed
up on the roof of my house. It’s easily
accessible from the window of my attic
bedroom. As I lay down on my rooftop I
attempted to light a Marlboro Menthol
cigarette. The breeze was too rough to
light the cigarette, yet it fell so smooth
when it brushed my long straight hair
against my face. Finally as the breeze
calmed down I lit the cigarette, lay back
on my Little Mermaid sleeping bag and
gazed into the sky. The stars and the
173
moon all fit together perfectly like a
postcard that night. The moon reminded
me of a fingernail after I would bite one
off, or what I wanted it to look like.
Biting my nails was a habit I never
seemed to be able to shake off. My
mom constantly attacks me for the habit,
but still never enough to make me rid of
it. All I wanted in that moment was to
name the constellations, but I couldn’t.
It made me regret never making it to
school in time for my Earth and Space
class. The sounds of cars speeding down
the nearby highway, crickets chirping,
and a backyard barbecue down the block
all harmonized into a perfect song for
me on that hot and breezy evening. I
blew a ring of smoke into the sky. From
where I was positioned it looked like a
cloud floating over the moon. For some
reason I was quite amused by this and
repeated it consistently, until the
cigarette was nothing but a bud to flick
off the edge of the roof. I then thought
about how embarrassing and funny it
would be if someone from school saw
me right then. With my oversized white
tee shirt on that has armpit stains. Not to
mention, my large polka-dot underwear
that looked like a pair my grandmother
would wear. I don’t even recall where
they came from or even if they were
mine, but what I do know is they were
worth looking ridiculous because they
were comfortable. I began laughing out
loud at myself. I stared up at the stars
and began to wonder about my life and
what was to happen in it. I began
thinking about the slight chance that I
could be pregnant. I would’ve loved to
receive my menstrual cramping at that
time. The tears now began to roll down
my cheeks and like always I tried my
best to hold them in. Of course that just
made it harder for me to breathe and
made me cry even more dramatically.
Josh was right. I really can be a
bitch. My own cry drowned out Josh’s
voice that had been haunting my head as
well as the harmonized sound created by
my surroundings. My head began to feel
heavier because I was crying so much. I
could taste the salt of my tears and the
unusual comfort of warm snot on the top
of my lip that I oddly enjoy so much.
The stars and moon had now flooded
into one bright white light conceived by
my tears. Licking the top of my lip I
thought about going back to my
bedroom and calling Josh. I’d apologize
for being so pessimistic all the time. I
eventually got down and went straight to
bed.
*
The next morning I woke up in a
small puddle of blood. For once, I didn’t
mind washing a period stain out of my
sheets. Along with them, I threw in my
regular laundry. I picked out my jeans
from the day before and reached into the
pocket. I went to the sink, cupped water
in my hand and swallowed the remaining
pills, along with my pride. I wanted to
let Josh know as soon as possible. It felt
good to know that my biggest worry was
to admit to him that he’d been right
about me.
RACHAEL ELLIOTT
I graduated from Penncrest High School in 2004. Currently, I am a student at Temple
University studying political science. When not concentrating on schoolwork, I work as
a server in a downtown Philadelphia restaurant and take dance classes, as well. I’ve been
taking dance lessons since I was young, and it is an essential part of my life.
Reflection on Cynical Girl
I failed a test the day I began writing this story. Actually, I just made that up. I
don’t really know if it was that I failed a test, got in a fight with a friend, or didn’t get a
decent role in the school play. All I remember is that I was angry about something while
I started writing and then couldn’t stop. This was the period in my life when I was
growing up and beginning to see things in a new, mature perspective. When I read this
story today, I can’t help laughing. While writing this story I tried to make the main
character as unlike me as possible. So of course I read it now and see more similarities
than I would like to admit. I was always known as this happy, goofy girl, and it made me
angry because whenever I wouldn’t be happy it would be obvious. I think this story had
a lot of elements and feelings that are a part of me that I never felt comfortable
expressing. “Cynical Girl” helped me to allow some of those feelings to escape.
It was important to me that the story include no deaths, divorces, or anything that
could too easily explain the root of Lin’s cynicism. She’s just a girl going through the
same old stupid stuff that most teenage girls go through. It’s quite plain and simple. This
story is for any girl that has ever sat in the waiting room at the Planned Parenthood,
received her period a couple weeks late, not been able to stand her friends or boyfriend,
or felt that she is just not really good at anything. I’m sure any American teenage girl can
relate to something in this short story. At least, I hope so.
I always enjoyed writing for myself, but never for school. I have horrible
grammar skills. On almost every paper I’d get back, teachers would write that I had good
ideas but too many run-ons and poor punctuation. A lot of those problems I had with
“Cynical Girl,” but, luckily, because it was chosen for the school literary magazine, I had
the chance to fix them. When I read “Cynical Girl” now, a couple years later, I’ve fully
convinced myself I’m not half bad of a writer. It gives me confidence that even though I
may not have a 4.0 GPA or excellent grammar, I still can write an effective story—
especially when it comes down to something I care about. I never thought anyone even
read our school literary magazine, the Gryphon, but the response I got from this story was
amazing. What amazed me most wasn’t even the fact that people were telling me the
story was great but that they’d actually taken the time to read something I wrote. For me
this was enough—though the compliments, of course, were rewarding. I’m really proud
of this story.
I’d like to thank the brilliant Emily Schu, the editor of the Gryphon in 2004, for
her help, hard work, and faith in the story. She helped it all come together. Special
thanks go out to my amazing family, especially my older brother, James. Without his
critiques on my sister and me growing up, his witty humor, and his love for Woody Allen
films, this story would never be. I’m grateful to James for teaching me not to care too
much about what other people think and for reading me and Lauren Catcher in the Rye,
out loud, when he was drunk. He is a great brother.
175
Teacher Reflection
Romantic Comedy in Rachael Elliott’s Cynical Girl
In her reflection Rachael Elliott reveals that, if only indirectly, Woody Allen films
had some effect on her writing of “Cynical Girl.” There’s something to learn about
comedy from this connection—specifically, something about romantic comedy, which, in
a sense, is what “Cynical Girl” is. In the traditional romantic comedy—let’s say, for
example, Sleepless in Seattle, a movie that many readers may know—the protagonist
starts out reluctant to get involved in a romantic relationship, for reasons we sympathize
with (the wife of Tom Hanks’s character died recently, so he can’t imagine loving
another woman); by the end of the story, in spite of his reservations, he gives in to the
power of love.
Nora Efron, the writer and director of Sleepless in Seattle—as well as the writer
of When Harry Met Sally—describes two different kinds of romantic-story conflicts: in
the one kind—as in Romeo and Juliet—powerful outside forces prevent two lovers from
being together; in the second kind—as in When Harry Met Sally and certain Woody
Allen films—the lovers are prevented from being together, not by outside forces, but
inside, or internal, psychological, forces, which exist only in the mind of the protagonist.
These protagonists are often neurotic—that is, overanxious, oversensitive,
obsessive about everyday things—and self-conscious, often aware of the fact that their
own neurotic behavior is keeping them from enjoying life, specifically a romantic
relationship. In certain Woody Allen romantic comedies the protagonist fails to make a
relationship work, even in the end, when we might expect a happier ending; whereas, in
When Harry Met Sally, Billy Crystal’s character not only realizes the destructive effects
of his own neurotic behavior, but also manages to win the heart of the woman he loves.
In “Cynical Girl,” Lin is a hilarious neurotic. Her observations of people, not to
mention her “apologetic” self-criticism, which often follows her criticism of others, are
not only funny, but insightful. She can hardly stand herself for having such a ruthlessly
critical eye, but, it seems, she can’t help it. We sympathize with her; after all, she seems
to be surrounded by fools and ignoramuses—from the women at Planned Parenthood, to
her friends, to her parents and sister, to her boyfriend, Josh. Of course, we get only one
person’s perspective of Lin—Lin’s perspective of herself—that is, until Josh challenges
her cynicism, by offering his devotion, which she dismisses with wisecracks.
We come to realize—before Lin herself realizes—that she uses her cynicism to
distance herself from people, not only from those she deems offensive or foolish, like the
women at Planned Parenthood or her friends, but from those she loves—her parents, her
sister, and even Josh. With the exception of Josh, people are continually disappointing
her. So, rather than get sad and emotional, she gets witty and becomes detached. Often
Lin’s lighthearted mockery turns bitter and then dismissive. For example, at first Lin is
excited to see her sister, hopeful for a meaningful conversation with “the coolest person I
know,” gushing with admiration at her sister’s “vagabond lifestyle,” weaving in only the
subtlest criticism; but Lin is disappointed by their conversation and concludes of her
sister, “Goddamn pothead.” And so the story goes: after wry depictions of her parents
and siblings, she concludes, “My family’s useless in helping me cope with my problems.”
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Though we laugh through much of the story, we begin to sense that the path of the
neurotic can lead only to loneliness. Josh represents Lin’s last hope. By the climax,
when Josh confronts Lin, the significance of her pregnancy takes a back seat to the
significance of her cynicism, which she uses once again to dismiss Josh’s sincerity.
Inevitably, she is alone—but the author never loses her comic touch, nor does Lin lose
her wit, laughing at herself, in armpit-stained T-shirt and grandma underpants, smoking
cigarettes on the roof. Along with her tears comes an epiphany, the realization that Josh
is right about her. In the final paragraphs her cynicism turns to honesty. Early on in the
story Lin rejects the term “boyfriend…so it would be easier when we break up.” At last,
with Lin eager to start anew with Josh, this “neurotic romantic comedy” ends happily.
Exercise
Write a “romantic comedy” told from the point of view of a neurotic protagonist, whose
anxieties and obsessions provide the story with humor while preventing romance from
blooming fully, and whose cynicism distances herself from the people around her, until
she realizes, finally, that her neurotic behavior is undermining her love life.
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Breath
Paul Scherer 2004
The neighborhood slept in the
darkness.
Then a phone rang. Its shrill
cries echoed through the house of David
Hallsley. Slow to react and still dazed
with lack of sleep, David reached
groggily for the phone, his hand
stumbling over his bed table like a
newborn animal struggling to find its
footing. David had only begun to rest in
the last hour, to let the darkness surround
him. As he picked up the phone, David
heard the first telltale whimpers of a
waking baby. With the receiver to his
ear, David turned to face the crib. He
had just transferred it to the alcove of his
bedroom. “Hello?” He heard a sharp
intake of breath, a quick sniffle, and the
click of the other receiver hanging up.
His eyes adjusting to the semi-darkness
of bare illumination by a light in the hall,
David sat up and quickly ran his hands
through his hair, as though making sure
it was there. The baby had started to cry
in earnest. His wails, bouncing off the
walls, carried through the empty house,
searching for a response. He’s hungry,
David thought, climbing out of bed and
stepping onto a wet towel. He put his
hands under the child, hesitating only
slightly with impractice, and carefully
walked down the carpeted stairs. His
fingers tripped over the bottle as he
warmed it; he felt only slightly
ridiculous pouring a few drops onto his
arm. It took only a short time for the
baby to be fed, burped, changed, and
sleeping again. Back in bed, David
resisted the urge to reach out to the
empty space next to him, knowing who
would not be there.
*
He had not slept soundly since
the night the sheriff woke him up.
While slipping into his worn, brown
robe, he had staggered down the steps,
cursing at whoever was pounding at the
door. He prayed that Michael would
sleep through the disturbance. Staring at
a pair of wrinkled eyes, disproportionate
through the glass hole in the door, David
swung the oak barrier out of place and
saw three officers standing there. They
had asked to enter…but they never
looked at his eyes, he later realized.
That should have been the first clue.
David ushered the men to sit and then sat
himself. It had been quick, they told
him. His wife, Julia, had died in a car
wreck. Their words had rolled around in
his head since that night, marbles too
large to be flushed out with tears. The
sheriff had stared at David’s feet while
he filled in the details. There had been a
drunk
driver…and
a
dangerous
intersection…David nodded and soon let
the uncomfortable men leave the house
of mourning. They had knocked on the
door and come and gone.
He was no longer in disbelief.
He knew. Their knock had shattered his
house of glass and sent the world he had
created spinning off its axis, just slightly.
How could he have known?
*
Caroline came alone a few weeks
later, when the commotion surrounding
the funeral had died down.
Her
sunglasses veiled her eyes; her hands
shook. She had rung the doorbell with
the incessant urgency of a tortured and
chased soul. The sunlight was harsh in
the afternoon; its intensity rushed her
through the door and into the cooling
shade of David’s drawn windows. She
178
held her arms about her shoulders,
shuddering with each breath; it had taken
everything for her to come. David
closed the door behind her, hesitating to
shut it as his eyes took in the situation.
He murmured a slight, unanswered
“Hello” that she may not even have
heard. David peered into the kitchen,
watched the baby in its electric swing for
an instant, the gentle tick-tock-tock that
had permeated through the house
interrupted by this strange sensation of
desperation.
Caroline sat on the edge of the
couch, uneasily, wringing her hands and
eventually removing her sunglasses.
David sat near her but did not touch her.
She had become drawn into herself. “It
began two years ago,” her quavering
voice cracked with strain, desperately
struggling to keep a steady flow of
syllables. “My sister said she couldn’t
stand being chained down. Then the
baby…” She made a slight gesture
toward the child in the other room.
Unable to say anymore, she leaned into
David and pressed her mascara-stained
cheeks to his shoulder. She had said
enough. Her tears spilled onto his blue
shirt and crept outward to form a deepblue stain. More tears came. They ran
down his arm, trickling down the side of
granite cliffs. He had hardened in those
instants of betrayal. His wife had not
been coming home from buying
groceries at all, nor had she been running
any other late-night errands. She had
come, flushed with excitement, from a
man David had never heard of, a man
he’d known nothing about. Julia had not
found happiness or satisfaction with him.
David felt himself crumbling from
within. He led his sister-in-law to her
car, the wheels screeching as she fled the
scene. He walked back inside, his son
beginning to gurgle and awaken. He had
promised at his first glance that he
would never abandon his child as he
himself had been abandoned. He had
made the promises his father had never
kept. He would love the child. He could
not let him go. He swept his son into his
arms, flattening his wisps of hair against
his head. His tears hit Michael and ran
down the back of his head. Hearing the
child’s slight whimper, David pressed
his son more closely to his body.
*
David’s stomach dropped as he
pulled into the lot and parked his car.
Taking a deep breath, he pressed his
palms to his eyelids, the force causing a
burst of stars and colored ribbons to
shoot out of some part of his brain and
strike his consciousness.
The car’s soft idling sounds did
nothing to soothe him. The gently
blowing heat at his feet still left him
chilled. Turning off the ignition had
taken on an eternal significance; for
David, it symbolized the point of no
return. He opened the door and stiffly
swung himself out of the car, supporting
his frame with a hand on the car roof. A
chill passed over his skin and hit into his
quivering stomach as he stood and read
the metallic, silver sign on the building:
Wilson Medical Laboratory. He had
come here a few weeks earlier, that time
with his son. He felt his shoes grip the
pavement. Glistening in the sun, the
glass door’s stainless-steel handle
beckoned him forward.
Suddenly, he felt naked, standing
motionless at the threshold of the
building. He could hardly open the
door, much less cope with the
information he would soon hear. He
pressed his forehead to the glass,
suddenly feeling its coldness as the glass
179
absorbed his body heat.
Suddenly,
gripping the door with his gloved hand,
David pulled himself inside. The dark,
stone-polished floor reflected his image
back up at him. The tempered lights
shone behind frosted glass plates. The
walls, white save splotches of muffled,
seemingly bleached, modem art, were
barren. He felt his stomach drop as he
came to Dr. Heisen’ s office door. He
pressed the cold, metal handle to his now
ungloved hand and turned it. The
waiting room was quiet. A woman sat
beside a window, tears at the corners of
her eyes, her hands limp, a scrap of
paper in her lap. The ruffles of her skirt
stirred just slightly, the loss of a dream
seeping out of her. It was only his fear
that kept David from looking on her with
pity.
David brushed by much of the
sparse room, building up enough
courage to plow forward to the
receptionist. She spoke into a receiver in
muted tones, her eyes glued to a
computer monitor, utterly withdrawn
from the plight of others. Her voice was
soothing, but her hands were constantly
in action; her feet tapped and her leg
swung in barely perceptible arcs of utter
boredom.
Her hips, widened from
sitting for hours, were glued to the chair.
A Diet Coke with a plastic straw was not
far from reach. She flicked a pencil toand-fro between her fattened fingers.
He walked to the desk in a quiet
way, his shoulders stooped low. His
eyes scanned her face, searching for any
sign indicating that she knew his secret.
She looked squarely at David and then
brushed him off with a wave of her
hand, as though shooing away an
impertinent waiter.
His momentary
hesitation, his manifest uncertainty,
delayed his retreat for a fraction of a
second. Reaching to close a glass
partition, the receptionist sealed herself
off, as if she were not already. David
walked to a chair and sat on its edge, the
uncomfortable lip of the vinyl pressing
against him. As if hiding from some
omnipotent truth, David closed his eyes,
his hands covering them. Slowly, he
reached behind his head, lowered his
torso, and shielded himself. He exhaled,
not having realized that he had been
holding his breath. A moment later he
inhaled, held his breath and waited for a
sound from the secretary. He gradually
began to think that he would never be
called. The seeds of hope grew in his
chest, as the receptionist’s suddenly
harsh, hard voice startled him even
more. “May I help you, sir?”
Pressing his hands to his knees
and lifting, he stood up and walked over
to her. “I would like the results for
David Hallsley.” His plea was uncertain
on the first syllable but soon fell back
onto the safety of the phrase that he had
practiced the previous night when unable
to sleep.
“Is that you?”
“Yeah,” he stuttered, pausing,
then continued, “I came in a week ago.”
“Do you know that your results
have been in for days? You paid extra to
have them rushed.” It was a statement,
devoid of sympathy.
“Yes.” He stared back at the
receptionist, ready to leave.
She swiveled in her chair,
reaching into a low filing cabinet. Her
hand reached into a file, its black cover
momentarily blocking her fingers. She
extracted an otherwise ordinary, plain,
white envelope. “Is there anything else
you need?”
“That’s all. Thanks.” David put
the envelope into his upper, left-hand
jacket pocket and buttoned his coat. He
pressed the envelope with his right hand
180
and felt it. Without looking at the
receptionist again, he turned around. As
he heaved the door open again, he knew
that he had crossed a threshold that he
could never return through.
The sun shone in shifts; the rapid
swirling of clouds above him mixed
sunlight with shade. He opened the car
door and lowered himself to the driver’s
seat. With another affirmation of the
presence of the stiff paper, he inserted
the keys and left.
*
The hours of brooding in his car
as he waited had not prepared David for
the sight of his wife’s lover. From
Caroline, he had learned the man’s
name. James Hugo. It seemed sudden
when James emerged from his office
building, unaware of being watched.
James affected an air of happiness and
success, but David thought he saw, or at
least he hoped, that James’s carefree
attitude masked his pain. The sight of
his wife’s lover was neither a shock nor
a push to deny the truth. The man’s
existence was simply a confirmation of a
horrible truth that David had not wanted
to believe. James made everything that
David had taken as truth a possible lie,
another possible fallacy. A part of
David wanted to lash out at the man who
had taken his wife from her rightful
pedestal, the man who inspired David to
question his son’s identity. Another side
of David made him want to shame the
lying bastard, to heap society’s wrath on
his head.
As he continued to watch the
man eating in the deli next to his office,
the pounding blood in David’s ears
slowed. David could see how James
would tempt a woman. He had sleek
black hair and deep-blue eyes; his chin
and cheeks were slightly dimpled. His
frame showed regular exercise, but the
way that he carried himself suggested
that he had seen the world. His swagger
had taken him through the Italian Alps;
his crossed arms had gazed on the great
matadors of Spain. Julia had always
understood people; she would have
recognized the man’s worldliness.
David could almost visualize her
approach, a demure glance cast across
busy tables. She had sat with him,
chatting in her charming way, throwing
her head back to let the wind catch her
hair. David saw her first almost daring
herself to stay and then gradually letting
herself be swept away in his charm.
They must have met secretly. James
would have known about David. When
they were close, would either have ever
thought of what they were destroying?
David looked out his side mirror
as if averting his gaze from the picture
that had begun to form in his mind. But
the question lingered: What was it that
he gave her that I couldn’t give? The
simplest answer would have been
affection, doting, and physical love. But
that isn’t Julia, he told himself. There
had to be something else. Perhaps she
was trying to escape the normalcy that
had begun to encircle their lives. The
arrival of the baby had toned down their
time for each other, but neither had had
much more time for the other before.
Maybe it was for the danger, maybe for
the escape, maybe… David’s mind had
gone blank. I’ll never know.
David softly rubbed his temple
with his fingers, his eyes open and
staring unfocused in the direction of the
speedometer. He raised his head and
glanced once more at James. His chest
raised with the intake of a breath, and his
eyes shut for several seconds.
He
opened them again. David’s car came to
181
life quickly, then disappeared, driving
away from the cafes and the bustle of
commerce and into the endless blocks of
the suburbs.
*
When David arrived back home
it was around two o’clock; his mind was
scattered.
He entered to find the
babysitter ogling over the baby, her
blond hair forming a tent around the
baby’s head. The child was laughing in
the soft, almost soundless way that
babies do. She left after a few more
quick glances and funny faces in the
baby’s direction. David went into the
kitchen and stirred up a bottle. Sitting
on the couch, he fed his son, no longer
unsure of how to act or what to do. His
meal over, the baby was changed. He
fussed when David tried to put him
down for a nap. In the end, David lay
down on the couch with Michael, softly
cooing the baby to sleep.
When
Michael’s breathing had become light
and even, David looked down the length
of the couch, the only noises the slight
breaths of air. David imagined their
future, the coming years passing as a
rush of memories, here then gone, like
wisps of smoke in the wind. He saw
Michael, growing, learning how to ride a
bike…asking him about girls a few years
later…shaving for the first time, father
and son playing with lather…high
school graduation, his son accepting his
diploma…
Father and son soon slept silently
on the couch.
*
In the farthest corner of his
closet, David hid a shoebox. He stayed
awake that night, filling the box with
everything that he wanted his son to
know someday. David had put inside a
few of his love letters from Julia, his
will, a stream of thought put to paper of
how he felt when Michael was born, a
few things about fatherhood, a letter to
his son of his regrets to date, and the
letter he had never opened. The hex was
sealed with a mass of tape, never to be
opened accidentally.
The next day, whenever he
opened his closet door, David would
surreptitiously glance into the corner.
David was and always would be a good
father. He knew it. After Michael was
born, while he waited outside of me
room where Julia and her newly born
son slept, he had glanced through one
magazine after another. One line had
struck him and came back with stunning
clarity: “In every breath we take, we
breathe the atoms of each and of every
other living creature with the exception
of those of the very young.” David
knew that Michael was breathing now
the breath of his father, using and
expelling it, without ever being able to
know if it was David or James. David
had that day promised to himself that he
would love Michael as he deserved to be
loved.
David could not fall asleep the
next night. The soft breathing sounds of
his young son did not comfort him, but
rather made just enough noise to keep
David awake. He rolled over and faced
Michael. His son felt distant. David
reached out to his son and tried to doze,
synchronizing his breathing… But he
couldn’t.
There was something
different. Some discordant element was
destroying the harmony of their lives.
David rolled over. His eyes flicked
involuntarily to his closet. He knew
what was there. David got up.
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Moonlight streamed into the
bedroom through the uncurtained
window. The infant was bathed in the
pale glow. David could hardly bear to
reach down and feel his son’s soft skin
under his callused hands. Michael’s
innocence glowed from within, a hidden
quantity held just below the surface.
David turned around, faced his closet,
and threw the door open.
It slid
noiselessly. David’s hand plunged into
the darkness of the closet; it sensed
where the shoebox was and grasped it
firmly. David could not bear to open the
box in front of his son; he would not
know how to live with himself if he built
another wall between them.
David stalked into the kitchen,
found a pair of kitchen shears and a box
of matches, and ripped open the bonds
holding the box together. He found the
letter sitting on top of a pile of joyful
memories and extracted it. The feeling
of the cool, smooth paper against his
skin sent tingles up his arm. Walking
outside, David found himself only
slightly chilled. He stepped out onto his
driveway and saw the moon shining
brightly. It was almost full. A light
breeze played games in the treetops, its
footsteps the slight indentations in the
line of leaves. He lit a match. The
yellow warmth heated his skin. He
slowly brought the flames closer to the
letter. The charcoal-black color that
always precedes a flame had just begun
to appear on one corner of the envelope
when the breeze extinguished the flame.
David stared at the letter. The thoughts
of an unsatisfied wife and of her careless
lover flooded David’s mind. He had
questioned his ability to connect to his
son. He lit another match and cupped it
against his body, tightly. The fire
burned steadily. He again tried to light
the letter. The flames grew closer to his
fingertips, singeing them. David hardly
felt it. Finally, the letter began to burn.
David dropped the match. He watched
the black ash dash ahead of the
engulfing flame as the barrier between
his son and himself slowly disintegrated
into a pile of gray dust. David released
the envelope just before it reached his
fingertips. He watched the breeze carry
it away, waiting till the moonlight no
longer illuminated the remaining scrap
of paper.
The light that had been gone for
weeks rekindled in his eyes. He turned
away from the scrap of paper and headed
back towards his house, his son, his
future.
He was free.
PAUL SCHERER
Since graduating from high school in 2004, I have studied biology in the College of Arts
and Sciences at the University of Pennsylvania. However, as of spring 2006, I am
currently taking a writing course in the experimental short story. This has given me an
opportunity to get back into reading and even writing short fiction.
Reflection on Breath
I have always had trouble coming up with ideas for creative writing assignments.
When I started writing “Breath,” I had only the vaguest idea of what I wanted to say. I
did not feel comfortable writing about someone my own age, so I decided to go out on a
limb and try to get into the shoes of someone much older. One of my favorite short
stories is “Air Mail” by Jeffrey Eugenides, who said that his goal was to write a story
“wherein death and enlightenment would be indistinguishable.” I really liked his idea of
combining two completely disparate concepts in the climax of a story. In the beginning I
lacked a clear vision of what I wanted to accomplish, but as I wrote I gradually developed
the notion that I wanted to combine the concepts of unconditional love and complete
ignorance, or indifference.
Before I can start to lay out a scene, I find I have to visualize the entire course of
the action in my mind’s eye, and then I have to make sure that I describe enough of what
I see so that I convey the right mood, tone, and action of the scene. For example, when
writing about the conversation between David and Caroline, I was watching her walk
through the door unsteadily, and I knew the guilt she carried. My goal was to provide a
descriptive narration. To know if I have actually managed to convey a scene as I saw it
and to see how far I still have to go, I find comments from an outside reader to be very
useful. In writing “Breath,” I was fortunate enough to have an excellent reader. I will
always be grateful to my friend and classmate at the time, Emily Schu, who provided
essential help at every stage of writing, without which I am sure that the final result
would have been a poor shadow of its present self.
Rereading my story two years after I wrote it, I find there is little I would like to
change. It is far from perfect, but I simply do not think that I could get back into the
frame of mind I was in when I wrote this story. There is one point I would like to
address, a question I’m asked quite frequently after someone reads “Breath.” What did
the letter say? I always say that I never made that decision. The most important idea I
hoped to get across was that the contents of the envelope are truly irrelevant.
184
Teacher’s Reflection
Starting In Medias Res—In the Middle—in Paul Scherer’s Breath
Paul Scherer begins his story in medias res—a Latin term meaning “in the
middle.” That is, the present action of the story begins after significant events have
already taken place: it is through flashbacks that we witness police officers delivering the
news of Julia’s death, and Caroline revealing the secret of her sister’s affair; it is through
back story that we learn that David has already completed blood tests to learn the identity
of his son’s biological father—in fact, when David goes to the laboratory, in the present
action, we discover that the results have been available for four days now. All of this has
already happened. Needless to say, considering the chronological timeline of all the
story’s events, the author does not start at the beginning; rather, he actually delves into
the present action soon before the climactic action, when he burns the blood-test results.
Why does the author “bury” compelling plot elements in the past and reveal them
through flashbacks and back story? Why not begin the story earlier and flesh out these
crucial scenes in the present action?
In the first scene of “Breath” we see a father caring for a crying baby; and then he
“resisted the urge to reach out to the empty space next to him, knowing who would not be
there.” At this moment the story moves in two directions—both forward and backward;
that is, we wonder not only “what will happen next?” but also “what happened?” The
second scene transitions smoothly to a flashback, to the night David learned of the car
accident that killed his wife; the third scene transitions smoothly to another flashback, to
the night Caroline informed him of Julia’s affair. These flashbacks work well, because
we are as interested to learn about David’s past as we are about his future. We are onethird of the way through the story before we actually get to the compelling present action,
when David goes to the lab—but, even then, we learn that the blood-test results have
been available for four days.
The format—or the structure—of the story reflects David’s core conflict, his fears
and desires. The truth of the matter—as we ultimately discover when David burns the
test results—is that, deep down, he doesn’t want to know the truth about his son’s
biological father; rather, he wants to be, as Paul writes in his reflection, “completely
ignorant, or indifferent.” His love is unconditional. It makes sense, then, that the story
starts so “late,” or “in the middle,” because David must, first of all, shed the past before
he can deal with the present; put another way, the past is part of David’s present conflict.
The early flashbacks serve to demonstrate David’s ongoing struggle to reconcile himself
with the truth about his wife—and with the potential implications of her affair; only after
he accepts the past can he confront the mystery of his son’s DNA and set himself free.
Exercise
Write a story—or even just write the opening of a story—beginning in medias res. For
fun, test out potential beginnings as close to the climactic action as possible, perhaps even
in the instant before the climax—or even after the climax. Remember that the reader will
wonder not only what will happen next? but also what happened already?—what
happened that led up to this moment in time? Use the mystery of the past to create
185
suspense. Consider how and where you might most effectively weave the past—through
flashbacks and back story—into the present action.
Share the Darkness
Patrick Shubert 2004
I can’t say I expected it to end
any better. The week had been hollow
that way. Predictably enough, things that
seem too good to be true slip away under
the slightest inspection.
I allowed
myself to be drowned and stirred in the
moment.
Lying out under these stars, it’s
all so simple again. The sky spreads out
above my head with an omnipotent
grace, touching the four corners of the
world in an indefinite moment. It can
see through me, through my antics, my
intentions, my mistake. She must have
seen my world this way too. The road
lies cool against my back, and it holds
me here in this hopeful eternal moment.
So much has happened, and so much has
yet to happen. I am here. Even now in a
frozen silent frame, which I manage to
inhabit, headlights approach, taillights
recede. The world seems moist and real,
seeping through me. There was no way
to know better, no “right” answer that
could have prevented this. It just was.
I had been tired but happy. It
was a feeling that had become the
standard mode of high school existence.
The grass was fresh under my bare feet,
and my muscles, though sore, were still
alive. The moment was familiar; the
players exhausted and content to retreat.
“Aw, hell, Mack, we have an
optics test tomorrow, don’t we?”
“Tuesday morning test, yup.” It
sounded right at the time. Why would
anyone think I knew? I didn’t care. I
opened my trunk, pulled out my socks,
and stashed the ball away. The sky had
begun to feign death, only to be
awakened again at some point in the
uncertain future. I had best set home.
Already a dozen friends had piled into
various cars across the lot, with
diversified destinations in mind. A few
hung by the gate to the field, preaching
in boastful voices of plans for the Friday
dance. I had little taste for the public
debates of girls’ merits, which would
soon follow. It wasn’t that I found it
offensive but that I had very little to say
on the subject traditionally and added
little to the weekly post-game
conversations. Pulling on a light jacket
and tennis shoes, I usually would head
home after my game and stop by a
coffee shop on the way. After spiking
my tank with a necessary cup of caffeine
Java, I could head home and face the
tedious reality of my evening homework.
I slipped into my car unnoticed by the
remaining crowd and pulled out of the
parking lot at sunset as the remaining
boys cast long, lazy shadows on the field
in the remaining daylight.
The shop was a small
comfortable one, bathed in earth tones,
but it did little to calm my pre-work
anxieties. At any given time I felt I
carried the weight of my unscheduled
appointments. I made my way out onto
the street, coffee in hand, half dazed by
the mental manifesto of work to be
completed later in the night. A call from
across the street woke me.
“Mack! What are you up to?”
My eyes crawled the sidewalk for the
familiar voice of my friend Andrew.
“Coffee...alone?” he continued. “You
goon. A bunch of us are coming back
here tonight, grabbin’ coffee and
studyin’ optics. You want in?” I
thought for a moment. I knew the
chapter fine but the session would be a
necessary escape from my house.
“Sure, what time?”
Andrew paused for a moment, as
if to think before speaking. “Eight, I’ll
see ya there.”
187
*
I found myself back at the shop a
little after eight that night, physics book
tucked uncomfortably under my arm. A
dozen people had already arrived and
were milling about, insulator cups in
hand. The class’s top students were
gathered around a medium-sized table,
paging through unnecessary tomes of
notes as top students tend to do. In a
corner opposite them were some juniors,
studying for their own physics test the
next morning. The air caught my throat
as I worked my way into the room. It
was thick with thought.
I made my way over to an empty
table between the seniors and juniors and
sat down. I was already exhausted. It
wasn’t a bad day by any measure, but it
was tainted. Every day had lost its joy to
me, wrapped in a heavy veil of college
anxieties. I wondered where I’d be in a
year. I wondered how I would pay for it
all. A light guitar strummed in the
background of the dimly lit café. I
wanted more than anything to be that
guitar player. I wondered what it would
be like to be a gentle undercurrent of
contentment under the overtones of
everyone else’s professionally driven
lives. I was slipping into sleep while
waiting for Andrew, and the idea of
doing any work at all was unpleasant. I
hoped no one would approach me at the
table. Andy found me quickly.
She didn’t seem anything special,
but that was my fault. Rachel had sat
behind me in class the prior years. We
had never talked. I didn’t even know
she took physics. Now she stood there
next to Andrew, her neighbor.
“These seats taken?” Andrew sat
down before waiting for an answer.
“Rachel’s gonna study with us. You
don’t mind, Mack.”
“Yeah…no.”
There it was,
undeniable work sitting in front of me;
there was no way for me to slip out of it
now.
The night is somewhat of a blur.
Andrew circulated tables while Rachel
and I tried to get a grasp on our tests.
She was younger, but I was no help.
Less work got done as an unexpected
conversation grew slowly. If you ask me
now what she said to me, I couldn’t tell
you. It’s not that I wasn’t listening; it
just seemed unreal. I had never talked to
her before, but it seemed full and
familiar. Our physics books sat open
between us, lonely and unstated. We
procrastinated and were distracted by a
conversation that ebbed lightly with
guitar in the background. It seems like a
dream, and perhaps it was. Slowly the
room emptied, but we were unaware. I
was still surrounded by the thoughtful
ghosts of those who had been present
hours ago, but I only saw her eyes. It
was the perfect time of day, until closing
time.
We said our goodbye as we
moved into the street. It was a shy,
unwelcome goodbye.
It was a
pleasantry after a conversation to which
we had both wished there would be no
end. I climbed back into my small car
on the opposite side of the street and
threw it into gear for home. The back
roads were dark, with very little
moonlight to cut through the crisp
November air. The stars pierced the
blanket above me.
They were
innumerably large and inexpressibly
small all at the same time. The darkness
was interrupted by delicately powerful
points of light. I had never seen them
before. Not like this. Perhaps the
conversation had dipped into a dream,
188
and I had now been returned to reality
with a quiet celestial key. The stars
were cast east over me as I drove west
past fields of corn and alfalfa.
I
remember thinking, I’m not alone
tonight.
That night I lay in bed awake. I
wanted to show her. My ceiling spun
above me as I reconsidered my few
hours awake. I could see through the
ceiling, through those hours of light,
where suns burned overhead invisibly. I
had been missing something. As I
walked down the cold sidewalk and
worried over my colder future, life spun
out around me unseen. How was I so
blind? It was always there, all around
me and without her I held myself close
to it. What she said to make it clear
remains a mystery. I didn’t remember a
deeply philosophical conversation or any
revelation. It just had been there. I
wondered if she felt it too.
*
The next day, school passed
before I realized it had begun. The
physics test seemed practical, nothing
outstandingly hard or easy, and a bunch
of kids decided to stay after school to
finish up a take-home portion of the
exam. I hoped Rachel would be there. I
found Andrew instead.
“Yo, Mack, what do you have on
problem seven?” Andy inquired.
I looked down at my pages of
work. Number seven was blank. “Um, I
haven’t gotten to it yet…”
Andrew continued his work, not
giving me so much as a disappointed
glare. Finally, he looked up at me with a
half-crooked grin.
“Maybe you’d have finished…if
you hadn’t had such a good time last
night.”
“Aw, go to hell, man. You’re
kidding me. I was just helping her with
Physics.” I paused a moment. “And
stuff…”
“And stuff…and stuff…” Andy
laughed.
My face filled with blood as I
tried to defend myself against Andrew’s
unwarranted attacks.
Luckily, the
subject herself chose to interrupt our
conversation. I noticed Rachel as she
walked through the door.
“ …and stuff. You two are
cute.” Andrew laughed, unaware she
had entered the room.
I shot him a dirty look and threw
my eyes towards the door. He turned to
see her nearby and then sent me back an
embarrassed shrug. My eyes returned to
Rachel; I wanted to say something.
“Hey, Mack,” Rachel called to
me.
“Hey, Rach, how’d you make out
on your test?” I asked with a sincere
notion in mind.
“Well, I probably would have
been better prepared if I actually spent
some time studying last night,” she
laughed.
I felt accountable. “Oh, I’m
sorry. I talked your ear off, didn’t I…”
I managed to mumble a short apology
before she interrupted me.
“No, no really, it’s fine. I just
didn’t see it coming. Had we ever even
talked before?”
I didn’t know.
Suddenly I
realized I had probably seen this girl
every day in classes the previous year,
and never taken the chance to look
deeper.
“I don’t know,” I chuckled
awkwardly. “Hey, if you’re not too busy
tonight, how about I be a distraction
again? Want to grab some coffee?” If
189
my question was awkward, her response
was even more so.
“Sure, I’d like that.” She forced
the words out, “Look, I’ve got to head
over to play practice but take my cell
number and call me around six-ish?”
I took the instructions as if they
were a holy quest.
*
That night I called Rachel at
6:01—fashionably late. We decided to
meet again at the cafe that had been so
kind to us. I found her about a half hour
later sitting at our table from the night
before.
I had never realized how
beautiful she was. It was that quiet
understated beauty, the type that just
seemed to lie asleep under everyday life
until you manage to awaken it, and then
there’s no way out. Our words trumped
those from the night before. Everything
seemed familiar and comfortable; she
seemed familiar and comfortable. Again
we lost track of time, and when we
realized it was almost nine, we hurried
out onto the sidewalk. It was another
cold November night, with not a single
cloud to blanket us. As I walked her
back to her car, we both looked towards
the sky. There were countless stars, all
hanging just above our heads. I watched
her watching them. I didn’t need to
show her; she just seemed to know.
“Let’s pick one,” I asserted.
“What?”
“Let’s pick a star, our star.” I
hung back about five feet out of my skin,
watching myself. What are you saying?
It was that kind of sentimental bullshit
you might see in a 1950’s romance B
film, but I liked it.
She hesitated for a moment and
looked up at the sky. “That one, just
below the other three in the line.”
I found the star without trouble.
It was ours. “It’s amazing. I think you
picked the best one.” We paused and
looked at each other. It seemed as if
hours passed before we said goodbye,
and she reached for the door handle of
her car. In truth, that moment couldn’t
be long enough.
That night, I lay in bed awake
once again. I could see through my
ceiling; it had practically melted away
from my room. I could see our star. I
felt the stars pierce my mind, cold and
distant, warm and ever present.
I
wondered how I had never seen them
before, such beautiful things gone by
unnoticed. It made me wonder what else
I had been missing. I felt as if I had
been admitted into a new corner of life, a
niche that felt more right for me than
anything I had ever known.
The rest of the week passed in
the same ether as Monday and Tuesday
nights. I saw Rachel each evening up
until Friday.
We talked about
everything. Religion, goals, and music
fell victim to our evening conversations.
I didn’t ask her about Friday’s dance; it
was all going too well.
*
I wandered into the school lobby
about an hour late, as upperclassmen
tend to do. Music leaked from the
closed cafeteria as freshmen ran across
the hallway, screaming and carrying on
over the social event of their naive
adolescent existence. I just wanted to
find her. I pushed my way through the
crowd of toddlers in make-up and
grown-up clothes, into the cafeteria.
The music and lights were mildly
disorienting, and I felt congested as
crazed dancers surrounded me. I spat
words at casual acquaintances and
190
friends as I pushed my way through the
crowd of dancing ninnies towards the
front of the room. I saw her through the
crowd; she was more beautiful than ever.
Surrounded by friends I didn’t know, she
laughed and shouted over the music at
an unfamiliar guy. She leaned over and
kissed him.
I don’t remember forcing my
way out of the cramped cage of
teenagers, fighting fiercely for space. I
don’t remember storming out of the
school to my convertible in the parking
lot. I don’t remember throwing my car
into gear and peeling out of the parking
lot, no sound destination in mind. I
couldn’t go home; my parents would
only fill my night with inquiries and
concerns; they wouldn’t understand. I
couldn’t even understand. It had all
seemed so right. It had all been so fake.
I felt my heart pounding against the back
of my bucket seat, my car sliding across
country road past fields and livestock. A
clearing was familiar. I saw my Monday
night field. I pulled my car into the
vacant lot, and threw my door open,
slamming it a moment thereafter. The
field was empty, given a second life by
the night, and I made my way up the
short embankment between the parking
lot and the road. I took a step onto the
cool pavement, still looking across the
street into the open field. I didn’t even
see it coming. Thinking back now, I
realize it was a small black car that must
have whipped around the turn as kids
like to do.
The collision felt light. I felt my
body tossed by the force of the car, a
final physics question left unanswered.
The car paused for a moment, quivered,
and then peeled out, leaving me behind.
The taillights faded into the distance.
The road pushed against my back, cool
and solid beneath me. I wonder how it
could have all been such a sham. I
wonder what I saw, if it was ever really
there. How had it all faded away, like
my ceiling? I’m tired now. As I push
my eyelids apart, a familiar sight
descends. I peer into the sky, my body
spread across the road, and a single star
falls on me. All the beauty is still there.
The heavens glow, cutting through an
inexpressible darkness. It swallows my
world, and I feel no alarm now. The
innumerable specks of light sit over my
head, ever present, unaffected by my joy
and my tears. They had always been
there, the constants of my life, unstated
and unrealized beauty. Only now is the
darkness so warm, as my body’s heat
dissipates into the cold earth. I can feel
my life seep away into wet pavement.
No questions, no answers reach me now,
as I watch the sky and sleep.
191
PATRICK SHUBERT
For a long time I considered writing to be a hobby, which would be pushed aside at the
slightest glimpse of an opportunity for professional or educational advancement. At the
end of my senior year at Penncrest, I had pretty much wrapped up the “liberal arts”
portion of my life as I set out for Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University. My aspirations
were purely focused on becoming an Air Force Pilot. Little did I know, the school’s
location in Daytona Beach would provide me with a great deal to write about. I believe
that a certain poetic element is inherited in the air that has kept me off the ground for the
past two years. It’s hard to look down over miles of ocean and civilization without
feeling a few heartstrings tug at you. “Share the Darkness” was one of the first stories I
ever wrote that gave me a strong insight into myself. Just as the protagonist, Mack,
found himself staring into the heavens above him, I have been doing the same in my
recent endeavors as a pilot. What I’ve found is an infinite source of stories. After every
smooth landing, stepping back onto terra firma, I find it almost essential to tie up the
aircraft and head right back into the pilot’s lounge to sit down with a cup of coffee and a
pen. The only thing that I am more grateful for than those smooth landings that
contribute to hours of writing are the rocky ones that contribute days worth. There is
very little course-based writing that I am responsible for, but I have probably filled more
notebooks in the past year than my entire life prior to it. Call it self-administered therapy,
I’ve finally learned to write for the sake of writing.
Reflection on Share the Darkness
I wrote this story because I had just come out of the longest relationship in my
life, one that gave me great joy and allowed me a fair amount of personal growth. With
that chapter of my life behind me, “Share the Darkness” was a way to remind myself that
I was still alive and life was just as beautiful. I wrote a story that allowed me to explore
the idea that even after you’ve lost it all and you’re bleeding on the asphalt, the world is
still a magnificent thing.
Originally, my vision was to write a story about how one human being might be
able to open brand new doors for another human being. The story was supposed to point
out how caring about someone might offer a unique perspective. After I got about half
way through, I realized that the story was contained inside the protagonist, and that
whatever he had learned shouldn’t hinge upon dependence. The best way to do that was
to take away his love interest, introduce some betrayal, and force him into a situation
where he could appreciate his life completely alone. So the story took an unexpected
twist and reflected my change in thought. Mack realizes that the newfound beauty he
saw in the world is still there, it has always been there, and he is able to come to peace
with his ending life.
As I look back on the story now, I don’t think I would change a thing. My level
of satisfaction hasn’t changed a bit since I finished the last draft. “Share the Darkness”
will always be the first story I wrote that I invested a part of myself in. However, my
interest in it has changed slightly since the day I first submitted it. Now it seems more
like a milestone or a time capsule for a ton of vital lessons I learned. I have built upon
that milestone ever since.
192
It’s interesting to think about how the stories we write—and the stories we read—
reflect the stages of our lives. I recall that back in high school, I was reading primarily
science fiction and war novels. My story held very little resemblance to what I had been
reading at the time. More recently, I’ve been reading a lot more historical novels, as well
as theologically centered pieces. As a result, my interest has shifted to exploring those
ideas through writing, and most of my recent scribblings have focused on ordinary
skeptics struggling with their spiritual and mental inhibitions. My newest interest has
been writing screenplays and producing short films with friends at school. Last summer I
was lucky enough to make a short film with friends from Penncrest, which piqued my
interest.
I’m a notoriously anal-retentive individual. That being said, the copy of the
Gryphon literary magazine that my story was printed in has sat upon my shelf ever since I
moved into my new apartment. Every fictional piece I’ve ever written sits upon the shelf,
ordered chronologically, with the Gryphon at the very beginning. I hadn’t read over my
story in full since the summer after my senior year, that is, until very recently.
193
Teacher Reflection
The Unlikely Narrator in Patrick Shubert’s Share the Darkness
There are countless classic stories—and novels and plays—in which the
protagonist dies in the end; of course, such a fate for the hero defines the tragedy. But
typically when we’re reading a story told in the first-person point of view, we don’t
expect the narrator himself to die. After all, we buy into the illusion that he’s telling the
story “now,” as we’re reading—or we at least assume he was alive when he told the
story. In a way, it is all the more extraordinary that in Patrick Shubert’s “Share the
Darkness” the unlikely—and intriguing—narrator isn’t dead yet, even in the story’s final
moments.
Technically, this narrator tells the story, as he recalls it—by way of flashbacks
and reflection—lying, dying, on the asphalt, where we find him in the end—and, of
course, where we’re introduced to him in the beginning. Needless to say, writing such a
story—and making it convincing—is no easy task. The “narrative stance” of the story is
unrealistic, at least in the sense that we can’t imagine the dying protagonist literally
writing down the story’s he’s telling, or even relaying the story at all. Patrick draws us
into the narrator’s mind, where, in fact, the story unfolds. The opening is so honest and
compelling, and the ending is so convincing—the turn of events so moving—that we
never pause to question the aesthetic qualities—the “impossibilities”—of the fiction.
In our Modern Literature class we read Jeffrey Eugenides’s short story “Air
Mail,” in which the protagonist dies in the final scene (or at least his death is implied, as
he slips out of consciousness). The story, unlike Patrick Shubert’s, is told in the close, or
limited, third-person point of view; so, even though the narration has provided a
subjective view of the story (capturing the protagonist’s perspective), we don’t throw our
hands up in the end, as we might if the protagonist were the narrator himself, and say,
“Wait a second! You can’t be dead! You just told us the story!” In the third-person
point of view, the narration provides the author some “distance” from the consciousness
of the main character, a “distance” that the first-person point of view does not afford.
In another modern story, Willa Cather’s “Paul’s Case”—a classic—the narration
leaps from the close third-person point of view to a more distant omniscient point of view
immediately after Paul hurls himself in front of a train, killing himself, in the end; after
all, once he’s dead, there’s no “Paul” point of view to capture, and so the narrator “pulls
back,” like a movie camera offering a “wide shot” of the world that keeps spinning, even
after the protagonist has passed on. The narration, particularly this shift in the end, is
crucial in achieving the story’s devastating effect. There are no absolute rules in fiction.
There’s no rule that says you can’t tell a story from the point of view of a dead person, or
an angel, or an unborn baby. But it’s always a good idea to have a point.
Exercise
Write a short story, or even just a paragraph, from an unusual or unlikely point of view,
either in first-person or close third-person. Your main character may be alive and well,
not necessarily dead or dying. Consider circumstances that would make telling or
relaying—let alone physically writing—the story difficult. Your choice of narration
should be integral to the point of the story. That is, for example, if your protagonist is a
194
pastry chef, locked inside a walk-in freezer, the story, at some point, should be about his
being a baker in these particular circumstances—not just about a nice memory he has of
flying a kite with his uncle.
Anticipating
Morgan Tuohy 2004
The early morning sun splintered
through the frost on the windshield. I
was too numb to raise a hand to cover
my eyes.
A combination of my
exhaustion and the biting cold. I let the
light hit my eyes and force water to the
surface. I’m not really much of a
blinker. I was in my car, still parked
right outside my house. The keys were
still clanking in the ignition, swinging
side to side. They made a sound like the
ticking of a clock. It had been 6:13
when I left the house. I had no idea how
long I’d been sitting in the car. I didn’t
want to look at my watch.
I was supposed to be on my way
to Alyson’s, but I couldn’t get myself to
start the car and leave. It felt nice to sit
in the cold, and to be up with the sunrise.
I used to see many sunrises, but lately
I’d been lying awake all night, only to
fall asleep finally around four a.m. I
hadn’t slept at all last night. It was a
strange feeling.
Everything seemed
blurred, and yet I was wide-awake. At
first it felt heavy, but after a while my
head got light. I’d spent all night
thinking about Alyson, about today.
Last night I’d experienced a kind of
wakefulness in which I could detect
every minuscule sound in the room: the
ticking of the watch on my dresser, the
house settling, the moths fluttering
against my window. Too much was
coming into my ears and out of my
thoughts at the same time. My eyes had
refused to close; they’d kept shifting to
the clock, watching the hours go by. I
didn’t know what time it was now, but I
knew it was still early. We wouldn’t be
late if I just sat there for a little while
longer. A neighbor got into the car in
front of mine and drove off.
I continued to sit there, not
moving my head. I didn’t want to look
back at my house. I didn’t want to be
tempted to run right back inside. I stared
at the empty parking space in front of
me, tensing and relaxing all of my
muscles. This made me warmer; I could
feel the blood moving in my veins now.
I did this for maybe five minutes, getting
even closer to the appointment time.
Finally I raised my hand and clumsily
turned the key in the ignition.
*
I know that when she told me, I’d
sat in front of the wheel much as I had
this morning before leaving. There had
been a long silence, in which I stared at
the dashboard, my mouth drying as I
fumbled for something to say. Alyson
sat as close to the passenger side door as
she could, leaning her head against the
window, pressing the side of her
forehead against the cold glass. I was
almost afraid she might push her way
out through it, shatter the glass and crawl
out away from me. I could hear her
breathing, and I wished that she would
say something more. I wished I didn’t
have to be the one to speak next. I was
afraid of saying something negative,
even hurtful. I knew that would be
ridiculous, completely unjustified, but I
felt something that made me want to
burst out. I had to push it down.
“Aren’t
you
gonna
say
anything?” she asked without looking at
me. Her voice was heavy, exhausted. It
sounded as if she’d been up for nights
waiting for this conversation.
“Well,” I began, my voice
scratchy inside my throat, “what are you
expecting me to say? How upset I am?
Or whether I agree that this is the right
way to handle it?” How I can’t believe
196
that this is happening? When I looked
at her, I realized that this wasn’t the right
approach. She looked hurt. “I’m sorry,”
I said. “I really just don’t know exactly
how to react right now. I wasn’t
expecting
this.
It’s
a
little…disconcerting.
Well, a lot,
actually.”
“I know.” She turned to face me
finally. “I was thrown off too. But it’s
something we have to deal with. I really
wish we didn’t have to deal with it, but
we have no choice.” Her voice was
shaking and she looked ready to
collapse. I put my hand on her cheek;
she was unresponsive. I pulled it back.
*
I took my time as I climbed the
stairs to her apartment. It’s only one
flight of stairs to get to her hallway,
eleven steps. The building was quiet. It
felt deserted, dusty. The walls seemed a
duller gray than usual. I thought maybe
they needed to be cleaned. The steps
creaked under me, so I softened my
footing.
I wanted to apologize to
someone for being so noisy, but there
was no one. I stopped at the top of the
stairs and sat down. A few more
minutes wouldn’t make a difference. It
wasn’t much warmer inside than it had
been in my car, so I put my hands in my
coat pocket. I realized then that I hadn’t
checked to make sure I had my wallet
before I left; I always checked. Having
my hand in my pocket I confirmed that it
was there, and then finally looked at my
watch. 6:57. I got up and walked the
length of the hallway to the last door on
the left. She must have unlocked the
door after she buzzed me in. I walked
in, entering the living room. Alyson was
sitting cross-legged on the couch,
immobile. When I looked at her face, I
thought that mine must have looked just
like it twenty minutes ago in the car. No
furrowed brow, no grimace, just wideeyed and tight. She turned her head just
slightly and watched me move to the
couch. When I sat down next to her, she
turned back to her original position. I
fought the urge to take up the same
posture and instead sat sideways so that I
could look at her. If she felt my stare
she didn’t show it. Her sandy-blonde
hair was still wet and tangled from the
shower. There was a wet spot on the
back of the couch behind her. She was
wearing a short-sleeved shirt and I
thought she must have been cold, but she
looked indifferent.
We
hadn’t
talked
since
Wednesday. It was now Saturday. We
were alone in the apartment because
Alyson’s parents were up in New York
for the weekend, again. I wanted to say
something, something that would make
it easier somehow. At least something to
get a reply from her. I waited for
anything to come to me, but she spoke
first.
“Brian?” she said, as if she were
unsure it was me beside her.
“Yeah,” I replied reassuringly, as
if this were a completely normal way to
greet each other. I looked at her more
intently, hoping to force her wordlessly
to look at me. Instead, she closed her
eyes. This reaction stirred something in
me. I felt as if she had just taken a blow
to the head and I had to keep her awake
in case she had a concussion. “Hey,” I
said as gently as I could, not making an
accusation but just trying to keep her
attention.
“I’m still with you,” she said,
“it’s just the light’s giving me a
headache.” She looked as if she were
meditating, and the urge to keep her with
me conflicted with a desire not to bother
197
her; maybe she would be happier if she
could tune me out along with everything
else. I decided just to wait for her to
come out of it; it would do no good to
push her.
It was almost hard to believe that
Alyson and I had known each other
since we were fourteen. Not that we’re
so much older now, but things were just
very different then. Simpler. We’d met
in an art class freshman year. To my
fourteen-year-old eyes, she was the most
beautiful thing that walked the earth.
But I had to wait for months before she
noticed me. It was understandable; I
bore really no distinction. My artwork
was bland, and I was never very
outgoing. She was talented, beloved,
smart, opinionated. I had dreams about
saving her from some peril, sweeping
her off her feet. Dreams that never came
true. Our relationship was never so
dramatic. When she finally began to
take notice of me it was only expressed
in small, polite smiles. Other than that,
she didn’t seem to have a thought for
me.
After a while, the smiles turned
into hellos, and eventually I got up the
nerve to ask for her opinion on a project
or two.
We’d get to talking and
discovered we had a lot in common, and
finally started talking outside of class,
too. In the spring there was a big dance,
a Sadie Hawkins thing. For days I
dreaded the thought that I might have to
see Alyson ask someone else. Every
time she talked to another guy I got a
sinking feeling in my stomach. But it
never happened. Two days before the
dance, she came over to my drawing
table and looked over my shoulder. The
nearness of her made me nervous. I
started thinking that what I was working
on was horrible and that she was
probably laughing to herself about it.
“That looks pretty good,” she
said, surprising me. “You’ve gotten
better, you know.”
“Thanks,” I spit out meekly.
“Actually, though, you showed me how
to plot out these lines last week.” I
pointed to the contour of a chalice.
“That was a big help.”
“I only gave you a little nudge.
You would have done fine without me.”
I looked at her for the first time since
she’d come over to me; she smiled and
turned her head down slightly, almost
shyly. I became very anxious then, very
aware of my posture. I straightened up
in the second or two that she wasn’t
looking at me, then smiled back when
she did. “So,” she began casually, “you
going to that dance this weekend?”
“Uh, no. You know, with that
whole
girls-ask-the-guys
thing…
Nobody’s asked me yet.”
There was an awkward pause,
and for a moment I became terrified that
she was playing a cruel joke, getting my
hopes up that she was about to ask me
and then humiliating me by walking
away, leaving me hanging there. She
seemed to notice, and hurried to correct
the situation. “Well, would you go with
me?” I smiled, too quickly, I thought,
and too broadly. But apparently that
didn’t make her think any less of me
because she asked, “Is that a yes?” I was
elated.
“Yeah,” I replied, composing
myself, “I’ll go with you.”
There was no ceremony the night
of the dance.
No confessions of
affection. We acted as if we’d been
together for a long time already. It went
without saying. It wouldn’t have been
strange to either of us then to expect that
we would still be together today. It also
wasn’t strange that we hadn’t gotten
together earlier. Everything just seemed
198
to flow from then on, as if it always had
and always would—a river that pours
cyclically into and out of a vast blue
ocean.
*
The waiting room had been
brutally white. We’d sat in stiff-backed
chairs diagonal to each other. Out of the
corner of my eye I’d watched her
flipping languidly through an old
magazine with a picture of a baby in it. I
wasn’t about to pretend that I was
interested in reading anything. I tried to
think of a way to start some
conversation. But what could I say that
wasn’t already clear to both of us, that
wouldn’t make it seem like I was trying
too hard? It didn’t matter though,
because a nurse or some other assistant
came out and called her name. Alyson
turned to me, expressionless.
“You want me to come in with
you?” I asked, without much hope that
she would say yes.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. She took
my hand and squeezed it gently. “Just
be here when I get back.” I nodded and
managed a little smile, which I kept until
the door closed behind her.
I sat there for a few minutes,
picked up a magazine twice, threw it
back down twice. I switched chairs,
then just got up altogether. I walked to
the window and looked out onto a small
garden below. At least, it had been a
garden once. But in the dead of winter
all I saw down there was a blanket of
brown with a few white and crystal
patches. I looked at my watch and
figured Alyson had been gone only
about ten minutes. I decided to get some
air.
Out in the parking lot, I
instinctively headed for my car.
Halfway there I stopped short, forced
myself to stand still and breathe. I stood
in an empty spot, looking around for
something, anything, to occupy myself.
What I saw was a small flower shop
across the street. I checked my wallet.
Definitely not enough for roses. Maybe
a cheap bunch of whatever wild flowers
they might have at this time of year. I
jogged over to the store and asked the
guy at the counter for something small,
but nice. I was happy enough with what
he gave me and walked back, at a slower
pace so as to shelter the flowers a bit.
As I did, I thought about the money I
needed. I’d have to sell some things.
Putting my free hand in my pocket, I
hoped I wouldn’t have to sell my new
leather gloves, which I had forgotten to
put on. I wanted to get back inside
where it was warm.
Instead of going right back to the
waiting room, I went to the tiny cafeteria
to get some coffee. I knew I had some
time. I put the flowers on a chair at the
table I took in the corner. I tried not to
think of much. I wanted a clear mind
when I greeted Alyson. I decided that
we should talk, have a real conversation
like we used to. I resolved to bring it up
with her. When I returned to the waiting
room, she hadn’t come out yet. I sat
with my back facing the door she’d gone
through earlier, and I just looked ahead
of me. At this point the dazed effect of
my exhaustion finally gave way to an
actual will to sleep, and I nodded off in
my chair. I woke up after about an hour
with a painfully stiff neck. I knew she
would be out soon, so I tried to make
myself look more relaxed, happier even.
I guess I ended up looking surprised,
because Alyson came up behind me and
put her hand on my shoulder. I got up
and hugged her, and she seemed really
glad to see me, as if reassured of
199
something by my presence. She pulled
my hand and we headed out.
*
I thought of last summer, a day
we’d gone to the beach. We had a picnic
and sprawled out together on a straw
mat. I hadn’t brought towels because I
hadn’t expected that we would go into
the water. I was happy just to lie there
with Alyson under the sun, but she
wanted to swim. She got up and ran to
the water, turning around every few feet
to call to me. I stayed on the mat until
she was standing at the water’s edge. I
couldn’t see her face clearly from that
distance, but I could imagine her
expression: trying to hide a laugh under
a pout, opening her eyes wide like an
innocent little girl.
I walked out to her slowly,
deliberately stalling. I knew that when I
reached her she would raise one eyebrow
and tighten her mouth, trying not to
smile at me. By taking my time I would
make it harder for her to keep a straight
face when I finally got there. She tried,
of course, and then finally laughed and
put her arms around me. She grabbed
hold of my hand and pulled me farther
into the water. When we were in up to
our necks, she stopped. I looked back at
the sand and thought it seemed farther
than it really was. When I turned back
to her again, we kissed. The kiss was
not particularly special in any way, not
passionate, not long, just warm. Her
mouth tasted like the salty air. After
we’d let go of each other, she ducked
under the water, letting me know with a
glance that I was supposed to come after
her. I dove forward and swam a few
yards before reaching her. When we
both came to the surface, it was for just
long enough to take a breath and be
knocked back under by a wave. I
tumbled for a few seconds, and Alyson’s
hand found mine. She pulled me toward
her, and we had gone a few strokes
before I realized that we were heading
farther out. For a while, we stayed
close, swimming hand in hand. When
another wave came, we were pulled
apart. Instead of being pushed back to
the sand, we just went in opposite
directions, parallel with the shore. I
didn’t fight the current, but I waited for
it to bring us back.
*
Now we’re sitting on opposite
ends of the couch, taking up again that
familiar staring position. I’m listening
to the murmurings coming from the
kitchen, where Alyson’s parents are
deliberating. I wish they would hurry up
and get it over with. I don’t want to wait
any longer for their reactions, their
charges. I don’t want to be here at all,
where there will soon be crying, harsh
words, disbelief. They’ve saved all of it
for now.
As the weeks went by, Alyson
had seemed to them to be changed.
She’d begun eating less, staying in her
room more. We were supposed to tell
them together. We thought it would help
them to recognize the blame as equal.
But they got concerned too early, and
she couldn’t keep it up in front of them
any longer. So she broke down and told
them herself, two days before we were
going to do it together. That’s why
we’re here now, like this. Anticipating
the conversation.
MORGAN TUOHY
After graduating from Penncrest in 2004, I entered the University of Delaware to study
Art Conservation, but have since changed my major to English, and I hope to someday
work in the publishing world. Most of my writing these days has been school-related, but
I have constantly kept a journal of ideas for creative work, too many and too vague,
unfortunately, for me to always be able to remember what I was thinking when I look
back at them. When I am immersed in schoolwork, I try a lot of writing exercises, just to
keep in practice.
Reflection on Anticipating
“Anticipating” was done in a very different style from what I usually like to read.
It was quiet for my taste. I like action. But in class at the time, we had read a story in
which the main character’s son was dying from a wasting sickness; the class came to a
consensus that it was most likely AIDS, but it was never actually explicitly named. It
was very clear what was going on, but still it was kept almost in the background. The
story became not about the illness, but about the relationship between the mother and her
son.
The idea of that challenge, to write a story that depends on such a circumstance
but is not about that circumstance, appealed to me. This was what I tried to do in
“Anticipating.” Technically, the plot revolves around this couple having an abortion.
After my mother read the story, she said: Neither of them is thinking about the baby.
Well, I wasn’t interested in the abortion (a loaded topic, which I didn’t want
overpowering the story); I was interested in what happens to Brian and Alyson’s
relationship. I didn’t want their collapse to make the story moralizing or preachy, but I
liked the slow dissolution of their bond; it seemed real to me.
There are plenty of small things about the story, as I submitted it in 2004, that
have bothered me since. I’ve been over it again many times, but my adjustments have all
been minor. The mood of it has remained intact.
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Teacher Reflection
The Taboo Topic in Morgan Tuohy’s Anticipating
The devastating, surprising ending of “Anticipating” comes with a rush of insight,
which we share with the protagonist himself. The “twist”—or the revelation—is not that
that “unspoken thing”—the taboo topic—is finally announced (after all, we don’t need to
be told what it is; deep down we’ve known all along, at least since the “waiting room”
scene). Rather, the surprising twist relates to something else, what the story ends up
really being about. In the final moments the story becomes not about the abortion, or
even about announcing it to Alyson’s parents—needless to say, since Alyson has already
told them the news, to Bryan’s dismay. The story becomes about something even more
specific than the protagonist’s relationship with his girlfriend: it becomes about Bryan’s
aloneness.
As we approach the ending we come to understand that the story has been about
the couple’s handling of their problem together—ultimately, about their plan to tell her
parents. However, in the final moment, the protagonist is as shocked by his revelation as
we are: she has already told them. Suddenly, his aloneness is emphasized by the
presence of her parents, who are discussing the matter in the adjacent room and who, as
such, have seized control of the situation. Instead of facing Alyson’s parents, alongside
his girlfriend, Bryan is now bracing himself for her parents’ response to the news.
What’s more, Bryan realizes, in abandoning their plan to tell them together, Alyson has
also abandoned him, or so it would seem—or feel, to Bryan.
Morgan Tuohy creates a magical moment in which the story is transformed and
defined all at once. It is important to note that while we are indeed surprised, we do not
feel that the author herself has been keeping us in the dark, that is, that she has been
withholding the story’s secret so as to shock us in the end; rather, we feel crushed,
convinced, that, like the protagonist himself, we have been living one story while an
altogether different story has been going on without us. Of course, betrayed as we, and of
course he, might feel, we must also remember Alyson, sitting beside him, feeling perhaps
as alone as Bryan does—we must remember that it was her own deep anguish that led her
to her parents. This sense of aloneness and loss is beyond our judgment—and seems to
be shared by all parties in the story, even the parents, who we might imagine devastated
in the next room. It leaves us, the reader, like the protagonist, speechless, anticipating…
In her reflection Morgan refers to “In the Gloaming,” by Alice Elliott Dark,
whose protagonist, the mother of a son who dies of AIDS, feels alone in the end,
especially in the company of her husband, who made himself absent while his son
suffered from that “unmentionable” cause of death. In the end the story is about a mother
who lost “the love of her life” when her son died. In never mentioning “AIDS”—and in
never mentioning “abortion”—these two stories succeed not only in creating a haunting
sense of the “elephant in the room,” but in thrusting into the foreground the protagonist’s
inner conflict, which of course germinated in “that unspeakable thing”—that taboo
topic—that everyone sees but dares not mention.
202
Exercise
Consider other potentially “taboo” topics like abortion and AIDS and, as Morgan sought
to do, “write a story that depends on such a circumstance but is not about that
circumstance.” First, consider how setting (time and place), culture, and values
determine such “taboo” issues within a group of people. For example, AIDS, not to
mention a son’s homosexuality, may be a “taboo” subject in one household—in a certain
time period—but a matter of common discourse in another.
Moving Out
Matt Gilbride 2005
The distant thud of the back door
closing woke John up from another
deep, beer-induced slumber. He opened
his eyes and looked over at his window.
The sunlight was covered up by the
shade so that a tiny slit of light made its
way through the room from the bottom
of the window. He pinched the bridge of
his nose, trying to make the headache go
away, and looked over at the clock.
Two-thirty. Must have been his brother
coming home from school. He got up,
walked over to his closet, and thought
for a second about putting on some real
clothes and getting started towards
Davenport a few hours early. But John
never did anything early, so he decided
once again to throw on his bathing suit.
On his way downstairs John H.
Liverwell III exchanged the same
“What’s up, dude” with his little brother
that had been swapped at least once in
each day of the last three years. John
admired his little brother, whom he often
thought should have been the one to take
his father’s and grandfather’s name.
Russ was a senior this year and John had
watched him develop into the classic
high school student that he was. A great
student, at least in comparison to the one
John had been, Russ had just recently
taken John’s advice and let his girlfriend
of two years down easy. “Shit, I
remember being right in that place,”
John had said between hits of Russ’s
little blue pipe. He never would have
guessed when he moved back home that
he’d be smoking weed this often with his
otherwise clean-cut brother. “You’ve
got to try to be as easy on her as you can,
man,” John had said, and couldn’t
muster much more advice than that.
“Good luck,” he had said after realizing
his history might make it a bad idea to
give his little brother too much advice
about women. Advice like that was
exchanged often between the two,
though John had recently realized that he
took as much knowledge away from
Russ, who was half his age, as he
imparted to him. Whenever John came
home late and felt drunk and lonely (the
two feelings almost always coincided),
he would walk down into the basement
to see if Russ was still up or sleeping
peacefully in front of the TV. When his
little brother was awake, John would
stomp down the stairs and begin
blathering on about life and what it
consisted off. Russ had memorized most
of the story long ago. “Dad really knew
exactly what he was doing with his life,
man. Listen to him,” John would assert
among epic stories about how he was
never really sure if they loved each
other. “Don’t do what I did” was his
only other notable point. Russ must
have heard it a thousand times before,
whether it was from John himself or
from his parents. “Don’t be like your
brother” was the messages they gave
him.
He understood, though the
temptation was always there.
John walked outside and planted
himself in one of the deck chairs next to
the pool where he had spent the good
part of nearly every summer afternoon
watching his skin get darker and his gut
bigger. The sun would rise and fall and
all John usually knew of it was its subtle
gleam underneath the bottom of his
bedroom shade or, when he was outside,
its suggestive heat blazing on the back of
his closed eyelids. He’d think of his son
during the day. Little Jack had been
born in Colorado when John’s ignorance
was still blissful and his drinking was
not yet a problem. Jack’s mother, Tracy,
was the love of John’s life, but she had
204
left him for her family in Iowa when his
drinking and their newfound family
began to conflict with one another. John
would think about how Jack was a
miracle, about how Tracy wasn’t
supposed to be able to get pregnant but
she did, and about how much he didn’t
learn in his twelve weeks in AA. He’d
have dreams of re-hashing his
relationship with Tracy. Maybe she was
the love of his life and maybe she
wasn’t, but with John’s thirty-seventh
coming up the next year she was the best
John would ever get. Getting married
and finally having his family were more
important than love at this point. Such a
reunion, John thought, would save his
life. He had no career to focus on and
no hobbies to distract himself with.
Darkness and drunkenness defined his
life, as it were, and unconscious images
of his ex-girlfriend and son’s shiny blue
eyes and sunny-blonde hair were the
only things that kept him going.
He woke up three hours later,
blinded by the sun, and immediately got
up and marched inside. He remembered
that Dad would be home from work soon
to hassle him about car insurance and
other debts that he knew existed but
rarely admitted he had, so he showered,
got dressed, and went out.
John Sr., a well-established
father of four who couldn’t wait to get
the first out of the house, again, returned
from work to find his oldest again gone.
The empty space left on the driveway
where John Jr.’s Jetta was usually
parked reminded him of the empty space
that would be left in his wallet if his
oldest son stopped making car payments.
He knew from the beginning that he
shouldn’t have co-signed a financing
agreement for a brand new car for a son
who couldn’t pay off magazine debts,
but John Jr. was persistent and
manipulative. Once the father signed the
contract he couldn’t go back. So far
there hadn’t been a problem. John Jr.
hadn’t been late with a single payment,
but Sr. had a feeling this was a
temporary condition. Little John was
always impressive in the beginning of
his endeavors: A’s freshmen year of
high school and college, followed by C’s
and D’s for the next three. For the first
six months of his stay, John was
completely sober, worked all week and
all weekend, paid off nearly all his debts,
and picked up a hobby of taking long
bike rides. For the past two and a half
years he had rediscovered his love for
drinking, began sleeping in until late
every afternoon, worked less, and
allowed the gears of his bike to rust out
from under-use. Big John loved all of
his four children but he sensed the first
would never stop being a heartbreaker.
He picked up the mail, which someone
had gotten before he got home from
work. There hadn’t been a letter from
John’s bank stating that he was
overdrawn since the summer started.
Nor, during that time, had Big John ever
been the first one to get the mail. Even
when Little John was at work all day, the
mailbox would be empty when Big John
got home. That left one person left to be
snagging the mail as soon as it came
every afternoon—Russell. Russ had no
reason to get the mail and had never
been courteous enough to do that favor
for his parents before, and he and his
brother had actually grown quite close
since Little John moved in. As with
most of Little John’s little tricks that he
pulled throughout his childhood and his
adulthood, his father had a strong
suspicion of foul play but no proof.
Russ was down in the basement
as usual. His father walked to the
doorway and asked him how his senior
205
year of high school had started off.
“Good,” his youngest said. John Sr.
could rarely get more than two words at
a time out of the newly eighteen-yearold. It had been that way for years.
Now that his last child was about to
leave the house for college, the
traditional father of four was finally
realizing that he had spent the majority
of his fatherhood at work, and that when
he was home he was usually still
working. Amy, his wife, his lovely wife
of more than thirty years now, had been
begging him to get involved since John
Jr. was born. Big John had been
struggling with his newly discovered
chronic absence recently. He wondered
if his oldest son’s problems were partly
due to the fact that he was never home
when he was a kid. Hell, he had barely
graduated from college when Amy
announced that she was pregnant with
their first child at the age of twenty.
When John Jr. was growing up, John Sr.
was in the prime of his work-hard playharder days. He remembered drinking
beers in the car with his best friend back
in Seattle and throwing the empty cans
back at his two young sons, happily
giggling in the back seat at the clank of
the empty aluminum against the bottom
of their car seats. “He was learning to
party at the age of five, from us,” Big
John had said to their wife when John
Jr.’s lifestyle first revealed itself to them
when he was in high school. “It’s no
wonder…”
The goodbye had been awkward.
Mom tried to make it a big festivity for
the four of them but no one felt festive.
No one felt particularly sad, though they
all thought they should have. Little John
was nervous but not sad; he was ready to
flee once again from Mom and Dad’s
nagging questions. “How much do you
really owe, bud? Why won’t you be
honest with us?” These inquiries always
made Junior stomp off in frustration. He
didn’t have an answer. He hadn’t had an
answer three years ago when he asked to
move back home. John was running
then, too. Running from a child he
wasn’t sure he wanted, running from
debt, running from his world. Third
parties had told John’s parents that he
was still running from the latter two
things by moving back out. They were
right. Little John was feeling something
new lately though. He was always
aware of his tendency to run from his
problems, but lately he had discovered
something new to run for. He had
discovered something to run towards
rather than away from: his son, maybe a
family, even. He was more excited than
nervous. At least that was his desperate
plea. He gave a happy goodbye hug to
his brother and mother and a cautious
one to his father, and finally drove away
for the last time.
All John Jr.’s things fit inside his
car. He had arranged for a place to stay
with a buddy and had secured another
meaningless bartending job in Davenport
months earlier. The drive to Iowa would
be a two-day hike filled with hopes,
dreams, and fears. He stayed at two
Econo-Lodges and drove mostly at
night. Traffic was lighter at night and it
was less depressing. Driving during the
sunny day always reminded John of how
dark life could be. Besides, he was used
to sleeping during the day. He was more
comfortable that way. When insomnia
did present itself, John would try to
comfort himself with his hopes and his
dreams, pushing the fears of debt,
drinks, and dejection as far away from
himself as possible. Those blue eyes,
reflecting the sunlight so that John could
enjoy it rather than wallow in it, would
make things better.
206
And there they were. The two
sets of shining blue eyes John met upon
walking into Tracy’s house were a story
of contrasting feelings. Jack screeched
upon seeing his father walk through the
front door, sprinted into his arms, and
immediately
began
giggling
uncontrollably. Daddy was fun at all
times and rarely made him go to bed
early. The father was absolutely adored
by his son despite his absence. Luckily
for John, he was able to return to his son
before he was old enough to develop any
sort of resentment towards his absent
father. Tracy, however, embodied such
resentful feelings. Tracy’s family never
liked John, and had been reinforcing her
own malevolence for him since she
moved back home from Colorado. Her
eyes were the antithesis of her son’s.
While Jack’s shined brightly in
happiness in the arms of his father’s,
Tracy’s imparted an air of frigid
discomfort. She was perfectly cordial,
but also distant. John felt as though
Tracy’s eyes were miles away, and they
were. She avoided eye contact while he
searched for it in her. Every time he
looked at his son, the boy’s eyes would
be resting on his, but Tracy seemed
always to find a way to be looking the
other way. It was for this reason that
John didn’t stay longer. She had said
she didn’t want him to take Jack today.
The poor kid had had a long day in
kindergarten. His mother had to break to
him the fact that his teachers did not
recommend that he move on to first
grade the next year. Although he was
wound-up over his father’s arrival, Tracy
felt he needed to get to bed early because
he must be tired. The father and son
played outside for a few hours and John
began to see the sleep in the boy’s eyes
as well. He left around dinnertime,
reluctantly, after trying desperately to
recover some sort of chemistry with his
long-lost lover and the mother of his
child. She effectively crushed any hope
John had without actually saying that
there was no chance. She had the ability
to make things like this obvious with her
eyes, and she did. John walked back to
the car pondering over his bittersweet
new life. How relieving to finally be
able to actively participate in the
parenting of his son. How depressing to
realize he wouldn’t be doing it with a
wife.
This day’s sun had not been so
scalding. It was less humid in Iowa, and
in playing outside for a good part of the
day with Jack, John had refreshingly
spent happy hours under the sun for the
first time in a few years. The sun went
down, however, and it was Friday night.
John put off moving all his stuff out of
his car. He didn’t start the bartending
job until next week, and he’d arranged to
meet one of his old Colorado buddies,
Greg, and to host him for the weekend.
Greg had taken the inconvenience of
riding a train from his home in Chicago
to visit with John and help him move
into his apartment. John picked him up
at the train station around eight. They
took enough time to chuck his stuff into
the apartment before hustling to the most
crowded bar/night club in Davenport,
which had all of twenty-five people in it.
Drinks were cheap, however, and John
hadn’t had a taste since a day or so
before he left Pennsylvania. This was a
celebration. Greg and John had been
party kings as well as kings of the hill at
Colorado Mountain College just a few
years before. They knew how to drink
and, more so, they knew how to get too
drunk. By midnight John was feeling
queasy but queasy was familiar and easy
to deal with. They continued taking
shots. John had always been partial to
207
beer, but he figured he might as well go
big tonight so as to flow with the spirit
of their reunion. At some point late in
the night they got separated. Greg had
gone off to chase one of the few decentlooking girls in the place. John stayed at
his bar stool. The room had begun to
spin, but he ordered another shot
anyway. He was jealous of Greg for
chasing a female around, but he was too
drunk to hit on anyone tonight and too
heartbroken even if he were sober. He
could have puked, but he held it back
and took yet another shot. The haze
thickened. John’s phone vibrated. A
text message from Greg: “Got a bite,
don’t wait up.” It was just like a true
friend like Greg to leave him on the first
night of reunion after four years of
separation. He always put the bitches
before his buds. That was the only thing
John hated about him. So John got up
and stumbled outside. He was drunk,
heavily intoxicated. John had all the
experience in the world drinking, but, in
the moment, he ranked this near the top
of the list of the most inebriated
occasions he had ever experienced.
Luckily the drive to his
apartment was only three blocks because
he could not operate his vehicle. The
shots had come fast after Greg left. He
had had no one to talk to to pass the time
between drinks. It was hitting him now.
He puked all over the sidewalk after
turning off his engine. He puked again
just before unlocking his door. John had
definitely never been this drunk. His
mind was spinning out of control and he
did everything he knew how to do from
his years of experience to control it. He
fell twice on the way to the air mattress
he had set up in the middle of the largest
room in the place and again began
puking. It didn’t matter. He was safe
now. He’d never been this sick, but he’d
made it home without killing himself.
The room continued to spin, and the
puke kept coming. How many shots had
he had? It must have been at least
fifteen. He’d been drinking beer, too,
but he was used to beer. John never
liked liquor; he always seemed to find
himself sick off of it. The room kept
spinning. “I’ve never been this sick
before,” he thought.
Fear began to set in now. John
had had one experience with alcohol
poisoning back in Colorado and it was
from tequila. He’d had only four shots
of tequila tonight, but they had been
aided by shots of countless other liquors.
It was a bender in every sense of the
word, and a well-deserved one, so John
thought. He’d abstained form drinking
for a few days and he was heartbroken.
That thought, that of being heartbroken,
made John feel even sicker. He was
alone. He needed help. He puked again,
just bile this time, but the whole place
stank now. He made no attempt to make
it to the bathroom or get a bucket. Now
that he was lying down, he couldn’t
fathom getting back up. The puke kept
coming and John started to feel sleepy.
His stomach ached now, but not as it
normally would. He tried to think of his
son. Those blue eyes, that golden hair.
He thought of playing with him in the
sunlight. With his eyes closed John
pictured that. It was like heaven. He
tried to become part of the dream.
Consciousness began to leave him.
Again he puked, rolling over on his side
and curling up into a ball. His phone
rang: Greg. He managed to pick it up
but could not get a coherent message to
his buddy. “Yo, John, I’m coming
home, buddy. That girl was nuts,” Greg
said over the phone. “You okay? You
puking, buddy?” John breathed heavily
into the phone. He couldn’t think of
208
what to say or how he would be able to
move his mouth in order to say it.
“Hurry” was all he could get out, but
Greg got the message. He laughed, said,
“I’ll be right over, buddy. I have a ride,
and we’ll get you all cleaned up,” and
hung up the phone. John couldn’t
handle himself. The pain in his stomach
grew, and sleep kept pulling him in. He
thought again of Jack. The dream came
back, and he tried to throw himself into
it. John’s eyes were slightly open, but
his vision was too blurred for him to
make out anything in the room. The
dream persisted. He dreamed of the sun,
how it reflected through his boy’s eyes.
He had totally lost consciousness now.
He puked again, but he was asleep.
Lying on his back he continued to fall
into the dream.
Deep in his
consciousness he felt himself gasping for
air. His mouth was full of vomit but he
was in a drunken, sleeping haze, and the
alarms in his head didn’t go off. It
didn’t register. He kept falling towards
the dream.
Tracy was there now,
smiling at him for the first time in years.
It was so happy. He ran to the dream.
Nothing hurt now, he was too happy to
hurt. Maybe this was reality. Maybe the
vomiting was the dream. He felt the
oxygen leaving his brain and became
even happier. The dream continued.
His son, his girl, himself were all
together. It was all okay now, he was
ready to go. In the distance he heard
Greg knocking on the door.
He
remembered that Greg didn’t have a key,
but he couldn’t get up. He was too sick
to get up, and the dream was too lovely.
He gasped for air. The fear was gone.
No more debt, no more drinking. Greg
broke open the door and rushed in.
John’s face was completely colorless
and he was lying in a pile of black
vomit. Greg picked up his phone and
dialed nine-one-one. The last thing John
heard was the whaling screams of sirens.
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MATT GILBRIDE
I graduated from Penncrest High School in 2005 and am currently in my second semester
at Penn State. I plan on majoring in Finance, but have taken an interest in Philosophy,
which I will probably get a minor in. Most recently I’ve also been intrigued by my
business law class, and am considering fulfilling pre-law requirements and going to law
school after I graduate. My mind seems to change every six months, however, so who
knows where I will be in three more years. I thank my mom and dad for my academic
success, for they truly knew what they were doing when they were raising me.
Reflection on Moving Out
I grew up as the youngest child, by far, of happily married parents. I’d like to
believe I was aware of my luck from the start, for I certainly am today. My parents were
always very lenient, and hesitant to insert themselves into my life when it was
unnecessary. From early childhood I was the only one who worried about whether or not
I did my homework. I always tried to realize how lucky I was to have parents that I
really couldn’t complain much about, especially considering the situations of some of my
close friends. My house was always a sanctuary for my buddies who wanted to get out of
their own homes for a while.
When I was born, my sister was eleven and my two brothers were sixteen and
eighteen. The only sibling I even remember from early childhood is my sister. Granted,
I’ve always known of my brothers, but they were more like distant uncles than brothers.
One went to school in Colorado and the other in Oregon. So, when my sophomore year
in high school rolled around—and my thirty-four-year-old brother moved in—things
were weird.
Sometimes my mom feels guilty about the contrast between how she raised me
versus how she raised her oldest, John. She was only twenty-one when she had him,
barely more than a child herself, but those were different times. Although his life had
been somewhat troubled, John and I developed quite a friendly relationship through my
final three years of high school. He’d spent nine years at Colorado Mountain College and
another few bartending. I think John may have continued an extremely happy, if not
wealthy, life as a ski bum had he not had a child with a girl he was very attached to. As it
turned out, his girlfriend, Tracy, had some sort of ovarian complication that was supposed
to prevent her from getting pregnant. She did get pregnant, however, and my brother ran
into a rude awakening when his planned life of partying had to change.
When John moved out at the beginning of my senior year, I actually missed him
genuinely, which was a surprise, considering that he had almost no influence in my life
before he’d had to come home. When the short story assignment at the end of my senior
year was assigned, I already had a topic in mind.
The first half or so of my story is virtually non-fiction. The first four or five
pages were scenes straight from my memory; perhaps this is why I had no trouble
inserting some interesting detail into the initial scenes of the story. As it turned out, the
majority of the story became a reflection of how I saw my brother’s sentiments about his
own life. The only part of the story that deviated from my own experience with John was
the final scene. I’ve never even seen my brother sick from drinking. Drinking binges
weren’t his problem; drinking moderately too frequently was.
210
On a few occasions I ran into road blocks as to where the story was going. As I
set out to write “Moving Out,” I didn’t really have a plan for how it would end. I simply
started writing about the events leading up to my big brother finally getting out of the
house for good. After writing the scene in which John finally gets into the car and drives
away from his parents’ house, I ran into trouble for the first time and didn’t do much
work on the story for the next couple of days. Suddenly I realized that I’d been writing
straight from memory. I thought I had the makings of a good story, but wasn’t sure
where to go with it. When I first thought to end the story on the note that I did, I was sure
that an alcohol-binge-induced low point in my character’s life was too obvious of an
ending, and perhaps it was.
The assignment’s deadline approached and I procrastinated more, hoping to
uncover some definitive ending for my story, apart from the one I had originally thought
of. Deciding finally that I had to finish the story somehow, I began to set up the final
spiral towards the narrative’s ending. At the outset of my work on “Moving Out,” I had
no intention of depicting my lonesome fool of a character as so desperate. The character
I knew in reality was not as hopeless as the one I created. In fact, to this day I haven’t
shown my mom the story because I’m worried about the impression she’ll get of my
brother and my relationship. The ending to my story is quite obviously pure creation, and
she’d suspect it. Honestly, I’d rather not attempt to explain the mix of non-fiction and
fiction existent in “Moving Out” to my rather naïve mom, nor is it necessary to worry her
so.
In the end I was happy with the way I ended my tale. Once I began to think about
ending the story in the fashion that I did, I realized how I could elaborate on some style
that I had been experimenting with through the first part of the story. I had created some
sort of motif, or metaphor, pertaining to light and darkness at the outset. John had
awoken in a dark room barely being penetrated by daylight and then sat outside with the
sun’s light burning against his shut eyelids. Later on I had elaborated on this nuance with
John’s daydreams of his son and his bright hair and eyes. I discovered upon continuing
through the ending how much I could manipulate these images through John’s son and
his drinking problem. Luckily for me, once the final parts of the story started coming
out, the rest followed surprisingly effortlessly.
Upon rereading the story for the first time since I wrote it, I was annoyed at my
character’s over-the-top last name, Liverwell. It made me cringe. If I could change one
small thing about my story that name would be it. I’m not sure how I would go about
improving the essentials of this story. I believe that I write my best when I write in
waves. The best pages of my story, in my own opinion, are the ones in which the
narrative itself felt clear and complete in my mind, and the “work” I was doing was only
the physical act of typing. Upon revision I made small technical changes and swapped
the orders of some paragraphs or other chunks of text. The plot remained almost
completely intact once I started editing the complete rough draft.
The success I had with “Moving Out” made me realize the satisfaction that can be
reaped from writing. I’m pursuing a money-oriented major and possible career, but I’m
sure that writing, in whatever form, no matter how unpolished or incomplete, will
occasionally be part of my life until it ends. Since middle school I have had bouts of
experimentation with my own free-writing, but never really realized the extent to which it
could help me settle my own thoughts about life. Usually it comes in the form of poetry,
211
and rarely do the words I throw down on paper ever turn into a finished product. I can
remember two instances since I was about twelve years old that I actually sat down and
created a finished poem, and both were at low points in my life. For me, writing has a
therapeutic effect. As corny as it may sound, I lift myself out of depressed stages of my
life by expressing my agony in words. Unfortunately for me, I lost both poems that I
wrote for myself, one in middle school and another at the end of my senior year. I shared
the latter with a few of my friends, who were encouragingly impressed by it. I even
contemplated sharing it with my teacher, this collection’s editor, but never got around to
it. I do hope that someday, before my parents move out of the house I grew up in, I’ll
stumble upon the black notebook that I wrote those poems in. Maybe I can fill the rest of
the pages someday.
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Teacher Reflection
Fiction Inspired by “Real Life” in Matt Gilbride’s Moving Out
Matt Gilbride’s “Moving Out” is an excellent model for a story “based on,” or
“inspired by,” “real life.” Of course, I wouldn’t be able to make this claim if not for
Matt’s wonderfully honest and revealing reflection. No doubt, this story is very personal
for Matt, and once we read his reflection, we can’t help reflecting, ourselves, on the deep
connection the author has with it. Matt himself may not fully appreciate one of the
crucial choices he made when approaching the writing of this story, a choice that must
have enabled him to tell such a powerful story, based on such powerful, personal
experience: by not writing in the first-person point of view, he created emotional
distance for himself.
When we write about a personal experience, the natural point-of-view choice is
the first-person; after all, why not just launch right in with “I…” and proceed to tell the
story from one’s own perspective? Instead, Matt instantly creates emotional distance
between himself and the story by focusing on John (the character based on his brother),
capturing John’s perspective, in the third-person-focused point of view. What’s more,
this close third-person narrator progressively “pulls away,” distancing himself further.
When, in the second paragraph, the narrator refers to John as “John Liverwell III,” we
realize that this third-person narrator is not telling the story only from John’s
perspective—that is, only through his eyes (after all, John doesn’t think of himself as
“John Liverwell III”)—but from a perspective outside of John, from a perspective that
allows us to witness John.
In the fifth paragraph the narrator establishes, once and for all, an omniscient
narrator, which not only “pulls away” so that we can witness the action from outside of a
single character’s perspective, but also captures the perspectives of other characters. The
paragraph begins: “John Sr., a well-established father of four who couldn’t wait to get
the first out of the house, again, returned from work to find his oldest again gone.”
This emotional distance Matt has created for himself is a terrific “strategic move”
on his part, as an author who is emotionally close to the story but who, at the same time,
is devoted to creating the best possible story, one that may very well turn out not to
resemble his own—or, in this case, his brother’s—“real life” at all. By not telling the
story from his own, first-person point of view, Matt has already begun to free himself
from his own sense of knowing the actual story; after all, as well as he might know his
brother, he can only imagine how his brother sees and thinks about the world—the same
is true, of course, with his father or any other character.
This distance also allows Matt, if only unconsciously, to free himself from any
obligation to be faithful to actual events, particularly at the end of the story when, as Matt
tells us himself, the momentum and energy propelled the story to take on a life of its own
and the tragic twist just came to him. As it turns out, the narrative distance he creates
early on is custom-made for the powerful ending, when the perspective shifts, one last
time, to Greg, who breaks in and sees John’s lifeless face. Courageously, Matt allows
this ending to come, and, in doing so, he discovers the emotional truth at the core of his
story.
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Knowing, now, that most of the story is based on “real life,” we must admire—
and seek to emulate—Matt’s willingness, as well as his artistic ability, to imagine, and
then actually write, such a tragic, yet perfectly convincing, ending to a story close to his
heart. It cannot be easy to start with a character based on the brother you love and then to
“let this happen to him,” or, worse, to “do this to him.” Matt admits that he has not
shared his story with his mother, and we can understand why. As he says, the non-fiction
elements may be upsetting enough, but the fictional elements might be even more
upsetting. The irony, of course, is that the story—not to mention Matt’s reflection—
demonstrate deep love not only for his brother but also for his family; ultimately, the
fiction writer’s devotion must be to the fiction, to what he is making. It is up to him,
then, whether or not, and with whom, he might share the story. But now, at least, the
story exists, as its own thing, separate from the life that inspired it.
Exercise
Write a story, or a scene, based on, or inspired by, “real life.” But do not write from your
own point of view; instead, write from the third-person point of view, and experiment
with creating “emotional distance” from the characters. Most important, free yourself
from any obligation to “be true” to actual events; instead, seek to discover the emotional
truth at the core of your own creation.
Deal With It
Angela Rosenberg 2005
Somehow I had thought things
were better this way. I guess they were.
Staring into the blazing fire, the embers
glowing in the darkness, I sympathized
with the imprisoned flames. It sounds
weird.
Nick poked at the logs,
producing a shower of sparks. He would
tend to that fire all night long. I guess it
was just something to do. Anyway,
those flames would be controlled and
monitored until death, when their silent
whispers of smoke crawling towards the
sky would cease. But while I sat alone,
watching, the whispers pleaded for the
freedom I had. The wind pushed the
smoky towers into my face, stinging my
eyes. I turned my face towards the
darkness.
“Yo, Anna. You might wanna
watch that.” I squinted up at Rob, my
eyes watering.
He pointed at the
marshmallow oozing towards the
flickering fire, struggling to cling to my
roasting stick. The competition with
Megan to create the perfect tone of
golden brown had been sabotaged by my
thoughts. After glancing over to find her
laughing with Michelle, I flicked my
ruined creation into the fire and quickly
pierced a fresh marshmallow, innocently
holding it over the flame. Michelle
flashed me a smile, and Megan flipped
around, her eyes narrow with suspicion.
Trying to concentrate on slowly rotating
the stick, I couldn’t keep a straight face
under her lighthearted death glare.
“You cheated,” she accused.
“Did not.”
“Yes you did. Michelle, did she
cheat?”
Michelle just smiled, shook her
head and headed over to replace her
empty can of Sprite with another.
“This isn’t even funny, Anal.
You cheat every—Rob!”
Rob knocked the stick out of her
hand and laughed.
Her flawless
marshmallow plunged to the ground, the
loose dust coating its gooey exterior. “I
swear, Rob—”
“Megs, I’m done!” I boasted,
admiring my disqualified marshmallow.
“Rob, you wanna judge?” And then we
laughed together.
“Shut up. You cheat.” She
stomped away towards Timmy and the
other guys on the deck. Before she
joined them, she turned around and
smiled.
Before this moment, images of
these gatherings were faded, pixilated in
my mind. Rewinding through the past
year showed flashes of friends
dominated by scenes of Ryan—my ex…
Rob took a seat on the log next to
me. For once, I didn’t have to scan the
area for suspicious eyes. “Are you
having fun tonight?” He tried to make
conversation, but things had never been
the same since our fight that summer.
Starting sophomore year, we were
inseparable. We shared a locker in the
third wing of the school even though we
didn’t have to. During classes we
whispered platonic I-love-you’s across
the room. We talked about everything.
We were always there for each other.
But something changed while we were
in Europe. Once I saw another side of
him—when he ditched me and Jill
Parker for European ass… Somehow
things were just different. It’s not that
we were engaged in an established
dramatic fight. I guess I just couldn’t
depend on him anymore.
“Yeah, Timmy should have these
gatherings more often. It’s nice. Just
hangin’ out with the old crew.”
215
“Yo, look at him over there. You
know he wants on Michelle.” Over on
the deck, I saw Timmy with his arm
around her. “She’s so out of his league.”
“Yeah.” I stared at the campfire.
“You know she thinks of him as
her best friend. No girl wants to get with
her best friend.”
I looked over at Michelle and
Timmy, and then to Rob. “Sure they
do…sometimes.” I smiled—at him. It
was fun playing.
He smiled back.
“Yeah,
whatever.”
Twisting words and innocent
smiles made it easy.
“Anna!” Michelle had found a
distraction that freed her from Timmy’s
arms. “Your phone is beeping like every
two seconds.”
My corduroy purse
dangled from her outstretched hands.
“You gonna answer it?”
Standing up, I sighed. After
glancing at Rob, relieved to be freed
from the forced conversation, happy to
leave him wondering, I made my way
towards Michelle. “Thanks,” I said,
grabbing my purse from her hand as she
countered one of Timmy’s remarks from
across the deck. I began rifling through
the loose money and keys and worthless
crap and finally pulled out my phone.
Rob had quickly grown tired of sitting
by himself and came to join us. “Three
missed calls.” I flipped my phone open
to see that it was Ryan who had been
trying to reach me. Rob peered over my
shoulder.
“Didn’t you break up with that
kid, like, three weeks ago?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Ohmigod. S-Money is back!”
Rob used his nickname for Ryan any
time he could. After Ryan stopped by
our trig class, like, every single day last
year, he was permanently scarred as
‘Stalker’ by the guys—thus ‘S-Money’.
“I know. He calls me, like, every
night. What time is it?”
Michelle jumped in. “Eleven
seventeen. Crap, I gotta get going.”
“Every night?” Rob questioned.
“He’s such a stalker.”
“Thanks, Rob. I think that’s
been established.” I forced a smile to
match his. I rumbled with the keypad on
my phone, getting all the details of the
calls. He called three times in the last
twenty minutes, left two messages, and a
text: “i know u never check ur voices
call me when u get this.”
“Wow, are you serious?” Rob
convinced himself that this proved his
theory that Ryan was surely a dangerous
psychopath. I’m not gonna lie—it was
fun joking, joining him in the jokes
sometimes. Rob was even kinda cute
when he preached his arrogant theories
with such undeniable confidence.
Michelle threw in her advice.
She had moved on to another guy four
seconds after her breakup with Dom.
“Do not call him back, Anna. It will
only encourage him. He’s just like youknow-who. He always wants to be
everywhere,” she said in disgust as
though watching Luke hook up with
Mrs. Cooper on The O.C.
“Yeah, I know,” I said.
“Whatever, I should probably be going.
I was supposed to be home at eleven.”
“Yeah, same.” Michelle glanced
at her watch again. “Rob, you need a
ride still?”
“Nah, I’m just gonna crash here.”
I left Rob and Michelle and
started to say goodbye to everyone else.
“Thanks, Timmy.” I gave him a hug.
He looked depressed from yet another
night of fruitlessly seeking Michelle’s
affection. He needed to get over this.
216
“It’s gonna be all right, Tim. Come on,
smile.” He did. “Bye, Megs, Nick,
Michelle, everyone!” I called out over
the music and the noise on the deck. I
gave Rob a hug as I was leaving. “Bye
b.f.f.”
“Seeya.” He smiled.
I began walking around the
house to Timmy’s front yard, across the
grass to my car parked by the curve on
War Trophy Lane. I looked at my phone
again. “Great. What am I gonna do?” I
mumbled. I almost wanted to call Ryan,
but things were just different. He would
think I meant more. I set the car into
drive and started home.
The dark shadows shifted as I
creaked open the front door and slid
inside. I threw my keys into the wicker
basket by the door. The sound echoed
through the silence. I walked to the
bottom of the stairs and peered into my
mom’s bedroom. I looked to the empty
place beside her in bed and sighed
lightly. She was asleep, as usual. There
was a kind of comfort in coming home
each night to her sole, steady breathing
in the darkness. It calmed everything.
Lying on my bed, the blue glow
from my phone the only light, I scrolled
through my numbers. Ryan was still at
the top of the list because his name had a
heart next to it. Following Ryan came
BG, Beebs, Belz, Brett, Damian, Dan,
Dom. I paused. After Michelle and
Dom had stopped dating, he started
talking to me a lot. I guess he needed a
friend after Michelle completely
just…dropped him. She hardly gave
him an explanation, certainly no chance
for redemption. I still didn’t understand
her thought process on this one. It felt
weird, almost wrong, initiating the call.
Michelle would have been pissed. But
Dom had advice to give. I pressed
“send” and waited for an answer.
“What’s uuuup, dork?!” The
loud voices in the background and the
heavy music faded, as he managed to
slur his usual greeting.
I smiled with the comfort in
consistency
of
our
late-night
conversations.
“‘Sup, loser,” I
automatically responded.
“Nothin’, we’re just chillin’ at
Jon’s. Heather and Sloth and a few guys
are here. What did you do tonight?” He
was always at Jon’s. Those two were
like brothers.
“Went to Tim’s. Do you wanna
get back to the party? ‘Cause I don’t—”
“Are you kidding, Anna? It’s not
a party at Jon’s. I live here.” I knew it
was true. I didn’t have to respond. “So
what’s up? How are things going?”
“I don’t know.”
I paused,
conscious of my intention to open up to
Dom. Ryan hated that, how I never let
him know how I felt. But whatever, it
was so hard to talk to that kid. “I just
still kinda keep thinking about Ryan, ya
know?” I explained what I was feeling
as best I could, loving that, if nothing
more, I could always trust Dom to be
there to listen.
“Look, Anna. If you care about
someone the way I think you care about
Ryan…” He paused. “It’s not fair to
yourself to push him away. Believe me.
It just makes you feel empty inside.” I
knew how hard it was for him to cut
Michelle out of his life. “I live with that
feeling everyday because I have to. You
don’t. Why would you put yourself
through that?”
“No guy is worth your tears, and
the one who is won’t make you cry,” I
repeated the cliché quote that appeared
on girls’ away messages whenever a boy
broke her heart. “Whatever happened to
that?”
217
After thinking for a moment he
said, “That’s not true. That’s a lie.”
I managed to laugh to myself at
his repetition.
He went on, “Michelle made me
cry more than any person or any event in
my life.” It was true. “And she was
completely worth it. If someone is
worth crying over, they must be special.”
Dom had a way of casting new
light on everything I knew.
His
hypnotizing words sank in like poison.
“Yeah, I know,” I managed to
mumble.
“But I don’t know. It’s been a
while.” My heart sank a little. “If you
both really cared about each other, you
would have found a way to make it
work.” My thoughts of a could-be from
a few moments before faded. “But what
do I know?”
“Dom, you know everything
about…everything,” I pleaded.
His words were slow and solemn.
“No. I thought I knew.” I could picture
his distant stare, that glazy look in his
eyes when he thought about Michelle.
“Look, I gotta go. Jon keeps trying to
get me to see some crap they made.”
I hadn’t meant to bring up
Michelle. “Thanks, Dom. Have fun.
Tell Jon I said hi.”
“Yeah. I will. Sweet dreams,
Anna.”
*
“Tonight is gonna be sick.” Jill
ran the straightener over her long, blond
hair.
“I know. I’m psyched. I haven’t
been single at a dance since, like,
sophomore year.” We both flashed
bright smiles, letting out girly squeals of
excitement. “Okay, how do I look?”
Gazing into the mirrors under the bright
bathroom lights, makeup and hair
products surrounding us, we felt like
stars.
“You look amazing. You are so
getting with Tom tonight.”
“Tom? Come on, Jill. He’s a
junior.”
Thinking about it brought some
natural blush to my cheeks. “But he is
kinda cute…I guess.” I smiled. “And
you know Mike will be looking for you.”
Jill shrugged. She knew.
I retreated to my room to find
earrings to complete my ensemble.
While opening my jewelry box, full of
entangled delicate chains and hooks, my
eyes grazed over the pictures on the
wall. Halloween, soccer camp, eighthgrade pool party, summer…Ryan. My
eyes paused on the picture of us on my
front porch: the sunlight perfectly cast
over our faces, perfect smiles. Why are
you everywhere?
I set the frame
facedown.
“First official dance of senior
year! Are you ready?” Jill bounded in
from the other room.
I was ready. This was senior
year, right?
Have fun.
*
I woke up hung over and feeling
terrible—not because of the hangover.
The dance was cool—nice to know that
everyone was actually going to
remember what happened, thanks to the
new required breathalyzer test upon
entrance. The music was good, and the
whole dance atmosphere was exciting.
It didn’t really compare to the dance
clubs in Europe, but what do you expect
from this town? Dancing with different
guys—anyone besides Ryan—was a nice
change of pace. The regular guys:
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Timmy, Rob, John, Nick…and the
feature chase-boy of the night, Tom.
Nothing happened with that. It so could
have, especially since he showed up at
Elise’s party later. I don’t even know
why it didn’t. That was the whole point
of not being with Ryan.
Whatever.
Next thing I knew, I was driving
to West Chester East to watch Ryan’s
rugby game. I hated rugby. It’s the
stupidest game ever. He used to get so
mad because I would never go to his
games. I mean, I would, sometimes, but
only because I felt like I had to.
Everyone just tackles the crap out of
each other until the ref blows the
whistle. Then they get in a big group
hug and start again. Then they get
drunk. What a great sport. Pulling into
the gravel parking area, I scanned the
rows of cars for the silver Durango. Not
in sight. Good thing. At least I
wouldn’t have to run into his parents.
It was already the second quarter,
or half, or whatever—I don’t know. It
was near the end because the snack stand
was already starting to pack up. It was
hard to hide behind the scattered groups
of fans. No one ever showed up to those
games—clearly, the sport sucks. At
least it was a nice day. It was the kind of
day where the sun is shining so brightly
that you just kinda shift into a good
mood, even if you want to hate the
world. So anyway, I was sitting behind
an empty woven lawn chair, following
number fifty-two up the field with my
eyes. He had to have been playing
flanker or something. He always wanted
to play there, but he’s small compared to
the rest of the massive beasts on the
team. They usually put him at wing,
where he doesn’t do anything. But
someone actually passed him the ball,
laterally, of course, complying with
another stupid rule. He was pretty
good—quick, strong, athletic.
Even
though I knew he could back up his
constant subtle boasting, it was still
annoying. Or, I guess, it used to be.
But, I couldn’t help smiling as he
sprinted through defenders, scoring a try
for East. The final whistle blew after a
few more group hugs and tackles.
I stood up, stretching my legs,
cramped from sitting Indian-style for the
whole fifteen minutes I was there. I left
without glancing back at the field. The
sun was too bright anyway. I knew the
routine. They were shaking hands with
the other teams. Their coach would try
to implant some brief words of wisdom
in their heads for the next game, but they
would be too tired to listen. Ryan would
scan the sideline for his yellow and
black Nike bag. He would take off his
worn cleats and sweaty socks and, after
gulping some water, throw them into the
bag along with his mouthpiece. Gross.
After saying the good-games and goodbyes, he would cross the parking lot to
his yellow truck—keys on the driver’s
seat.
ANGELA ROSENBERG
It’s been less than a year since my graduation from Penncrest High School in 2005. I’ve
moved from my comfort zone in the small town of Media, Pennsylvania, into the city of
college students at Penn State, University Park. Most of my required courses fall in the
fields of mathematics and science, but I’m still currently taking one English course. As
we explore the various methods of argumentation, including process analysis, cause and
effect, and definitional arguments, I yearn to write in my favored style: narration. At the
bottom of each returned paper is something along the lines of “This is more narration
than anything else…” Anything that needs to be explained should be done so through a
story—or, at least, that’s my style.
Reflection on Deal With It
I began this story with my twelfth grade writing assignment hanging in the back
of my mind as I stared at a blank computer screen. After reading and analyzing several
older genres of writing and comparing them to modern literature, I faced the task of
composing my own modern story. I began writing in lyrical prose, describing a typical
teenage scene with details from my own life. I scrolled through a typical weekend night,
molding the characters from the familiar personalities of my friends. I transferred the
words from the scene in my head to the page, carefully avoiding to-be verbs, impressing
myself with complex sentence structures, and being sure not to start too many sentences
with ‘I.’ Every few days, two additional pages were due in class and would be spotchecked for completion. So every few days I sat in front of my computer. I would read
and re-read and read over again what I had written so far, gaining momentum. And then
I would write.
As I wrote, more of my own life emerged in the text. The flowing sentences
transformed into shorter sentences, expressing my frustration and cynical attitude towards
the situations that closely resembled my own life. In my revisions, I actually shortened
some of the preliminary sentences, making them more blunt and concise. My characters
allowed me to analyze my life from a third-person perspective. And, as I continued to
draw details from my life, Anna’s feelings and interactions reflected my own
relationships more and more closely.
The original plot outline, which I was required to complete before beginning the
actual writing process, supplied much more closure to the story and probably much more
satisfaction for most readers. A dramatic ending was planned, with Ryan getting injured
in the rugby game, another girl running onto the field to comfort him, and Anna realizing
that it was too late to mend her misguided decisions. However, the ending that stands is
far more realistic, hopefully conveying the uncertainty of a teenage mind. By the end of
the story, Anna is still confused and unsure of her future with Ryan. She has recognized
her need for comfort in consistency and her relief found in stability. When the reliability
of constants in her life falters, her relationship with Ryan suffers. By the end, she has the
choice to abandon Ryan and alter any imperfections in her comfort-zone of security or
pursue her relationship with Ryan to make him the source of comfort and consistency in
her life.
Throughout the process of writing this story, I not only gained insight into my
own life, but also realized the strength and potential of the written word. After it was
published in Penncrest’s literary magazine, rumors took flight as other students spat out
220
their various interpretations of what I was really saying. Some characters were built from
the traits and lives of my friends. And, some parts of the story were completely true,
from the events that happened to my feelings and attitudes toward them. But, at the same
time, it was a piece of fiction. Characters and events were manipulated to fit my vision
of Anna’s life—not of my own. And though truth was woven throughout the pages, the
structure of the story was invented. In any case, assumptions were made and feelings
were hurt because of implications I hadn’t intended. And, I won’t lie—some feelings
were hurt with the truth.
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Teacher Reflection
Seeking Closure in Angela Rosenberg’s Deal With It
In Angela Rosenberg’s “Deal With It” what the protagonist, Anna, wants—and
even thinks she has already—is freedom, freedom from her relationship with Ryan,
freedom to socialize with whomever she wishes, whenever she wishes. But the human
heart—or at least Anna’s—is not so willing to let go of the past, not so obedient to the
demands of the mind. And so, whether or not Anna is willing to admit it to herself, what
she needs—as opposed to what she wants—is to recognize what she’s giving up for
freedom; what she seeks—to use the popular psychological terminology—is “closure.”
Throughout the story Anna revels in her freedom, dismissing only passing
thoughts and references to Ryan, her ex-boyfriend, who gets very little attention in the
narrative—that is, until the climactic action, when Anna gears up for the big dance. In
this scene, Anna is determined to have a good time, insisting on exploiting her freedom;
but, in spite of herself, memories, and, in this scene, photographs, of Ryan distract her,
and she thinks, “Why are you everywhere?”
She can’t keep denying her feelings, but that’s not to say that the “solution” to her
“problem” is to “get back to together” with Ryan. What’s wonderful, and startling, about
the ending of “Deal With It” is that Anna chooses to go to Ryan’s rugby game; that is, the
story’s final “showdown” does not happen by accident—the author doesn’t, for example,
contrive a scene in which Anna bumps into her ex-boyfriend, say, on the sidewalk in
town, let alone her ex-boyfriend with a new girlfriend. More important, Anna has no
intention of confronting Ryan, let alone of rekindling their romance—at least, not today.
It would be difficult for the reader to articulate, exactly, why Anna goes to the
game; indeed, it is difficult for Anna herself—“Next thing I knew, I was driving to West
Chester East to watch Ryan’s rugby game. I hated rugby.” It is as if she’s not in control
of her own actions at this point. In order for Anna to get past this stage—in order for her
to truly enjoy the freedom she craves—she must first face the pain that comes with letting
go. This last scene captures this truth about relationships marvelously, and without
sentimental drama; in fact, Anna’s wry wit is wonderfully intact in the moving closing
paragraphs.
In her reflection, Angela Rosenberg admits to having stopped short of a more
dramatic climactic scene that she had originally envisioned, a scene in which Ryan gets
injured and another girl rushes onto the field. Such a twist in the plot might seem
appropriate, even compelling, for the story’s resolution; no doubt, the twist would, as
Angela writes, make Anna realize “that it was too late to mend her misguided decisions.”
But, painful as it might be for Anna to see that a new girlfriend has already replaced her,
such a twist would actually make life easier for Anna—make the story easier, in a
sense—leaving the protagonist with no choice in the matter.
It’s not the storyteller’s job to make life easy for her protagonist—quite to the
contrary: the writer should seek interesting ways to make life difficult—or as difficult as
necessary—for her characters, as Angela Rosenberg does. The story ends with Anna’s
appreciating the implications of her choice, a choice that she continues to make, in the
moment, even as she watches the game—there is bittersweet recognition in every detail,
right down to Ryan’s “keys on the driver’s seat.” That’s what this story is about, after
222
all—not perfect “closure” but the painful inevitability of not achieving it, not right away,
anyway—and so Angela is wise to end her story where she does.
Exercise
Reconsider the ending of a story you’ve completed, or consider the ending of a story
you’re still envisioning. Think about what your story is really about, what your character
is driving at, deep down, as she deals with her conflict. The “solution” to your story’s
“problem” may not be that you need to write more, but less; or you may just need to
rearrange the parts and end on a different note. Rewrite—or restructure—your story so
that another, perhaps earlier, scene becomes the ending, a scene that is perhaps less
dramatic than the one you envisioned but that cuts more directly to the core of your
story’s central idea, of your character’s conflict. It may be possible to salvage the
dramatic scene you first envisioned as your ending, perhaps by making it an earlier, or
the penultimate, scene rather than the last.
223
O Captain!
Jim Zervanos
The tie-dye-shirted girl that sat
back-right—the quiet, athletic senior
with the light-orange curls—she died in
a car crash this winter, Michael’s third
year on the job. A few months before,
she had written a story for his firstperiod Creative Writing class about a
girl coping with the death of her best
friend who had died in a car crash the
year before.
In Michael’s written
response to her, he complimented her on
her ability to use her real life to make a
good story. He echoed some of her
language, feeling obligated to recognize
her personal involvement in the story.
He wrote, All the darkness in the world
cannot hide the light of even one small
candle. He had no idea when he wrote
this—in fact, when he saw it again, it
never registered that these were his
words—that this would be her favorite
quote, that she would make a poster of it
and tape it to her bedroom wall, that her
mother would have it printed on her
daughter’s funeral card just below her
birth and death dates.
Somehow the girl’s mother put it
together that these were Michael’s
words, and, now, spring, months after
the funeral, she sends him a card in his
school
mailbox
explaining
the
connection, recalling the story her
daughter had written for him, and
inserting a funeral card just in case he
had missed the viewing where they had
been handed out.
Michael had been there, of
course. He had stood next to her
boyfriend in the back for a while. They
had connected because Michael used to
play baseball. Once when he was
reading a story aloud to the class and a
few kids were disruptive, this kid
actually shushed them and said, Would
you guys let the man read! Michael can
still see his wrinkled eyebrows and hear
his tone of alliance. He can’t get the
image out of his head: not the one in
class where the kid becomes his ally but
the one where the kid is next to him
silent and in the far end of the room in
hazy yellow light, his girlfriend, in tiedyed tee and faded jeans, lies still, the
tips of her toes snug in Birkenstock
sandals. Michael thinks to himself,
innocence lost, and regrets the cliché;
then he pictures Ophelia underwater,
adorned with flowers, and thinks, no
clichés in Shakespeare. Still, it’s too
obvious, this girl in sandals and swirly
rainbow shirt and beaded necklace, so he
can’t help himself: if this were a story,
he would criticize it as being way over
the top. You can capture innocence, he
would say, without dressing the girl up
like a flower child.
*
Michael tells his kids how
important it is in fiction-writing to
detach themselves utterly from their real
lives, that real-life experience can be a
great starting point for story ideas, but if
they stay obligated to the facts, they’ll
sacrifice what could be good fiction. He
tells them to sift through. Consider
where you might exaggerate someone’s
traits to make a more interesting
character.
With just the slightest
tweaking and focusing on what’s
memorable about an experience, you can
make an ordinary event into the source
of a good story. Most of these kids have
at least one story to tell, a breakup story
or a dead-dog story. Once they submit
this first one, they’re convinced they
haven’t lived long enough to have
anything interesting to write. This is
224
what fiction is all about, Michael says.
It’s when you’ve tapped your own well
dry that you can finally come up with
something original. Michael doesn’t
entirely believe this, of course. This is a
tricky matter. He knows you can never
get away from your own stories. You
can disguise them all you want, you can
melt people together to make one
character, you can change the names and
places and chronology of events and jobs
and hair color and what she wore lying
there in her casket and what they were
smoking when the car hit the tree. But
deep down somewhere it’s still your
story. Somehow it’s always your story
no matter how much you change the
facts.
*
Three years ago Michael got into
teaching to make connections. After
college he’d worked a year at the local
paper. Then he’d wanted to get away
from straight reporting.
He’d had
enough of reality.
Enough of the
heartless rhythm of journalistic prose.
He’d always preferred literature and
fiction writing. Psychic income, he
called it—that’s what he’d get. Not that
the newspaper job had been providing
the financial kind. He had always
known he’d do this, just not this soon.
High school. He’d be teaching the
classics. And creative writing. Too
perfect to pass up. That summer he’d
gotten back to writing stories himself,
and he’d read up on the craft. He’d dug
out his Shakespeare and brushed up on
Whitman.
His first year, he got it right; on
the last day, a minute before the bell—he
was suspicious of their shifting eyes,
their whispers (they’re timing something,
he thought)—they stood on their chairs
and stared down at him, smiling, and
only slightly out of sync with each other,
they hollered, “O Captain!
My
Captain!” They were glad for the movie
that had given them this idea—Michael
was glad for it, too. What their gesture
lacked in originality, it made up for in
sincerity—he knew this, he knew their
faces, he saw it in their eyes, they were
half-embarrassed for having to borrow
from a movie. Michael was touched.
He felt it in his throat. You’re going to
be good at this, he thought. The excited
shuffling before their big move—he had
known something was about to happen.
The bell rang. They stepped down and
grabbed their book bags and darted off
toward summer. They were gone, just
like that.
Then something Michael
hadn’t expected:
He missed them
already. He realized that this was the
price he’d pay. Okay. These were the
kind of connections he’d had in mind.
*
This course won’t help you in
college, Michael emphasizes to his firstperiod creative writers. This is a course
in fiction writing, but they know that, he
hopes; there’s a composition course
offered—that’s different. On the first
day he explains to make sure, fiction
versus non-fiction. If you need work
with essay writing or research writing—
writing about factual stuff, he says—
you’re in the wrong place. If you want
to learn how to write a good story—
fiction—stick around. They all do.
He tells these kids not to clutter
their stories with too many characters or
events, to boil them down to what’s
crucial—short stories, he demands, have
one protagonist, one clear, central
conflict and don’t need to be drowned in
irrelevant detail. In most cases, upon
225
investigation, Michael discovers that
cluttered stories are the result of the
same thing: the kid is married to how
the real story goes; the kid won’t admit,
of course, that he’s sticking too close to
real life because he realizes at this point
in the course that this is Michael’s—Mr.
Konaris’s—biggest pet peeve, writers
not separating enough from their source
material and focusing on what will make
the best story.
We’re not journalists, he reminds
them, and we’re not writing our
autobiographies. Some day when you’re
important enough and people care, you
can make sure you get all the details in
and that you’ve gotten them right. Until
then, stand back and try to see what
would make this the best possible story.
He says this, risking insult, suggesting
that until they’re important, the details of
their lives aren’t.
They seem to
understand the advice, appreciating that
it’s Michael’s job to focus on the story
as a story, though it’s not uncommon
that the final draft will be revised with
those same real-life details that he
discussed changing.
Usually he
discovers what a kid is doing when he
suggests something minor like changing
the color of a character’s hat for
whatever reason from blue to red and the
kid looks at him horrified: But it was
blue!
head bowed in the front row. Michael
thinks, I have supped full with horrors.
He wants to reach back and be
sixteen again, now that he knows it all
works out, him in a tie-dye, hollering
slow down and, man, don’t smoke that
shit, don’t drink that shit, don’t do that
shit (not yet). He pictures these kids in
the back seat of their car, with bottles
and sliced limes and shakers and
glasses—they’re
actually
making
fucking margaritas in this girl’s family
Buick—some kid’s driving with a
Phillies cap on backwards and he’s
reaching back for a packet of sugar and a
lime wedge without the slightest doubt
someone, something, will take control of
the wheel while he adds the necessary
garnish to his drink. The tree up ahead
doesn’t know they’re invincible. It
won’t discriminate against the prettiest
girl in the twelfth grade, who right now
happens to be sitting back-center, her
face aimed perfectly for the rearview
mirror. It doesn’t care that Michael’s the
guy who will have to greet her in the
parking lot first thing Monday morning
as her dad drives off to work, that
Michael will dip his head to see the far
side of her face, the thick gauze and her
fat blue lips, and say, What happened to
you? I’m so sorry, and she’ll say, I’m
sorry, and, like Michael, she won’t know
what she means exactly by it, but they’ll
share the same regret.
*
*
Only a month till summer. Four
months since the tie-dyed girl. Now,
there’s another one—not death this time,
but bad enough: another car accident,
another tree. A first-period kid again.
His favorite class. Monday morning the
bell rings and the kids shuffle to their
desks, silencing their whispers, gazing at
their bandaged-faced classmate with her
He spends days on the issue of
sentimentality in contemporary writing.
Stay away from soap operas, he tells
them. And the after-school specials:
dying pets and teenage breakups,
basically the stories they’ve got to tell.
If it’s a death story, he tells them,
consider, at least, that the climax is not
226
the death itself but when your character
reacts in an original way, perhaps at a
gathering after the funeral or alone years
later; if it’s a breakup story, avoid soap
opera by not making the actual breakup
the climactic scene, and, instead, show
your protagonist doing something
original and interesting later, thereby
creating a new climax and a fresh
purpose to the story.
*
Only two weeks left in the year.
Michael wakes up to the staticky sound
of the local news radio station, and as
always it takes a few minutes for the
words, let alone the idea that it’s time to
shower, to register. He hears the man
say the name of the town where he
works; he says the words domestic
dispute, and he says teenager dead—not
one of his kids, he hopes. It’s gotten to
this: His kids. He’s taking this way too
personally. He can’t help it. Cynically,
Michael thinks a kid’s name to himself;
he thinks of this kid, in particular, in
order to prepare himself for the worst.
Though the news report doesn’t change
in the next half hour—still no names—
even as he listens in his car as he enters
the parking lot, he becomes certain that
this boy, the one he thought of, is dead.
He reminds himself, at the same time,
that he is not prophetic. That he’s
jumping ahead.
The assistant principal is out of
place standing inside the entrance
doorway, where he whispers, at this
point routinely, his last name, the one he
thought of, the worst-case scenario, the
boy who sits back-center, Michael’s
favorite. He’d been shot in the face by
his father.
*
Michael suggests that the greatest
moments in stories are those at the end
where the reader enjoys some rush of
insight, where he recalls some detail
from early on that, though at the time
seemed arbitrary, now reveals itself as
crucial to the story’s unfolding. You
don’t want these earlier setup moments
to be too obvious, Michael tells them,
because then the reader will be expecting
them to come back, a loose end tied up
finally. The best setups are the ones that
surprise but that, on the other hand,
don’t feel too convenient.
When
something comes full circle and the
reader thinks to himself, Ah, this is it,
this is what it’s all about, these are your
well executed payoff moments. And one
more thing: don’t withhold some crucial
information, just for the sake of zapping
the reader with it when he’s vulnerable.
The payoff moments have to be genuine
moments of epiphany, experienced
through the protagonist, with whom the
reader now empathizes.
A payoff
moment is not just a surprise. If you
want cheap surprises, you’re in the
wrong class.
*
When the bandaged-faced girl
had arrived in class just a week before
the shot-faced boy’s murder, a few kids
surrounded her at her desk, one of whom
was the shot-faced boy, though at the
time, of course, Michael knew him
simply as his favorite. Michael told him
to take her for a walk. Michael winked
and nodded to him. By the end of the
period Michael had forgotten about
them, and he went to the door and
peeked out. They were right there,
sitting in the hallway; the kid had his
arm around the girl and she didn’t look
227
up, but he did, and this next part Michael
remembers in slow motion: the kid
smiled, an adult, stiff-lipped smile
saying that he knew this girl’s suffering.
I’m sorry, she’d said to Michael out in
the parking lot only a few minutes
before. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, the kid was
saying now, over and over in a whisper
like a mantra, and he meant it, he wasn’t
just repeating her words, and it was just
then that Michael realized that the kid
had been the driver, he had been the one
that had let go of the wheel to reach for
the lime wedge.
Since day one he’d been
Michael’s favorite—he held the door for
everyone, laughed at his jokes—but right
now Michael imagined his face wrapped
in gauze with scratches like open veins
creeping out the sides and over his
cheeks. Michael saw his smooth white
face mesh with windshield crystals like
pudding and stones. He pictured this.
He wasn’t sure why: perhaps he was
relieved that this wasn’t true, that the
kid’s face was intact; perhaps he feared
for what could happen tomorrow or the
next day—not only to this kid but to any
one of these kids—or perhaps Michael
wished for some sick revenge and he
allowed this thought to manifest only
because he is not superstitious and he
knows that fate has nothing to do with
his imagining this. Either way, he was
sickened and turned to go back in. The
sun heated the room. It was almost
summer. Only three more weeks of this.
Who knows? Michael thought.
Maybe he’d be next. How would he like
to go? He wouldn’t want it to be a
surprise. Everyone gets his turn, this
he’s learned here. How about this: he’s
writing something on the board—a poor
player that struts and frets his hour upon
the stage—then he turns to face them,
smiles a big toothy grin, then plugs the
gun’s barrel into his mouth and spreads
his brain on the chalkboard behind him.
This will be his revenge on them. A tale
told by an idiot! Hah! He hopes there’s
a split second where he might get to see
their faces, as reality hits them, and he
fades from it. My soul is too much
charged with blood of thine already.
This is actually what went through his
mind as he headed back to the lectern
that day. Macbeth with nothing left.
*
Early in the course he shows the
movie Dead Poets Society, the one
where the kids stand on their desks in the
last scene. He uses it to discuss story
structure, scene development, and
ending your stories with a powerful,
poignant image:
this story has its
ultimate crisis moment, its protagonist’s
crowning achievement, and its central
idea all built into the last scene, without
an explanatory speech. Michael also
teaches Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself
if only to show that even in poetry there
is still story, what this course is all
about; it features a protagonist, the
writer himself, who, after struggle and
self-examination, undergoes change and
leaves something for us—this re-creation
of his own experience—hopefully a
catalyst for our own change. On the last
day of school he likes to recite the last
lines of the poem, bringing the course
full circle and finishing on an inspiring
note.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to
grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me
under your bootsoles.
You will hardly know who I am
or what I mean,
228
But I shall be good health to you
nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep
encouraged,
Missing me one place search
another,
I stop some where waiting for
you.
This year he stands before the
bandaged-face girl. In fact, the bandages
are off now. She lets her hair hang over
her left cheek a bit. At the end of the
period Michael stands before them and
explains what he is about to do. He tells
them to bear with him, that he might
miss a word or two, that he’s never been
a great memorizer. In his mind he’s
thinking that this may be the last time he
ever does this. In the back row are two
empty desks. He sees her rainbow shirt.
His shot face. Michael pictures him
looking up with his arm around the
bandaged-faced girl and nodding, stifflipped. He imagines himself walking
out of here right now, just driving
somewhere he’s never been before and
starting over. Getting a real job. Or just
going back to the newspaper. The
students await his first words. They
must think that he’s stumped already.
He is. He cannot think of words.
Instead, he leans toward the bandagedfaced girl. She scoots back on her chair
as he lifts one foot, then the other, onto
the surface of her desk. He stands there
speechless, hoping they make the
connection, as he is numb, dumb,
looking down and trying to memorize
every one of their silent awestruck faces
before this last bell rings and it’s three
months before he gets to come back here
again.
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JIM ZERVANOS
I’ve been teaching English at Penncrest for ten years, and writing fiction for only a few
years more than that. After graduating from Bucknell University in 1992, I went to
Temple Law School, for three semesters, before the draw back toward literature and
writing became too strong to resist; I got a masters in literature and, soon after, a job at
Penncrest. In 2004 I graduated from the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson
College in Asheville, North Carolina. On sabbatical, I’ve been working on a novel as
well as this collection of stories.
Reflection on O Captain!
There’s not a detail of this story that I can’t trace back to something from “real
life.” And yet nearly all of those details have been altered in some way to serve the story.
There was a dark period at Penncrest, one that seemed shrouded in death. It lasted
several years, in which car accidents and suicides claimed the lives of more than a dozen
kids—“more than a dozen” seems a heartless estimation; I wish I knew the exact number,
and the names, and the details—but I don’t. It’s not just that I don’t remember. Most of
the kids I didn’t know even then. And, now, as time passes, the memories blur together,
and time condenses and expands in my mind. For me “O Captain!” reflects that
phenomenon of the mind and memory, the unconscious selecting-and-letting-go that goes
on in our sleep.
In one year, the deadliest of that dark period, five eleventh-grade girls, one of
whom I’d taught, were killed in a car accident—a brutal collision with a tree on a stretch
of road not far from the school. In the aftermath of the horror, the hallways were filled
with decorations—poems, drawings, notes, ribbons, flowers—on the walls, the lockers,
and floors, a spontaneously designed maze of prayers, memories, and wishes. The
depthless sorrow had spawned an outbreak of loving expression, such as I had never
witnessed and don’t expect to experience again. Within months—if memory serves
me—a boy, a tenth-grade student of mine, was shot by the disgruntled ex-husband of a
woman who lived in the boy’s apartment complex. The man also shot the boy’s brother,
as well as the daughter of the woman—and then, later, himself. The kids had been
watching TV on the couch.
It was after this series of events that I felt compelled to write a story that captured
what I was feeling throughout all of this. After all, school carried on, if only at half-pace,
in quieter classrooms. The story began as a kind of purging. I started at the beginning.
The “tie-dyed girl” was a girl from the first class—a tenth grade class—I’d ever taught,
as a student-teacher, at Penncrest; I’d also taught her tenth-grade boyfriend, a baseball
player, that same year. It was two years later—and years before the accident that killed
the five girls—that she died in a car accident; she was a senior in my Modern Literature
class, and she had just written a short story about the death of her friend. Weeks after her
funeral her mom sent me a funeral card, and a note, explaining the source of the
quotation—something I’d written in my response to her story. I was shocked and moved,
and I’ll never forget that moment, reading her mother’s note in the faculty mailroom—
nor will I ever forget standing quietly in the back of the funeral parlor, beside her
boyfriend. She was dressed in a tie-dyed T-shirt and Birkenstocks.
All this happened—though in “O Captain!” I manipulated the timing of events
and tinkered with details as the fictional story became, more and more, something
230
separate from me. In some earlier draft the climax of the story was the death of the five
girls. Having read the story, a wise writer-friend of mine—not really caring, nor
knowing any better, about whether or not I successfully worked in all the “real life”
stuff—said something to the effect of, “We get the point already.” In other words,
enough was enough. How much death could the reader really take? I knew what he
meant. When you write a story about suffering, your reader shouldn’t have to suffer.
More important, my friend went on, how much death did the reader really need in order
to get the point of the story?
And what was the point of the story, anyway?
My friend pointed me in the right direction. He made me realize that the very
incident that had prompted me to get this story down on paper—the car accident that had
killed five girls—now needed to be excised from it—gone forever; as much as I thought I
had distanced myself from the actual events, I was still holding on to the “real-life” stuff.
It was time to let go completely. I began making other changes. In an early draft I had
made Michael not a journalist in his past career but a public defender (actually the title of
the earliest draft), the kind of lawyer who might be assigned a defendant-client like the
murderer of the “shot-faced boy.” So—the original idea was—in trying to escape such
an emotionally taxing career, in which he had to defend such criminals, he ends up “on
the other side,” making connections with kids who end up dying. Not much of an escape.
So, ironically, in the end, he was fantasizing about returning to his job as a public
defender, as the teaching job had proven, after all, too emotionally taxing.
My friend pointed out that this was the heart of the story, no matter what
Michael’s past profession: here’s this guy who just wants a “nice” suburban teaching
job, in which he can immerse himself, along with his students, in a world of fiction—in a
world of imagined realities—but that damn real world keeps interfering. I remember that
day, chatting with my friend, sitting outside, at a local café, and getting it, the point of my
own very deeply personal story, which, at the time, was at least twice as long as it ended
up being. My friend had understood the story’s core emotional truth better than I. I
hadn’t been able to see through the thick fog of my own experience. I went home and
started cutting, merging, melding, all the while keeping in mind my friend’s precise
summation of what I had been driving at all along in my story. His objectivity had
allowed him to see the “point of the story,” and I was grateful for his insight, painful as it
was to take his advice.
Still, as much as I eliminated from and altered in the story, the elements that
remain are virtually all based on actual events. It is true that I woke up one morning to
the Philadelphia news station and instantly guessed—knew?—the exact boy who had
been shot in the domestic shooting being reported. Months earlier, my roommate at the
time—a fellow teacher—had been the one to tell me of the five dead girls; now, I was
knocking on his door to tell him some kids had been shot. The news station had reported
only the name of the town, but I knew, and I told my teacher-friend the name of the boy,
who was one of my favorites—he was one of everyone’s favorites. As it turned out, the
boy’s younger brother, who had also been shot, was a current student of my teacherfriend. When we arrived at school—in separate cars—my teacher-friend, who’d arrived
minutes before, looked at me as though I were possessed, when the track coach (not the
assistant principal, as in the story) whispered the names of the shot boys. There are
mysteries and coincidences like this I can’t begin to explain.
231
What makes the story fiction—not non-fiction—is the invented arrangement of
the material, re-imagined within a limited space, and re-experienced by me—through
Michael, someone necessarily not me; all the story’s elements become redefined and,
together, take on a whole new form. A big puzzle has been broken to make a smaller
one, distinct from the original, made from selected, malleable pieces. The only plot
element that’s entirely fabricated is the coincidence of the shot-faced boy’s being the
driver in the accident that caused the bandaged-faced girl’s injuries. In “real life” I never
learned much about that accident—an accident that didn’t result in death, “only” in a scar
on the face of a very pretty girl, who happened to sit at the front-center desk in my
classroom. I don’t even remember, for sure, if that accident occurred in the same,
aforementioned dark year. I think so. As time passes, I will remember less of what
actually happened. I will have only the story and the memories it triggers—and the
emotions it sparks. I still like the effect of “shrinking” the story as I did, making all these
kids classmates in the same year, weaving in relevant fiction lessons, concentrating all
my emotions toward one singular moment when Michael—some version of me—
fantasizes about escaping this world of the classroom, as real life relentlessly carries on
and he can barely imagine enduring another year. But he does come back, as I do.
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APPENDIX
When I returned from my sabbatical for the 2006-2007 school year, I used this
book in both my literature and my Creative Writing classes. Students relished the
opportunity to read past student fiction, and then to write their own fiction, keeping in
mind the high standard set by past writers, not to mention sharing a sense of community
with young writers, past and present.
In the appendix that follows I’ve included a reading assignment, which invites
students to read this collection’s stories and reflections critically—to consider how the
stories work—and to reflect personally as well. Rounding out ten years of teaching
fiction writing, I’ve also included four new stories, certainly among the best in the
collection, along with the original feedback I provided the students after their first
submissions, as well as “notes on revision,” which the students provided upon submitting
their final versions published here.
Reading good fiction is essential to the writer’s process, and so I encourage
students to read excellent stories. I also encourage students to read and discuss each
other’s work during a process that spans about a month of careful writing. During this
month the students are reading short fiction that we discuss in class, and they are meeting
deadlines for their stories-in-the-making, first completing an outline and then writing
two, then four, then six pages of a draft, before completing a complete first draft. On
deadline days, students share and discuss their works in progress, soliciting and offering
good feedback, considering the aesthetic issues they find themselves encountering as they
write their stories and considering how the authors of the stories they’ve read for class
have dealt with such issues.
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“25 Stories…” Reading Assignment
Paragraph One (15 points): Summarize the story, noting (and underlining the classic
elements), the protagonist, the conflict (what does the protagonist want/fear? what stands
in his way?), the crisis (what choice does he ultimately face?), the climax (what does he
choose/do in the face of the crisis?), the resolution (how does the story end, considering
the aftermath of the climax and implications for the future?), and the overall arc of the
story (how does the protagonist change from beginning to end?).
Paragraph Two (15 points): Reflect on the story, explaining your thoughts on the main
character and the overall content of the story. What did you like about the story?
Dislike?
Paragraph Three (5 points): Reflect on the Writer’s Reflection. Explain what the
writer discusses in his or her reflection. What did you think was interesting? What could
you relate to, as a writer?
Paragraph Four (5 points): Reflect on the Teacher’s Reflection. Explain what the
teacher (um, I, Mr. Zervanos) focuses on from the story. What do you think about the
teacher’s observation—that is, about the writer’s handling of this aspect of the story?
Discuss at least one other aspect of the crafting of the story—some aspect of
technique—that is, how it was written (for example: plot structure, point of view,
dialogue, figurative language, imagery, suspense…).
Heading, quoting of text, typed, double-spaced, overall mechanics, etc. (10 points):
Heading: Your Name/ “21 Stories…”/ Author and Title of the story you’ve read.
At least once in your paper, quote the text (of the story, of the Writer’s
Reflection, or the Teacher Reflection), and cite the text properly. “…” (#).
See Sample for this assignment. You may not do Emerson Breneman’s story, “The
Reign of the Last Caesar,” since Joe Student already has.
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Joe Student
“21 Stories…” Assignment
Emerson Breneman’s “The Reign of the Last Caesar”
“The Reign of the Last Caesar” is about Miguel, who lives in a rough
neighborhood of Los Angeles. Miguel, the protagonist, wants respect from the young
gangster types who pretend to be his friends; because of his small body-size, he fears that
nobody, including his father, thinks he can defend himself. His conflict intensifies when
he buys a pit bull and trains it to be mean, feeding it steak for strength, and warning his
step-sister, Rosie, to stay away from Caesar in the back yard. Miguel goes to a party and
recognizes a thug named J.C. who had beat him up on the playground years before;
Miguel has brought drugs to sell, and, after playing tough, trying to drive a hard bargain,
he gets swindled and goes home with his dog. Miguel’s step-mother, Carla, warns him to
stay away from his drug-dealer “friends,” telling him that a “dog and some gold don’t
make” a man (59). This is the crisis of the story because Miguel has a choice to make:
whether or not to accept that Carla is right. But Miguel ignores her, and, in the climax of
the story, he goes to a party with his new girlfriend; other guys recognize Miguel as that
kid with the cool dog, and Miguel feels that, finally, he’s got the respect he wanted. In
the resolution, that same night, his father says he wants to talk to him in the morning
about his behavior lately; Miguel then goes out back to discover Caesar “gnawing at a
piece of meat…his little sister’s half-eaten body” (60). The overall arc of the story is that
Miguel starts out wanting to prove his manhood by having a tough dog, but by the end he
realizes that Carla was right after all, that a tough dog does not make a man—and he pays
the price of his little sister.
I thought this story was amazing. Every detail seemed authentic, as if the author
must have lived this life. I also thought it was interesting that Miguel was such a likeable
character.
The author made him seem “cute,” too small for his age, and so you
sympathize with him; you also sympathize with him because he takes care of his little
sister, and he’s nice to his girlfriend. He’s a sensitive, nice kid, and so you want to see
him get what he wants, even though you see that he’s going about it the wrong way. I
think that’s why, for me, the ending is so troubling and abrupt—I thought the author
could have added more to capture what Miguel feels when he finds his dog eating his
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sister. I guess the author was trying to make it seem shocking and so it happens really
fast; it’s a disgusting image, so I guess I’m glad, in a way, that the scene was short. But it
still felt too quick of an ending.
I thought it was really interesting to read that Emerson got the idea for this story
from a Philadelphia Inquirer article about people training their dogs to be cruel. I can’t
believe that some people would actually feed their dogs gun powder; it’s “funny” that
Emerson himself thought that the detail of the gun powder was so hard to believe that he
didn’t include it in his story—meanwhile, he didn’t find it too extreme to have Miguel’s
dog eat a little girl. It’s pretty interesting, too, that Emerson was so influenced by music
and lyrics. He also says that in order to create the characters for his story he just
observed hometown Media kids who were selling drugs or trying to be cool. I thought
this was comical because I would have thought Emerson had lived in L.A. (not Media),
because everything seemed very real.
It’s true that you read news articles and assume people are crazy. After all, only a
lunatic would train dogs to kill people. Emerson’s story makes you realize that even a
nice kid like Miguel could buy a dog and train it to be mean. The headline in the
newspaper would have just read, “Girl Killed by Pit Bull,” but this story makes you
appreciate everything that led up to the terrible event.
especially the dialogue.
It was all very convincing,
I was impressed how the author captured all the various
voices—of the gangster kids, the Indian dog-salesman, Miguel’s Hispanic father—and
the atmosphere of the Los Angeles neighborhood, in general.
Overdue Notice
Eleanor Fulvio 2007
As usual, Viviane walks through
the doors at precisely 1:27 on a crisp,
bright Sunday afternoon in December.
Unswervingly, this has been her routine
every week for a couple of years. With
her customary sunny smile and
unobtrusive air, she lifts her hand in a
greeting to the new library director and
heads towards the newspaper rack in the
back. Stopping to chat with some of the
regulars seated at the computers since
opening time, Viviane is always the
paragon of civility and generosity. She
inquires after Leticia’s sick cat, giving
the distraught girl some herbal remedies
she had given her own cat in years past.
Then, Viviane proceeds to offer some
advertisement clippings on ballroom
dancing to Jesse, a man in his seventies
who wants to impress his new ladyfriend.
Viviane finally reaches her
destination in the back of the library.
Once there, Viviane methodically selects
one of every newspaper and pulls out the
classified ads along with advertisements
for fortune-tellers. Undoubtedly, she
will skim the newspapers as she does
every weekend and ultimately leave
dejected, eyes downcast.
It’s been
almost fourteen years now since her
teenage daughter’s disappearance. Yet
Viviane has never quite given up hope of
finding her. Today, not unlike any other
Sunday, Viviane’s search will be in vain.
*
It’s enjoyable seeing Leticia and
Jesse and the others here—I always find
it relaxing and a bit fulfilling to help
them, I guess. Anything to pass the
time…I just came to the library from
another so-called “fortune-teller.” But
what do fortune-tellers know? They’re
all the same. They take my money and
then tell me what I already know: she’s
gone, there’s no way to reach her, she’s
never coming back. I’ve heard it all
before, but I hoped today would be
different.
Last night, I woke in a cold sweat
from a dream about my daughter. She
called out to me, and every time I got
closer to her voice, it came again from a
different direction. I know it. She has to
be alive somewhere. If only I could just
find some indication in these damn
newspapers. “Young woman in search
of family and identity after waking from
a coma.” “Young woman returned from
Europe, searching long-lost relations.”
Anything.
Many police detectives,
private investigators, and fortune-tellers
later, there has still been no trace of her.
Damned fools—all of them!
My husband was no help up until
the day he left me several years ago. All
the advice he ever offered was to shut up
and stop crying. She’s dead, don’t you
get it? This whisky-induced, slurred
exclamation was generally followed by a
smack across the face as he shoved me
to the floor. I was relieved the day he
walked out the door, never to come
back. For a while, like any good wife, I
made inquiries, phoned the police. But
no trace of him.
Since then, I’ve been eager to
meet new people. I dedicated my life to
helping those other people find what
they’re looking for, even simple, small
things. Perhaps someday I’ll find what I
seek.
*
On my way out today, I met the
new page, a petite, demure girl in her
237
late teens. Heading towards the fiction
section, Eliza looked about her with
keen, caring eyes. She wore a pink and
yellow pastel sweater with Toulouse and
Avignon scrawled across it in swirling
script. Something about her reminded
me of myself before I married, when I
wanted to study French in college. But I
was never expected to go to college; my
father paid for my brothers to go to
school, telling us girls we would have to
find our own way. I trailed after Eliza,
eager to make a new acquaintance.
Immediately, Eliza deftly drew a
book off the shelf, cradling it in her arms
as though it were a precious relic. I soon
recognized the novel—it was Pride and
Prejudice, my favorite book and
constant companion through the rougher
times in my life. Eliza turned to me with
bright eyes, saying reverently, “This
must be the seventh time, but I never tire
of it!”
We consequently struck up a
conversation about the beauty of Jane
Austen’s writing and her other novels,
though Pride and Prejudice is
indisputably our most beloved. Our talk
then drifted to our mutual affection for
the French language, its romantic
cadence and sophisticated air filling us
with a longing for crêpes aux fraises and
Orangina from a Parisian café. The
Eiffel Tower and Triumphal Arch rose
up before my eyes, thousands of people
passing me in the boulangerie-lined
avenues of that wondrous city.
I found myself telling Eliza about
the many hopes and dreams I’d had
when I was young. Though I never did
get to study French, I was able to do
many other interesting things. Before
my daughter disappeared and my
husband, an international businessman,
turned to alcohol, my marriage allowed
me to travel as I never would have
otherwise. Belly dancing in Morocco,
riding a camel in Egypt, and singing
opera in Venice were just a few of the
experiences I told her about. All the
while, Eliza stood riveted to the spot as
she listened to my stories with wide eyes
that begged me to continue. To my
immense surprise, Eliza longed to sing
opera and belly dance as well. So
seldom do I find someone with my same
eclectic interests, I chuckled to myself.
It was as though I was talking to a
younger, more modern version of
myself.
Before we knew it, it was closing
time. Parting for the week, Eliza asked
me if I had worn the glittering beaded
costumes and finger cymbals like the
belly dancers she had seen in movies.
Of course she was ecstatic to know that I
had two, one of which I had spent
countless hours creating myself.
I
promised Eliza I would bring my belly
dancing costumes next Sunday.
We
both left in great anticipation of our next
meeting.
*
Once again, the regulars are
hovering around the entrance, waiting to
pounce on the computers as soon as the
library director opens the doors. Darryl,
the faux mute, holds up a sign written on
yellow lined notebook paper—he wants
to be let in early so that he can do his
work on the computers uninterrupted; if
not, he will be fired all because of the
library’s unreasonable hours. Even now,
Jesse mouths the words “Is Kristen in
today?” (though the library director
explains every week that Kristen is never
here on Sundays). Viviane is here quite
early. The library director unlocks the
doors, and the flood of people streams
inside.
238
*
“Happy Earth Day!” Viviane
exclaimed as soon as she saw Eliza. It
was a gorgeous spring afternoon,
refreshing and invigorating after a spring
of cold rain and an occasional ice storm.
A breeze blew through the windows,
flung open wide to admit the cheerful
sounds and smells of the street fair going
on just outside, and rustled Viviane’s
feathery blond hair. She dug around
inside her tapestried, vintage purse,
finally producing a small, faded folder.
Inside were several pictures of an
apparently vivacious girl who was the
spitting image of a young Shirley
Temple, complete with a head of thick,
shining curls. One depicted the longlegged dancer in a tutu twirling as she
giggled at her own posturing in front of
the camera. Several others showed her
learning to ride a bike in front of a grove
of palm trees. Then Viviane pulled out
her favorite pictures; the same girl but
slightly older assumed a sophisticated
pose in front of the Eiffel Tower,
embracing a tiny black poodle in her
arms. Several moments passed as she
spread the pictures in front of Eliza.
“It would have been her thirtysecond birthday today.” Viviane smiled
as she looked down longingly, basking
in the fond memories those photographs
afforded her. Placing a comforting hand
on Viviane’s shoulder, Eliza exclaimed
at how pretty the girl in the photo was
and that she seemed like someone Eliza
would like to meet. Viviane nodded her
head in agreement. She then retrieved
two small paintings from her bag: one
depicted a magnificently dressed young
woman in front of the Arc de Triomphe
while the other showed a small twin
house squeezed between a tea parlor and
a dress-maker on a cobblestone street. A
sign stood in front of the latter; it had
been Jane Austen’s house when she
wrote Northanger Abbey in Bath,
England.
“How gorgeous!”
Eliza was
thrilled to learn that Viviane meant her
to keep the pictures. “I’ll hang them in
my dorm room; that should give it a nice
homey feel, don’t you think?” Viviane’s
heart dropped.
All this time they had spent
together, Viviane had not allowed
herself to think of their inevitable
parting. Nevertheless, Viviane replied
cheerfully, “That would be charming,
Eliza. Where have you decided to go?”
“I’m going to Université Laval in
Québec to study public health and
French. I’d like to travel all over the
world, like you did. Maybe someday I’ll
have such interesting stories!” the girl
grinned.
Before she could catch herself,
Viviane burst out, “So far away? Won’t
you miss your family…and friends?”
“Certainly—but I’m ready for a
new adventure. And where better to
begin than in a French-speaking
province?”
For Eliza’s sake, Viviane
endeavored to wipe the pained
expression from her face. “That sounds
lovely,” Viviane replied after a
moment’s hesitation. “When will you be
leaving?” Her voice shook, but she
hoped Eliza wouldn’t notice.
“In about three months. I’m so
excited—I’ve just received the name and
e-mail address of my new roomate. Her
name is Maggie, and she’s from Alberta.
We’ve started e-mailing to try to get to
know each other before we have to live
together, ya know?” Eliza gesticulated
animatedly as her eyes strayed around
the room so that it seemed as though she
239
barely noticed Viviane in front of her.
“This week my mom and I are going to
go shopping for a graduation dress, and
my friends and I are planning a party and
a trip…”
“I’m sorry Eliza—I have to get to
a doctor’s appointment.”
“All right. I’ll see you next
weekend!” Eliza said brightly to
Viviane’s retreating form.
*
This sweltering Sunday, Viviane
walks in by a quarter to 3:00. She nods
slightly to the library director, and dimly
hears him inform her that Eliza has left
for college. Although he obviously has
more to say, those are the only words
she hears, and they resonate in her
muddled mind. Without conversing with
Marty, who waves to get her attention so
he can ask her why big-rig truck seats
are so bouncy, Viviane casts an
exhausted glance about the virtually
empty library and eventually traipses to
the newspapers and slumps into a chair.
The Inquirer folded in her lap, Viviane
tilts her head back and closes her heavylidded eyes, closing herself off from the
mid-August heat and the buzz of a
broken air-conditioner.
*
It’s been several weeks since I
last saw Eliza. She has worked so
infrequently at the library this summer
because of her full-time job at Wawa.
She said the pay is better, and she even
got free coffee. She will have left by
now, I suppose.
Last time I saw her, Eliza
couldn’t stop talking about her senior
week trip to Florida. Wearing a palegreen Tinkerbelle t-shirt, Eliza related
the story of their trip, complete with all
the minute details: Disney character
autographs, roller-coaster rides, fancy
dinners in the French and Italian
Quarters, Main Street U.S.A. parades.
So sweet and innocent, just like my
daughter was.
These days I am continually
haunted by dreams of Eliza leaving for
college. I am at the airport, seeing her
off on a plane. We hug, and she waves
and smiles as she boards, sitting in a
window seat so she can see the
patchwork earth beneath her. In the next
moment, I am flying above the clouds
alongside the plane. There is a cold,
stimulating feeling of being able to see
everything that goes on in the world
miles below us. Suddenly, the plane
begins to shudder and quake. I look
over to the window where Eliza sits only
to see my daughter’s face staring blankly
back at me. As the plane begins to fall
from the sky, the girl’s face looks
incredulously at me, her mouth open in a
silent cry for help. I reach out, but I am
nothing but air and clouds and can only
watch the plane fade out of sight.
I wake with a start, feeling my
face and body moist with perspiration.
Pressing the heels of my hands into my
eyes, I force down the lump in my throat
that threatens to choke me. I gulp in the
oppressive air, standing up abruptly and
striding briskly out of the library,
neglecting to return Marty’s wave. My
disregard for Marty makes me feel
vaguely guilty, but I couldn’t stand to be
there a second longer. I no longer care
to think about other people’s problems.
Helping to fix their issues will never
solve my own, that much is clear to me
now. I simply want to leave and never
come back. There is nothing left to keep
me here.
240
*
The library director hurries
outside to find Viviane slumped on a
bench beneath the weeping cherry tree in
front of the library. She avoids his gaze,
but he addresses her directly. “Viviane,
Eliza left this for you before she left,” he
says gently, laying a small package on
the bench next to Viviane. After she
hears the library doors close again,
Viviane picks up the box wrapped in
glossy paper with vibrant green ivy
leaves and dainty flowered teacups and
saucers. A letter had been attached to
the top of the box inside a pink
envelope. The letter, written on pastelcolored paper with the first verse of
Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” written at the
bottom, reads,
Chère Viviane,
I am very sorry I didn’t get to say
goodbye to you in person before I left—I
so wanted to thank you for everything
you’ve done for me this past year. Not
only have you been an interesting person
to talk to and a wonderful friend to me,
but you have been an extraordinary
woman whom I believe I could look to
for guidance in my future life. Here is a
small token of my appreciation. (I know
it’s a bit out of season, but I’m sure, with
many cold winters ahead, it will come in
handy.)
Viviane pauses to open the
package and takes out a long, hand-knit
scarf. It is pink and brown with tiny
specks of blue and matches her
tapestried purse perfectly. Even on this
scorching day, Viviane is tempted to
wrap the soft, fuzzy scarf about her.
Instead, she begins to smile and turns
back to the letter.
You will be happy to know I have
already hung the paintings up in my
dorm room, and already, it feels more
like home. The campus here is gorgeous
as well; the buildings and surrounding
scenery appear to be right out of one of
Miss Austen’s novels! This brings me to
my real point. I would be very honored
if you would join my parents at Laval’s
Family and Friends Weekend starting
the second Friday of next month. Please
write
back,
and
we’ll
make
arrangements with my parents. I look
forward to seeing you soon and giving
you a tour! I know you will love it here.
Affectueusement,
Eliza
Rereading the letter several
times, Viviane holds the warm scarf
against her face and closes her eyes.
Eventually, she reopens her eyes, an
affectionate smile playing across her
lips, and looks up through the cascading
branches of the weeping cherry tree at
the early evening sun.
Teacher’s feedback on Eleanor Fulvio’s orginal submission of “Overdue Notice”
Eleanor Fulvio. Overdue Notice.
What a beautiful, touching, wonderfully written story, Eleanor—the details are rich and
convincing; the voice (both omniscient and first-person) are convincing and
commanding; and the structure (the interplay between narrative voices, as well as the
buildup to V’s revelation about herself and her feeling toward E, and toward others)
is/are effective—no small feat, considering the risk in such a narrative approach. You
create dramatic irony from the start, revealing that V will not find her daughter…and so
the first-person voice takes on a certain tragic aspect, as the reader seems to have the
inside scoop and/or the bird’s-eye view on V. The ultimate shift is powerful, too, as V
reveals her feelings of futility and longing, missing Eliza already, etc….only to shift back
to omniscient POV, which reveals the letter and lovely depiction of V in the final
paragraph.
This is not advice (yet?), but I remain unconvinced (in spite of my raving, above) that the
story couldn’t work (better?) in one or the other POV. I don’t know that V herself
couldn’t tell the whole story virtually as it is, perhaps with some added effect; at the same
time, perhaps the whole story could be told in third-person POV, with all the first-person
POV sections shifting only slightly into a very close third, maintaining the sound of V’s
voice, etc. Just a thought, but something worth experimenting with if you haven’t
already. I’m inclined to think the third POV would work better (allowing you the best of
both POV’s), but you’d have to see. Anyway, it’s a lovely story, a pleasure to read,
original, touching, rich with literary and worldly details that bring V’s character to life, as
well as her bond with E—their relationship is vivid and wonderful, which is why her
leaving is so convincingly painful…and her letter, in the end, all the more delightful and
satisfying.
99
Eleanor Fulvio’s notes on revision:
As for corrections/revisions, I only made small grammatical corrections. I was
generally pretty happy with the way the story turned out. Also, as per your suggestion, I
changed the last line of the story in order to make it less sentimental, and I now like the
ending better.
Eleanor Fulvio’s original outline for “Overdue Notice”
1.
Scene 1 (third person): Library. Introduction of the main character, Viviane. Her
altruistic character is immediately revealed in her interactions with various people in the
library. Yet there is also sadness about her, described in the last sentence of the scene as
due to the fact her daughter is missing and no one can find her.
2.
Scene 2 (first person): Viviane is happy to see her friends at the library. Upon
remembering her feeling of uselessness towards finding her daughter, she becomes angry
and frustrated. She also reveals what happened in a failed marriage, and at the end,
becomes somewhat pensive and forlorn.
3.
Scene 3 (first person): Viviane meets the new girl at the library, Eliza. She quickly
recognizes how similar they are to one another, and she is anxious to befriend the young
woman. It becomes obvious that Viviane may see Eliza as the daughter she lost.
4.
Scene 4 (third person): Description of scene around the library entrance—Viviane is
already there, showing her change from dejection at being unable to find a loved one to
contentment at finding a new friend. Viviane enters the library eagerly to talk to Eliza.
She talks about her daughter, as it’s her daughter’s thirty-second birthday. She chats
about her daughter and several paintings she gives to Eliza. However, she is silenced
when Eliza starts talking about leaving for college. The girl is very enthusiastic and talks
about her plans for preparing for school. Viviane leaves as quickly as possible to avoid
becoming more disappointed than she already is.
5.
Scene 5 (third person changing to first person): Viviane enters the library in a daze,
not really caring about anything except that Eliza has left for college. In the sweltering
heat, she drifts into a fitful sleep and dreams about Eliza in a plane. Eliza transforms into
her daughter just as the plane begins to crash. Helpless to do anything about the plane,
Viviane wakes up agitated, depressed, and ready to give up.
6.
Scene 6 (third person): After storming out of the library, Viviane sits on a bench
outside. The library director brings her a package that was left by Eliza. There is also a
note, and Viviane discovers that Eliza wishes her to come to family and friends’ weekend
at her college. She has also knitted Viviane a scarf. By the end, Viviane experiences a
new sense of warmth and belonging she hasn’t felt for a long time.
244
Wind Chill
Vic Janmey 2007
For once in my life I had
absolutely no idea what to do. I was
running through my options in my head
as Scott talked continuously to me across
the table, his voice slightly raised so as
to be heard over the light tones of Indian
music. He was completely oblivious of a
lot of things, as usual. For one, he didn’t
know that as he spoke to me then I
wasn’t paying attention to him at all.
Words are only powerful to the extent
that they’re understood by other
humans—that’s the subtle difference
between hearing something and listening
to it. That’s also how I justify my
cursing like a sailor when nobody’s
around to hear me. So Scott was really
only talking at me that night—I heard
him but couldn’t care less what he was
saying. An expert at the art of blatantly
ignoring people and getting away with it,
I nodded passively at Scott every few
seconds and let my tired blue eyes slip
out of focus as I stared into his sharp
brown ones. I tuned out my boyfriend of
a year as easily as I’d tune out a boring
history lecture. And because I didn’t
realize this at the time I didn’t feel at all
bad. I was far too occupied by the
biggest twist that had come into my
previously storybook life. Eventually
Scott stopped to attack his Tandoori
chicken like a starving man—he knew
well enough that I wasn’t the kind of girl
who got embarrassed over such stupid
things as how her boyfriend ate—and I
could finally stop nodding at him, at
least for the moment.
The day before this I’d realized,
in the middle of a Western Civ midterm
of all places, that first of all I didn’t
know a damn thing about the
significance of the Jansenist movement
in defining the course of absolutism in
17th century France, and that second of
all—and
perhaps
a
bit
more
importantly— I never loved Scott
Lawson. Just like that, I suddenly knew
I’d been lying to myself for a long time.
It was just like standing in the middle of
a field on a sunny day and having a
raindrop strike me squarely between the
eyes, inevitably followed, as all
raindrops are, by hundreds of others
until they form an unignorable torrent
and you’re forced to do all you can to
escape them. As I sat in my
uncomfortable chair in the middle of a
packed lecture hall, I was struck by those
hundred other raindrops: realizations of
earlier times when I’d been on the verge
of knowing my love wasn’t real. They
cascaded so suddenly through me that I
was inexpressibly glad to throw my blue
book full of bullshit at the proctor and
sprint across campus to my cozy single
dorm (which had taken me quite a bit of
manipulation of the housing department
to acquire). I wanted to at least think
things through in comfort, for I had
realized by then that I couldn’t go on
living my life as normal, not with what I
now knew.
So here I was, watching my $10
Indian buffet grow cold before me,
tactlessly avoiding conversation with
Scott, and failing at saying something
assertive about how I really felt. All my
life it’d been effortless for me to say
exactly how I felt, probably because I
knew I could always get away with it.
As a child I’d found out that there was a
dark place inside my heart, full of
inexpressible loneliness, and a moment’s
thought about that dark place—about
living a life without other people—could
produce rivers of tears down my cheeks.
The sight of a young, pretty girl sobbing
nearly spontaneously could stop the
245
conversation in the room as fast as
anything I’ve ever known, so I’ve been
pretty much free to say whatever I want
and have everybody forget about it if I
so choose. But now it was different, and
I was powerless. I hated being
powerless. Maybe being unable to
influence people made me feel alone,
made me remember that dark place
against my will.
“Morgan?”
Scott’s voice, concerned and
demanding now, kept me from
continuing the mental equivalent of
banging my head against a wall.
“Yeah?” I replied, brushing a
long strand of chestnut hair away from
my face—rather girlishly, now that I
think about it.
“Are you all right? You’re not
your usual self tonight. Man, whenever
I’m the one doing most of the talking I
know something’s up.”
“I’ve just been busy studying for
midterms. Some of us aren’t as brilliant
as you, you know, and don’t memorize
things the first time they hear them.”
“Still, cheer up. You’re too pretty
to be doing anything but smiling.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s not the
first time I’ve heard that line.”
“What can I say; I still haven’t
come up with a better one in all these
years. Anyway, I think I’ve had all the
capsaicin I can handle.”
Oh, geez. It was just like him to
say such a needlessly intellectual thing.
He even took his time to pronounce
“capsaicin” correctly. Couldn’t he just
have said “I’ve had enough spicy food”
like a normal person?
“You ready to go?” he asked,
beginning to stand up from the table.
“Yeah, I’ve had enough,” I
replied. As if I could say anything else
while he was standing up.
Soon we stepped out into the
cold December night, the city’s residual
heat having long since faded from the
air. The stars shone between the
skyscrapers, cold and unfeeling sentinels
of the dark winter sky. Scott had once
told me why the night sky was dark even
though there were countless billions of
stars to light it up. As we lay together in
a field on a starry summer night, he’d
explained patiently how the inverse
square law worked. “Doubling your
distance from a light source means that
only one-fourth as many photons will
reach you compared to before,” he said,
“Most of the stars are so far away that
even a single photon of theirs—that’s the
minimum amount of light our eyes can
detect—will never reach us. So only the
light of the closest stars reaches our
eyes, making the rest of the sky appear
black and starless.” He was always so
calm, so good at explaining things. All
of my sarcastic comments and stupid
questions that night couldn’t even cause
him to show the slightest hint of
annoyance.
A particularly severe gust of
wind rushed past me, catching my untied
hair and sending me clutching
involuntarily
at
Scott,
turning
instinctively away from the cold. The
simple physical comfort of his warmth
soothed my mind and at the same time
slowed it down, turned it away from
difficult thoughts to the safe memories
of a stable relationship. As we walked
the lonely side streets of Boston, my face
pressed against his shoulder, I thought
that I didn’t have it in me to do anything
to harm Scott, my one source of warmth.
Not without a very good reason. By the
time we reached his Beemer several
blocks away, I had forgotten that I didn’t
love him.
246
*
On the other hand, Scott Lawson
had loved me for a very long time. We
were high school classmates together in
a small, forgettable Massachusetts
suburb. IQ scores had thrown us in the
same classes, as we were “gifted
students,” in the words of the State, and
entitled to special education so we could
grow up to outsmart the godless Soviets
and do our patriotic duty of keeping the
rest of the world down. I can picture
Scott now during our senior year, sitting
in the classrooms of the highest-level
courses public education had to offer,
staring up at my light tan skin, long
brown hair, and attractive figure between
games of Tetris (so much for beating the
Soviets!) on his graphing calculator and
knowing himself to be in love. He began
his approach in a time-tested way:
offering to help me study for AP
European History, my weakest subject.
Of course I accepted. Scott was the guy
who was indisputably going to be our
valedictorian—hell, he had a memory so
eidetic that he could get by playing
calculator Tetris most of the day— and I
cared about my grades, as casually cool
as I tried to act about them. After a few
awkward over-the-phone study sessions
he confessed his feelings for me, and I
politely crushed his hopes. I hardly knew
him—there was little to know, I thought
then—and he did little to make himself
known. He was just a quiet, unassuming
smart kid whom everybody liked but
nobody admired—he simply wasn’t an
interesting person. I, on the other hand,
was quite the social butterfly, a girl
who’d broken more hearts than the vast
majority of 18-year-olds. There was little
to be considered. I had thought my
brusque rejection would be the end of
things, back to business as usual, but I
was wrong. He pursued me ingenuously,
rationally, redefining himself and
purging himself of all his perceived
weaknesses in a single-minded effort to
change who he was. He spoke more in
his senior year than people had heard
him speak all his life; he smiled and
greeted acquaintances he had always
passed in silence for years. This sudden
change of character just didn’t do it for
me, though. I explained it to him as best
I could: when you meet someone of the
opposite sex, you immediately judge
whether or not they’d make a suitable
mate. It was a behavior as hard-wired
into our DNA as trying to stay warm in
the winter. Scott simply wasn’t eligible
in my eyes. He told me he understood
that but that he’d continue to hope
against reason that my mind would
change. I thought it’d be soon enough
that he’d forget me entirely and fall for
some girl who could beat him at
calculator Tetris.
But I was wrong. He didn’t
forget me. He followed me to the same
college the next year even though with
his grades he could have gone anywhere
in the country. He took to college life
effortlessly, and everybody loved him,
thinking he was the smartest and most
charming guy they’d ever met. They’d
never believe how antisocial he was in
high school—not even if they heard it
from his own mouth. And I, watching
this bright, witty boy amidst his many
admirers, soon started to forget his past
myself, or at least ignore it. It’s funny
how easy it is to ignore the unpleasant
pasts of others. He was really an
interesting person now, anyway, and
someone I wanted to be around. If I had
met him for the first time in college it
could have been me chasing after him. It
wasn’t long at all before I went to him,
just as I’m sure he’d wanted for so many
247
years, and told him that finally I loved
him too.
*
The day after Scott took me to
dinner at Taj Mahal I was sitting in a
boring required English Lit course,
talking to the good-looking guy sitting
next to me and generally ignoring the
lecture, as usual. This guy was probably
one of those master partiers, who knew
drinking games in seven languages,
owned a hundred-dollar personal BAC
tester, and could parallel park while
totally plastered. He was subtly putting
his moves on me, listening intently to
every little thing I had to say and
sheathing compliments in wit and
sarcasm. It probably would have taken a
while for most girls to figure him out,
but when you’ve been remarkably pretty
all your life you learn how to pick up
male intentions pretty damn quickly.
“So, Crosse, how ‘bout that
romantic
literature?”
he
asked,
motioning over his shoulder to the
professor. This guy, like most people,
called me by my last name, Crosse. Scott
was pretty much the only one who called
me Morgan any more, although I’m sure
he would have called me anything if I
told him that’s what I wanted.
“Boring.
Rambling.
Sappy.
Vague.” I answered, “Although this
egghead seems to think it’s as important
to the English language as the damn
question mark.”
“I think it’s got something going
for it. If you want failed relationships
and bittersweet endings all you have to
do is look around. That’s nothing you
want to read about. Sometimes it’s great
when things just all work out between
people.”
I saw the suggestive look in his
dark eyes as he delivered this last line,
and I laughed inwardly at how heavy he
was laying it on at the moment. Still, this
was probably natural for him; he was
just going through his motions. He was
the kind of guy who never had to beg
girls for dates in high school, who
always thought several lines ahead in a
conversation so as to have a response for
everything. And he’d probably been like
this all his life.
Not like Scott. Wouldn’t he still
have been his old socially inept self
without me? Or was his pursuit of me
just an excuse to express a part of
himself that had been there all along?
That was certainly a disconcerting idea.
Along this line of thought, I was just a
tool for his social development,
regardless of how much he loved me—
or thought he loved me. What if he had
been waiting subconsciously for a smart,
pretty girl to chase after as an excuse for
breaking out of his shell? Was this why I
didn’t love him? Had I felt all along that
I was being used? I didn’t want to think
about this, not then, anyway.
I turned away sharply from the
party boy and focused on the lecture,
much to his surprise.
*
“You can’t make someone love
you,” my mother once told me when I
was 13 years old, sobbing over being
ignored by some middle school crush.
“You also can’t make yourself love
someone,” she added, almost as an
afterthought. This was the only
relationship advice she ever gave me,
and it’s probably the single best piece of
advice I’ve been given all my life,
although I wouldn’t know this for a long
time. I could hardly see then all of the
248
loveless years that had gone into that
aphorism. My father had always been
truly wed to his work,
his
groundbreaking research on God-knowswhat—he never did really tell us—that
merited the sacrifice of a stable familial
life. After spending the whole day at
work, the master of his research lab,
he’d come home to the house he was
supposedly also the master of, eat
dinner, and sequester himself in his
office, seemingly unable to stop
working. “Why does he even bother
coming home?” my mother would ask
me in an annoyed tone of voice. Even as
a child I knew that there was no right
answer to that question, so I kept my
mouth shut. After all, my father still
fulfilled his “familial duty”, which he
believed was simply providing our
income and cooking dinner on the
weekends—and only cooking dinner,
mind you, because cleaning the dishes
was apparently not befitting of a
renowned scientist. He left everything
else to my mother. She wouldn’t have
hated him if he’d only given her credit
for raising me and my two older
brothers, but he was far too proud to
admit his failure as a father. He
maintained until the end that he did just
as much as she. And because of this the
best she could say about him was that he
was a generally good man, who provided
physically if not emotionally for his
family and never did anything to hurt
us—consciously. I’m sure she tried hard
then to try and love him, for the sake of
maintaining a stable environment for my
brothers and me. But she couldn’t do the
impossible—love a man whom deep
down she hated—and my parents’
relationship soon degenerated into
yelling matches. None of their children
cared. I was already 18, a legal adult and
soon to be moving out, when things
really started breaking down. My
brothers had hightailed it years before
and generally kept their distance—
holidays were the only times they came
home to hear the wonderful symphony
of their middle-aged parents bellowing
at each other over who’d do the tax
returns. So it really didn’t come as a
surprise to anyone when they divorced
the month after I left for college.
*
I lay sprawled on Scott’s bed,
trying to push my thoughts from the
English lecture hours before out of my
head. I had migrated to Scott’s dorm
after the morons next door started
throwing a party for making it through
the damn Western Civ midterm. Scott
was out picking up takeout, his standard
response to walking in after a long day
of difficult classes to find me lying on
his bed looking exasperated. Even his
verbally adept self couldn’t stand up to
my wry sarcasm when I was like this—I
remember him trying to cheer me up
once, only to have me yell at him that he
could “take his goddamn sunny-side-up
shit and smoke it.” I rolled over onto my
chest, staring down into the nondescript
sheets and closing my eyes so that I saw
only the pseudo-darkness of the inside of
my eyelids. Why was I so suddenly torn
up over the possibility that maybe I
wasn’t the one in control here? I’d been
so confident that the pants of this
relationship were squarely around my
hips that I had not once suspected Scott
of so much as looking at another girl
with lust. Perhaps this was a mistake.
I pushed myself up onto my feet
and resolved to make a quick search of
the room. I don’t even know why I did
it. I don’t know what kind of evidence of
infidelity I expected to find; I was just
249
pursuing a theory. I rummaged through
his clothing drawers mechanically:
shirts, pants, boxers—all from well
known brands (even the boxers!), of
course, for you couldn’t impress as
many people as he had without being
style-conscious. And then in the sock
drawer I found it, the exact opposite of
what I was looking for: a small
upholstered box, the kind used for
jewelry. I snapped it open without
hesitation, although I already knew—
and was already beginning to get scared
of—what I’d find inside. I wanted to see
the diamond ring sparkle in the halogen
room light just as many times before I’d
wanted to see the mangled metal wrecks
of car accidents as I passed them on the
highway—powerful, shocking reminders
of exactly what you didn’t want
happening that I couldn’t turn my eyes
away from. And then I was truly scared.
I had no reason to give him when he
asked the inevitable and pained “Why?”
when I rejected him as he kneeled before
me. I suddenly couldn’t stand to be in
his apartment, couldn’t stand to be there
when he got back. I didn’t want to look
at him, now that I knew that I had to
break it off quickly, before he proposed
and thought that it was his fault when
things fell apart. I put the ring back in
his sock drawer with trembling fingers
and ran away as fast as I could. I can
only imagine how surprised Scott was
when he returned to find an empty dorm
room, the takeout in his hand slowly
going cold.
*
Scott and I used to go to that
same Indian place we went to last week
a lot more in the first few months after
we started going out. We certainly didn’t
go for the atmosphere, for the 3 or so
tracks of quaint ethnic music that were
always playing over and over. We went
because $10 dollars for “all you can eat”
looked as good back then as it ever did
to two broke college students. We were
still practical, even in love—or what we
thought was love, at least.
We talked the night away in that
old Indian place, making up for years of
our previously strained and awkward
relationship. I was still fascinated with
him then, as if I had just met him for the
first time in college. I wanted to know
every detail about his life and memorize
it just as sure as he’d memorized every
detail of mine. He was just so
interesting, this guy I’d naively thought
I’d had all figured out in high school,
like the dozens of other guys lining up at
my doorstep to beg me for a date. Any
normal girl would have believed without
question that this was love, and of course
I did. I believed it because I wanted to,
because I needed to.
Scott was the one stable thing in
my hectic college life back then, the one
person I could always talk to and be
understood without explanation, the one
person I could always count on to drop
everything just to be at my side when I
needed him. I couldn’t have asked for a
better boyfriend, a better companion. He
always had an answer for everything I
asked him—if not immediately, then as
soon as he could possibly figure it out—
and he’d always explain it to me until he
was sure I understood. God, it was easy
to see how it took a whole year for me to
wake up and realize that every atom of
my body was calling out every time we
embraced that this wasn’t the right guy,
that I didn’t love him, that I was living a
lie. But honestly, I’d read Shakespeare, I
knew “the course of true love never did
run smooth.” I should have known long
ago things were too good to be true. I
250
guess I always knew it, deep down, but
I’ve always been good at ignoring
inconvenient truths.
*
I drove up I-95 North in my
Miata at well over 70 miles per hour,
trying to stay calm, trying to suppress
my urge to floor the accelerator and
drive all the way to Maine. It’s not really
that easy to calm yourself down at the
wheel, VW ad campaigns be damned.
Not that my car wasn’t comfortable. The
sleek convertible was a high-school
graduation gift from my father, perhaps
an attempt at saying in dollars what he
could never say in actions or even
words. I certainly didn’t care why that
man gave it to me. I figured it was far
too late to start over again.
I noticed the sign declaring that
the exit for my hometown was in half a
mile as I flew under it. For some reason I
remembered the State park my parents
used to take me to when I was a kid, and
decided what the hell, I’ll stop there, it’s
not like I had any idea where I was
going anyway. I decelerated only
slightly as I turned onto the exit ramp I’d
taken a hundred times before, enough so
that my car stayed on the road but not
enough that I wasn’t thrown against the
seat by centripetal force. I drove along
the winding back roads of familiar
Massachusetts suburbia mechanically,
unconsciously, just as driving instructors
always warn you not to do. I didn’t care.
I parked the car at the State park
and reluctantly left the sanctuary of my
Miata’s heating system. It was freezing
outside, a world of New England cold I
never could get used to. The jacket I
wore had fur lining in addition to
modern insulation, but all of that did
little to stop the icy wind. Global
warming, my ass. I cursed myself for
forgetting to steal a hat in my haste to
leave Scott’s apartment, or anything to
keep the wind from throwing my hair
around. But then again I could think of
nothing else in those moments besides
running away, just getting on the
interstate and driving as far as I could.
How could I go back and face Scott
without a reason? I thought, turning my
head involuntarily towards the ground to
shield it from the wind as I walked down
the time-worn paths of the State park.
And then the wind gusted past me,
painful, irresistible, and suddenly I knew
the answer.
Love is like the wind. You turn
away from cold wind without hesitation
or question just as a lover loves
unhesitatingly, unconditionally. You
don’t need a reason to submit to the
wind, to follow its direction and flow
and walk with it at your back. If you try
to walk against it—or if you huddle
behind some fixed object for warmth,
never going anywhere—it’s only a
matter of time before you give up your
bravado, realize that you’re not fooling
anyone, least of all yourself, and stop
resisting the wind’s natural course. No
matter how painful it is, we all have to
face the wind sometime. It’s the only
way we ever get where we’re going. And
love works in the exact same way. Now
that I understood this I didn’t have to run
from Scott any more. There was no
longer anything to be afraid of.
As I walked back to the car snow
began to fall around me, slowly and
gracefully, and I thought that I could
really go for some Chinese food. The
snow was so wonderful to behold,
though, and I just leaned against my
little Miata, my father’s final gift to me,
and looked to the white sky. You really
can’t watch the snow like that in the
251
middle of the city, and I hadn’t been
back to my hometown for quite a while.
In my haste to escape my parents’ feud I
had forgotten how nice it was out here. I
had been too hard on the small town, and
I had surely been too hard on my parents
for fighting. They were just following
the wind, after all. Still tracing the path
of snowflakes with my eyes, I took my
cell phone from my pocket, turned it on,
and dialed a familiar number.
“Hey, Dad? It’s Morgan,” I said.
“How are you doing?”
252
Teacher’s feedback on Vic Janmey’s orginal submission of “Wind Chill”
Vic Janmey. Wind Chill.
This is an extraordinary piece of work, Vic. The writing is beautiful, and impressive—
especially for its consistency of psychological detail and insight: not just Morgan’s, as
you portray it, but your own—as you always seem to be in control, as author, even
commanding a certain dramatic irony in the narrative, conveying ever so subtly that, in
spite (or because) of M’s intelligence, she is not entirely in control here. Morgan is a
terrific character, with a keen eye for human behavior, including her own—which makes
her a sympathetic character, in spite of her conceitedness and presumptuousness.
I won’t repeat all my praise, which I’ve tracked in the margins all the way through; and I
won’t repeat my questions, which only begin to emerge in the final two pages, before
which, I believe, the story is working wonderfully. That’s not to say I think your ending
isn’t “working”—only that I don’t think it’s working perfectly…yet. I know you worked
hard on the structure and timing—and I had no problems, no confusion, until the
penultimate page, beginning with “…first date.” This threw me off—you can see the
notes there. Maybe I’m not getting, or forgetting, something—but the story seems to get
confused here—both in terms of the timing/structure and M’s corresponding feelings
toward Scott, at least as they’ve been laid out in the story up to this point. Maybe this
just needs some simple clarification—but, no doubt, it’s crucial. The final section, I
think, offers up some wonderful opportunity, and it dawns on me here how fundamental
M’s past is (as you allude to it in the earlier backstory section—and again, subtly, here),
not to mention how interesting it is; I think you’re on the right/perfect track here—in fact,
I’d go further with it, perhaps delving a bit more deeply into the father-stuff, if only with
a honest, revealing phrase here and/or there—it could make for a devastating turn in the
story, revealing M’s deepest needs (regarding her relationships with men), offering up a
startling, moving, cathartic moment in the story’s finale. As it is, the physical
action/details of the last scene, along with her honest reflection, are lovely. You’re right
on the brink of a truly great story—just needs some tinkering with the ending, I think.
Terrific work here, Vic.
99
253
Vic Janmey’s notes on revision:
One of the major things I focused on during my revisions was making the
chronology of the story clearer. I added phrases such as “the day after,” “the week
before,” etc. to help the reader put the events in order, which turned out to be way more
of an issue than I thought it would be. Apart from those changes, from the first draft to
the final one, I added a lot of content about Morgan’s relationships (namely, with her
father and with Scott) before the events of the story’s present. I think that did the story a
world of good. I hadn’t even thought of one of my favorite scenes, where Scott explains
to Morgan about the stars, until I put the story down for a few weeks and then came back
to it. The ending moment where Morgan calls her father also wasn’t present at all in the
original draft; I think its addition as a closing image was one of the most important
changes I made to the story, since it originally lacked such solid closure. Finally, I did my
best to add more touches of Morgan’s wit and humor as I revised. I must have messed
around with the Tetris jokes at least five times until I got them down perfectly!
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Original Outline for “Wind Chill”
Overall arc: After being in a relationship with Scott for a year, Morgan has realized that
she never loved him to begin with, although she doesn’t know why, and wants to break
things off cleanly before they go any further. Still, she finds it hard to dump him without
any clear reason. She finally rejects him, with the conviction that love, or lack thereof, is
as uncontrollable and irresistible as the wind.
1. Scene: Morgan and Scott are at dinner at an Indian restaurant; Morgan is caught up in
her recent realization that she doesn’t love Scott even though Scott is being witty and
charming. Eventually she tries to put it out of her mind and enjoy herself and soon is
having a good time.
2. Backstory: She remembers Scott’s long courtship of her: Scott was an antisocial high
schooler, spent entire senior year becoming a different, more social, person to get her to
like him…to no avail. Scott couldn’t get over her, followed her to the same college, she
finally was won over. Morgan can’t remember what it was that drove her to finally accept
him just as she can’t remember why she can’t reject him.
3. Scene: She sits in English class during a lecture on romantic literature, flirting a little
with the guy sitting next to her. She compares him, who was probably a Casanova all his
life, with the self-made Scott and gets the disconcerting feeling that Scott’s going against
his nature to be who he is. If she was never in his life, wouldn’t he still be antisocial? She
abruptly stops flirting with the guy and focuses on the lecture.
4. Scene: She’s waiting around Scott’s dorm while he’s out picking up takeout and
notices a shopping bag. Inside is a diamond engagement ring. She realizes she can’t avoid
the issue any more; she has to decide whether to stay with him or leave him.
5. Scene: She and Scott are walking home from the Indian place, making small talk. She
mentally prepares herself for breaking things off with him, having been anxious all week,
waiting for a good time. They reach the quad and sit on a bench. She turns the
conversation towards their relationship, but feels conflicted as their talk gets more
serious. She knows that this could be her last chance of breaking things off before he
proposes but still hasn’t figured out the reason. The cold winter wind blows and she
realizes that love is analogous to the wind. She doesn’t need a reason; it’s natural to turn
away from and not resist the wind. She explains how she truly feels and leaves him there
on the bench as the first few flakes of snow begin to fall.
Never Too Far
Kathryn Lund 2007

Almost a new millennium, year
2000 closing soon. A dreary October
morning, all day in the car. Already
whining incessantly, the cat began to
hyperventilate. In the cage, out of the
cage; on a lap, on a headrest—
frantically seeking equilibrium and
unintentionally opening the automatic
window on the driver’s side. Like foil
combusting in a microwave, the stress of
the driver excelled that of the pathetic
pussy. Mingled with meows were now
screams of anger and anxiety, projecting
from all three human inhabitants.
“Good, jump out the fricken’ window!”
“No, no,” amidst sobs, “I’ll hold her,
Mom; I promise.” “She’s such a stupid,
stoopid cat.” A whiney sob. “You’re
stupider, Randy!” “Enough, you two!”
The cat wheezed. “Mommy, I think
she’s getting sick.” “What?” “Ewww!”
More whiney sobs. “She puked on my
lap!” A green sign for I-76 East flew
past the van. “Mom, I think that was our
exit.” “Oh, God, help.” The tires
rumped as the Ford Windstar slowed to a
stop on the shoulder. The moving truck
barreled by, shaking the van. The horn
chirped as Mom plunked her head on the
wheel. Delaware was still five hours
away.

“I’ll see you later!” Randy called,
waving his lacrosse stick. Though midFebruary, the air was crisp and
comfortable, and his 2006 senior-pride
T-shirt flapped in the breeze. His lungs
lapped up the freshness, relieved that
another strenuous practice was over.
“You gonna be at the dance?”
Jordan shouted over his bass. Randy
wondered how the speakers of his
friend’s compact Civic could bear the
incessant thump—his own ears couldn’t.
“Nah, I got a date with Diana.”
The breeze swept her name off his
tongue, leaving his mouth with an
exhilaration like that of strong mint.
Jordan whistled. “Nice.”
“No, it’s not like that—”
“That’s cool, that’s cool. But
while you lovebirds are planning your
wedding or whatever, I’m gonna be
busting out my moves on the dance
floor.”
Randy smirked. Jordan couldn’t
swing a lacrosse stick while running. He
doubted his friend’s coordination in the
dance arena.
“Right; I’ll see you
Monday.”
“Say hi to your sister for me!”
Jordan floored it and squealed the tires.
The car jerked awkwardly as he overaccelerated, missed a shift, and nearly
dumped the transmission. Just another
humorous attempt at suavity. Moments
like that made Randy wonder how the
former South Philadelphian and he, a
meek Midwesterner, had ever become
friends in ninth grade.
Randy threw his gear in his trunk
and called Teresa. While he had just
finished a week of pre-season, his little
sister had been practicing for the school
play. As a freshman, she got the
smallest part (in fact, it was invented for
her) as a random passerby in Romeo and
Juliet. She was so ecstatic, though, she
almost made everyone think she were
the heroine herself.
“Terees, are you done yet?”
“Yeah.”
He knew by her terse reply that
this would be another one of their faceoffs. Last he checked, the older brother
with the license had the upper hand by
default.
“I’m out in the car.”
256
“Ok?”
“I’ll take you home.”
“No, thanks. I’ve got a ride.”
“I’m here and I’m taking you
home.”
“But you’re not here, and I’m not
walking over there.” Good point. Why
hadn’t
he
developed
teleporting
capabilities?
“Where are you? I’ll pick you
up.”
“No, it’s fine. Someone else
offered.” Her flawed logic somehow
baffled him. How did his immediate
absence negate her ability to walk?
“Look, Teresa, I’m not putting
up with your crap. Get your butt out
here before I go in and get you.”
“No you won’t.”
“You wanna explain to Dad that I
didn’t take you home because you have
a twelfth-grade chauffer?” The Dad
Factor.
Meaningless to him whose
gender freed him from some of Dad’s
overshadowing, but everything to a
thirteen-year-old whose social flexibility
hinged on it.
She hung up. Randy waited, and
in a few minutes, saw his sister walking
out. She kissed her boyfriend then
hopped in the car. As if exchanging spit
diminished his victory.
“Please, Randy, I’m not a little
kid.”
“Then what are you?”
She rolled her eyes. He started
the car. Since she had started high
school, she had morphed.
Not
necessarily in a bad way, but she quit
being herself. She went from long,
blonde ponytails to shaggy, black layers.
Eyeliner shrouded the orange freckles
under her eyes, and the common desk
accessory became an earring or
necklace. Whatever, if that was her
look, fine. What really bothered him
was her choice of boyfriends, or rather,
their choice of her. Randy shared
classes with some of the guys that
offered her rides. He just couldn’t
imagine himself or any self-respecting
senior having a genuine interest in a
thirteen-year-old. Dating a freshman
would be like, well, dating his sister;
merely articulating the thought was
repulsive.
She turned the radio on. He
knew what this would lead to: screaming
death metal. What was wrong with
country? Good ol’ acoustic never hurt
anybody. She paused before reaching
her station, though.
“Are you kidding? It’s five
o’clock? I have to be back for the dance
at 7:30!”
“You need two and half hours to
throw a dress on?”
“Hello!
It’s the Valentine’s
dance.” She was an observant little
thing.
“So it takes two seconds longer
to put on a red dress.”
“Never mind.
You wouldn’t
understand.” She found her station.
He turned into their driveway
and stopped to get the mail. Their house
emerged before him. He still found it
hard to believe that he had lived there for
five years—and in the same puny state
for nearly six. It seemed surreal that the
big maple tree had grown from a twig,
that the neighbor’s disciplined shepherd
had once been a whining pup, and that
all his family owned—dishes, clothes,
TV, computer, everything— had once fit
neatly into cardboard moving boxes. He
joked with his parents that they should
get a plaque for having lived in one
place for so long—considering their
biyearly nomadic habits—and in
Delaware of all places, the oddly shaped
piece of land torn between hillbilly
257
Maryland and urban Philadelphia that
attempted to call its mere half-a-million
inhabitants a state. Ironically, the tiny
place had offered his dad the biggest
contracting potential, but it was hard to
imagine where all the newly built homes
would fit.
In Indiana, there had been more
land than there were Wawas in
Delaware—Randy never understood
why they had left. Sure, it was natural to
go where the demand was, but Indiana
was modernizing while Delaware was
just trying to squeeze in a little more.
Main reason? More money. Always the
monetary incentive with Dad.
Randy set his gear on the floor
and began to sort the mail.
“Anything for me?” Teresa
chimed.
“From the school.
‘To the
Parents of…’”
“I’ll take that.”
Randy ripped open a letter from
the University of Delaware. The first
line—Congratulations!—was all he
needed.
“Nice. I’m still holding out for
Duke, though.”
“What’s wrong with U of D?
Isn’t it nearby?”
“Exactly.”
“Don’t Mom and Dad want you
to go there?”
“I guess.
Dad would do
cartwheels if I had applied to the Naval
Academy, though.” Teresa smirked as
she read her letter. Randy peeked over
her shoulder. Her math teacher wanted a
conference about having Teresa do
independent study. Supposedly she had
seemed bored in the classroom.
“Well, I don’t care where you go
as long as you get as far away from me
as possible.”
“That’s the plan.
Duke
University, North Carolina.”
She
giggled. “What’s so funny?”
“The name—Duke—it sounds
funny. Like another word for—”
“Watch it.
Where are you
picking up crap like that anyway?”
“Where we all do.” She tossed
her hair in pseudo-sophistication. “I’ve
got a dance to get ready for.”
“Let me shower first because
you’ll take nine hours in the bathroom—
”
“No!” They raced up the stairs.

The rickety Windstar clunked
over a speed bump. Six-hundred-fifty
miles from Indiana to Delaware certainly
broke down the once-new 2000 model.
“The view from the balcony is
great! We already have furniture and a
pool and a workout facility. And there’s
a great restaurant within walking
distance!” Dad’s vision of utopia reeled
through Randy’s head as the van turned
into the apartment complex, their new
transitional home. At least other moves
brought them to an actual house.
Though dark, he could roughly make out
the redundant, identical boxes ahead as
the van rolled past a Dairy Queen, a
tarp-covered rectangle worshipped by
mangled lawn chairs, and a see-through
building with a treadmill, bench press,
and TV.
The van pulled into a spot, and
its occupants tumbled out. Dad bounded
down the second-floor steps and posed
the absurd and unavoidable question:
How was the trip, guys? Guess. An
eight-year-old and her carsick cat; a
twelve-year-old
with
atrocious
navigational skills; a mother with an
imprint of a Ford logo on her forehead;
and all willing to suffer the day-long ride
back to Indiana. But their grimaces
didn’t answer his inquiry. Mom did: Did
258
you leave the carpet cleaner unpacked?
Unhindered, his face burst with a grin.
Everyone
was
finally
together.
Everyone was home.
Again. They had been home two
years ago, and two years before that.
But every new abode was more
spectacular, bigger, and better than the
previous. Every new job paid more, had
a better boss, and doled out better
benefits. Every new life was perfect; the
schools, the parks, and the churches
created a paradise for the Richards
family.
The girls viewed the apartment
as the guys unloaded the van, and Teresa
opened the cage to let the cat explore.
They could tell that Dad had somewhat
settled in since he had arrived a week
earlier: his laptop and files hid the dining
table. The apartment was like a hotel
suite—scuffed walls and discolored
carpet included—with a kitchen, a living
room, and two bedrooms—a double for
the kids and a single for the parents.
Mom tested the water, the TV, the
foldout sofa bed, and the sliding glass
door. Teresa particularly enjoyed the
last feature; it led to a balcony that
overlooked their sweeping backyard—
perfect for sledding down in the snow—
shared with the dozen other families in
their building. She peeked her head out
for fresh air, and took in the gray view of
the never-ending highway a hundred
yards out.
“Mommy, where’s Fluffy?”
“I don’t know, Teresa.”
“Maybe she jumped off the
balcony, like a smart cat,” said Randy as
he entered and set his suitcase down.
“No she didn’t!” Teresa’s eyes
began to water.
“You know she hates being
cramped up.
This apartment’s too
small—sooner or later she’d have to run
away.”
“You’re a butthead!” Teresa ran
to the bedroom and plunked herself on
one of the beds.
“Randy, stop it.”
Mom
massaged her forehead.
“It’s not my fault we’ve moved
for the thousandth time and the cat
finally wised up.”
“Moving has nothing to do with
how you treat your sister.”
“Ok, Mom.”
Randy feigned
compliance. He passed Dad through the
doorway and went out to get another
load from the van.
“So, what do you think, Judy?”
Dad set down a couple suitcases. He
was still grinning.
“Mark, the cat’s missing.” She
began putting on her jacket. “It’s getting
dark.
Where’s a flashlight?”
He
touched her arm as she raised it to get a
sleeve on. His smile lightened a bit, but
he didn’t quite frown.
“You stay put. I’ll find her. She
never goes too far.”

Tonight was the big night. It was
Valentine’s Day; spring was on the
horizon; and Randy’s high school
graduation was only four months away.
Could it be love? Randy thought
so. His mom and dad had been high
school sweethearts, gone to the same
college, married right after graduation.
Why couldn’t he and Diana be the same?
They were both awaiting their
acceptance letters from Duke, and it was
their third year together. Of course, they
had had disagreements, even a brief
break-up, but they were still together.
He reminisced over that day, at
the ninth grade winter formal, when with
his squeaky voice, the gangly, frecklefaced redhead asked the pudgy, curlyheaded brunette to dance with him. He
259
recalled her diffident reply—“I guess”—
and her giggle as she glanced at her
friends who whispered encouragement.
He patted on cologne and
straightened his tie in the bathroom
mirror. He rehashed the night’s plan—
drop off Teresa, pick up a rose, pick up
Diana, give her the ring—wait, the ring.
He frantically searched his pocket. Ah,
there it was. He retrieved the box and
opened it up just to make sure for the
twentieth time that the protective fabric
had not tarnished the finish. Working
weekends at the theater had paid for the
sterling silver, gold-finished ring inlaid
with a single purple amethyst, her
February birthstone. He rehearsed what
he would say: “Just a promise ring,
nothing official, nothing binding, just a
ring.”
His parents had gotten home
from work while he and Teresa were
getting ready. His mom had instantly
shifted her hearts-print scrubs and begun
freshening up for her date with Dad.
After a long day in the orthodontist’s
office unsticking the gum from a child’s
braces, she couldn’t wait for a romantic
dinner out. Dad had trudged in, on his
cell phone, trying to ditch a client that
had called three times that week about
the building of his detached garage.
“Bye Mom, bye Dad,” Randy
called, hoping wherever they were, they
would hear him, as he dashed
downstairs.
“Hey,
Randy,
how
was
practice?” Dad had just hung up and
was fingering the mail on the table.
“Fine.” He spun to shut the door.
Dad maintained his focus on the mail.
Randy felt bad not elaborating, but the
same question got the same answer, and
the most his Dad ever knew about him
was from report cards and awards
banquets. “Teresa, hurry up!”
“I’m coming!”
She nearly
tripped down the steps in her spike heels.
“Bye Daddy—”
“Whoa, Terees, that slit is a little
high.” He glanced over a bill. “Don’t
you have anything else? What about
that long black dress we got you last
fall?”
“The one I wore to Great Aunt
Ruth’s funeral? Please.” She tugged on
the fringe of her red skirt. “You can’t
even see my knees.”
He shook his head and yelled at
the bottom of the stairway. “Judy?
Could you come here?” Teresa sighed,
stomping a heel.
“If it’s about her dress, it’s fine,”
his wife called.
“See?” She pecked him on the
cheek and flew out of the house.
Dazed by his defeat, he plopped
on the couch. He loosened his tie,
leaned his head back, and closed his
eyes. A boy nearly in college and a girl
starting high school. It felt like the cycle
never ended.
After a minute, he
languidly forced himself up the stairs.
“Did you even see her dress?”
An affirming mumble came from the
other side of the master bathroom door.
“And her make-up?” Judy laughed. He
sighed. She turned on the hair dryer, and
he sat on the bed to take off his shoes.
“This warmer weather is going to
kill me. Something about spring makes
everyone want a new house, and it’s like
I’m the only contractor.” He opened his
closet to find that Judy had already
pressed a suit for him. No doubt, the red
silk tie would match her dress. She
turned the dryer off. “I saw Randy’s
acceptance letter on the table.”
“U of D has a great finance plan,
doesn’t it?” she called from the other
side.
260
He fished for socks in his
dresser-drawer. “The Academy would
be free.”
“But he doesn’t want the
Academy.”
“Well, if he doesn’t go to the
Academy, then he should at least do
what I did and join ROTC. It builds a
man up.”
“We agreed to let him choose.”
Mark grimaced. He knew his son would
choose to dismantle the military if he
could.
A member of Amnesty
International, Model U.N., and the
Young Democrats, Randy did not hide
his viewpoints.
In contrast, since
moving to the east coast, Mark and Judy
had to hide their conservatism.
“I just think Duke is too far
away. And too expensive. Annapolis is
just across the state line and offers
programs just as good as those in the
other schools.” Mark unbuttoned his
jean shirt and threw on the crisp, white
one in the ensemble.
“We’ll see. If you keep working
this hard, you’ll have Teresa’s college
paid off too.” Judy slipped her heels on
and checked her teeth in the mirror.
Mark opened the bathroom door.
“I need to get my deodorant.” She
turned around, and he let out a whistle.
“Don’t get any ideas yet.” She
gave him a kiss. “I’ll go warm the car
up.”

Randy pulled into the school
parking lot. Teresa finished applying
mascara and mossy black lipstick. That
and her fishnet stockings gave the
impression of a black spider with a red
abdomen. He thought of an opportune
tease—wasn’t the Halloween dance back
in October?—but feeling giddy, held
back. Instead, he just smirked.
“What?”
she
remarked
defensively.
“Nothing.
When is the dance
over?”
“Eleven.” He slowed to clear a
speed bump and then followed the curve
the security guard pointed toward.
“I’ll drop you off up close so you
don’t have to walk far.”
“Are you saying I can’t walk in
heels?” She glared through black slits.
Randy didn’t respond. The last thing he
wanted was to pull the pin on a grenade
before he picked up Diana. “I can walk
fine. Let me out here.” He stopped in
the middle of the lot, and she got out and
slammed the door. With short, resolute
strides, she marched toward the school.
Randy turned right out of the
parking lot and headed toward Diana’s
house. He knew the route by heart.
Over the railroad, past the K-mart where
he bought a red rose, past the former
apartments, and into the little
neighborhood, fourth house on the left.
He slowed down to twenty-five exactly
and coasted to a stop in front of her
house. He flipped the mirror down to
check his tie, fingered the box in his
pocket, and grabbed the rose.
Diana sat in the entry hall, alone,
in the dark. Her parents had just left for
dinner. Though she had urged them to
go, as Randy’s car pulled up outside, she
almost wished they had stayed a minute
longer. No, then her dad and Randy
would have started chitchatting. Maybe
with the lights off it would seem like no
one was home. No, Randy would check
anyway. She peeked out the window.
She saw him coming. The doorbell
rang.
He stood outside, watching his
breath form white clouds. The house
seemed dark—had the power gone out?
If so, she might need more time to get
ready. She might be upset or flustered.
But then, she opened the door, and he
261
caught his breath. The porch light
turned on. Her face, her dress, even her
hands glimmered.
They exchanged
hellos, and he gave her the rose. She
smiled and mumbled thanks.
Too far. She should’ve ended it
the second he opened the door, the
second he handed her the rose. Really, it
should’ve ended three months ago when
they applied to the same college. She
hated feeling so trapped. But three
years? How could she end three years in
a second?
Randy fumbled with the radio. It
usually wasn’t so difficult. Just hit the
preset and get the station, but he kept
getting traffic info and gospel music.
Diana didn’t budge, didn’t even flinch.
She had been stoic and silent since they
had left her house. He figured she might
just be tired—he remembered she’d had
a long week working on a project. Her
eyes looked a little red.
La Cucina Italiana loomed ahead.
Women clad in sparkling gowns with
their sharp-suited escorts glided in and
out. Diana felt sick to her stomach.
Randy pulled into a spot, opened the
passenger door, and took Diana’s hand
to guide her out of the car.
“Reservations for Richards?”
The words flew jumbled out of Randy’s
mouth. His heart was beating fast.
“One moment…”
The host
scanned his list. “Yes, sir, this way.”
He led them to a candlelight bistro in the
corner.
Couples around them exchanged
dancing eyes, flirtatious laughter, and
bites of linguine. Randy slid Diana’s
coat off and draped it on a chair. The
smell of parmesan and tomato sauce
churned her stomach. She searched for
an excuse, a haven, anything.
“I’ll be right back.”
Before Randy could respond, she
darted to the restroom.
“Could you come back in a little
bit?” Randy asked the waiter. He left
two menus.
Pallid, Diana returned and
hurriedly picked up a menu. It hid her
face, so Randy coyly peeked over it.
“Is everything ok?”
“Is everything on this menu
Italian? They don’t have anything else?
I can’t read Italian.” She spoke rapidly,
her voice quivering.
“What do you mean? I thought
you loved Italian,” Randy spoke low,
under his breath. Diana looked up, and
her wide, green eyes gleamed. “I mean,
we’re going to study abroad in Rome
through Duke—”
A shiny droplet rolled down her
laminated menu.
“No,” she began. “Randy, I’m
not going to Duke. I got accepted at
UCLA.”
“As
in
Los
Angeles?
California?”
She nodded. Then her sparkling
face collapsed into her hands, and her
bare, shimmering shoulders convulsed as
she sobbed.

Mr. and Mrs. Richards sauntered
blithely out of the Café Tivoli’s across
town. They had shared their usual
Sicilian pizza and Vino di Venezia.
Mark had had an extra helping of both.
“Honey, let me drive,” Judy
urged. She knew her attempt would be
futile. Marcus loved his cars, especially
his classic Corvette.
“I can drive just wine—fine, I
mean.” He laughed heartily.
“But there are a lot of cops out
tonight; I don’t want to get stopped.”
“It’s a ten-minute drive to the
house. It’ll be fine.” She put a hand on
her hip and furrowed her brow.
262
“All right. Let’s get home before
the kids do.”

The moon and the stars shown
brightly and vibrantly. Randy pulled up
next to Diana’s house and put the car in
neutral. Diana spoke softly and slowly,
looking down at the rose on her lap.
“I’m so sorry. I should’ve told
you—”
“Nah,” his throat tightened. He
felt the box in his pocket. “It’s your
choice. I shouldn’t have pressured you.”
He watched her enter her house,
dimming the glitter of her dress, shutting
out the shine of her dark curls.
He drove off to the end of her
street and sat there nearly an hour,
staring at the black road ahead lit by a
flickering street light. It was nine
o’clock.
The radio pathetically
whimpered tunes. He had two hours to
kill until he had to pick up Teresa. Why
not waste them miserably at the dance?
He started the engine.
He turned into the school parking
lot. He saw a guy from his class and a
girl in a red dress sloppily making out.
No way could Teresa be that stupid. He
slammed the car into neutral, hopped
out, and yelled his sister’s name. The
couple turned around, but the girl wasn’t
his sister. He decided to dial her cell.
No response. He waited five more
minutes and tried again. Still nothing.
He entered the front of the
school, and a security guard stopped
him.
He pulled out his I.D. and
submitted to a breathalyzer. He walked
toward the blaring music of cafeteria,
where kids wildly whipped in and out of
rhythm. He craned his neck to survey
the gaggle. Nothing interesting but a red
dress, engulfed by a boy in the corner.
He pushed through the throng. He
grabbed the boy’s shoulder, spun him
around, and slammed him against the
wall.
“Whoa! Lay off, man—crap,
what are you doing here?” Jordan’s eyes
grew wide. “I thought you had a date.”
He smelled like alcohol.
Randy
clenched his right hand, keeping his left
on his friend’s shoulder.
“Randy!” his sister squealed,
pulling a red strap back on her shoulder.
“Look, man, this ain’t what it
looks like—we was just, you know—”
Randy’s body tightened. He looked
Jordan straight in the eye. He didn’t
loosen his grip.
“Randy, back off! Don’t hurt
him!” She tugged on his arm, and he
reluctantly freed Jordan’s shirt.
“You’re coming home.”
He
grabbed her wrist. She kicked his shin,
but he didn’t let go. His grip was firm,
but he knew he wasn’t hurting her. They
left through a side entrance.
He dragged her to the car and
opened the passenger door.
“Get in.” She scowled and then
defiantly sat down. Black lines began to
streak down her face. She called him
every name imaginable, making up a
new language with the compounds she
formed. He didn’t hear her, though.
He sped through the lights.
Traffic was too slow, so he weaved
around it. The rules of the road were
superfluous to him. Why slow for the
yellow? Why even stop for the red?

Judy’s hair flitted in the wind as
the convertible flew toward an
intersection.
“Mark, it’s yellow, you can’t
make it.”
“I had a friend modify the ‘vette.
Let me show you what this baby can
do.” He deftly shifted to fifth.

263
Mid-March. A month of stark
white hospital walls, physical therapy,
and unearthly green jello finally ended
as Randy entered his house. His left arm
still in a sling, he awkwardly waved to
his neighbor, who had given him a ride,
and juggled a crutch, his bag of effects,
and the doorknob. He hobbled into the
kitchen, where a mountain of mail
greeted him.
The place was empty, stagnant.
He couldn’t have expected much more,
though; only the neighbors had been
there to housesit since Valentine’s Day.
Even though Mom and Dad had been
released from the hospital after treatment
for minor concussions, neither had gone
home. Dad had gone straight back to
work, of course— his and Mom’s
medical bills alone had nearly given him
a heart attack, not to mention the damage
to his ‘vette. He had rented a car and
had spent the nights with Mom, though,
who had decided to stay at the hospital
with Teresa and Randy. Randy had gone
through a couple surgeries and then
therapy; Teresa still had not regained
consciousness.
With his right arm, he began to
sift through the mail. Nearly everything
was a sympathy letter.
One from
Jordan—he trashed it upon seeing the
return label—and one from Diana.
Randy remembered that Jordan had
visited at some point in the hospital. He
had played suave with Mom, but after he
left Randy informed her of his friend’s
extra interests. He hadn’t heard from the
guy since. Mom had told Randy that
Diana had visited too, but he had been
knocked out on morphine. As far as he
knew, she hadn’t tried coming again. He
opened her letter, scanned the clichéd
“Get Well,” and tossed it in the trash
with Jordan’s.
Two other letters stood out: one
from the Naval Academy and the other
from Duke. The one from the Academy
praised Randy’s credentials and
requested an interview to complete his
application. Application? Not possible.
Would Dad really have gone that far?
He ripped it in half, as well as he could
with one hand. Then he picked up the
one from Duke.
“Meow.” Fluffy jumped on the
table. Randy set down the letter.
“You shouldn’t be up here.” She
purred loudly as he scratched behind her
ears. He scooped her with one arm and
set her on the floor. The phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Randy, it’s Mom.”
She
sounded winded, as though she had been
running.
“Teresa—she woke up!”
Randy didn’t speak. “Did you hear
me?” “She woke up!”
“She’s awake? Really awake? Is
she ok?”
“Yes, well, as ok as she can be.
The doctor said she’ll have cerebral
damage, possibly paralysis, but with the
family’s help she can live almost
normally—I don’t know how we’re
going to pay for all this—hh, she’s
talking! Do you want to talk to her?”
The receiver picked up a shuffling noise
as Mom positioned the phone next to
Teresa.
“Teresa, it’s Randy, your
brother.”
“Terees? How are feeling?”
“Ranny? Where awe you?”
“I’m home. Remember home?”
“Why arn you here?”
“I don’t have a ride there right
now. I’ll be in later.”
“I wan you here now.” He
swallowed hard. His eyes moistened.
“I tell you what,” he began as he
averted his attention to his bag. He
264
dumped it contents and dug through
them.
“You tell me whah?” He pulled
out a box.
“You be good, listen to Mom and
the doctors, and I’ll have a present for
you when I see you later.”
“Whah? A pwesen? Whah is it?
Whah is it?”
“It’s purple and shiny—but you
have to wait.”
“Ranny! I wan it now! Meany!”
He laughed. Mom took the phone back.
“The doctor wants to check up on
her. See if Dad will give you a ride
later.” She hung up.
He returned to the Duke letter,
still lying on the table. He held it up to
the light. Security sealed. He felt the
weight of it—normal. He began to slit
the adhesive, slowly. After a second
though, he pulled out the letter in a
flurry and read the first line—
Congratulations!
Fluffy stared at him from the
floor, with her big, expectant, green
eyes. He bent down and stroked her
ears. She squinted at his touch and
chirped a broken meow. He set the letter
on top of the rest of the discarded pile,
tied the trash bag up one-handedly, and
took it out to the dumpster.

A soft knock on the door.
“Teresa…”
A groggy eight-year-old rolled
over. “Daddy?”
“Look who I found.” He laid a
cold, frazzled, black-and-white bundle
on her bed.
“Fluffy!” She kissed his cheek.
Randy rolled over to see Teresa
squeezing the freezing fur-ball. She
really was a stupid cat—why hadn’t she
seized the chance for freedom?
“Good night, sweetie.”
Dad
kissed her forehead.
He squeezed
Randy’s foot under the sheets. “Night,
son.”
“Hey, Dad? Where’d you find
her?”
“She was huddled underneath the
van—that’s the scent she knew best.
She could never go too far, you know.”
265
Teacher’s feedback on Kathryn Lund’s original submission of “Never Too Far”
Kathryn Lund. Never Too Far.
Your story is a tremendous accomplishment, Kathryn. At 20 pages, it is not too long;
rather, it is intricately assembled—and efficiently. In fact, one could argue, there’s still
room for fleshing out—certainly, the style of the writing “errs” toward minimal
presentation as opposed to overly detailed description. You certainly don’t offer “too
much,” for fear the reader won’t “get it.” To the contrary, you are writing for your ideal
reader, trusting he will do the necessary work and have the necessary patience, in order to
fully appreciate this elaborate story, its intertwining parts, its unfolding. The dialogue is
wonderful throughout, weaving humor and tenderness with sarcasm and bitterness,
always with an undercurrent of unconditional family love. Your scenes are, in and of
themselves, minor masterpieces of emotional arc and pacing/structure—driven by
dialogue, they almost inevitably rise to a high point of tension that results in some
surprise involving some crucial emotional turn, often a heartbreaking one. Most beautiful
about your story—and you capture this right off the bat in the brilliant opening
paragraph—is that you portray this family as a single organism, even as you distinguish
each personality, even as you highlight Randy as the center of consciousness, all the
while skillfully employing what is, in effect—and necessarily so—an omniscient
narrator.
Regarding the narration, I (still) think you might go further to crystallize the transitions
into the past. Indeed, you are providing context clues, but I wonder if even the little
“work” the reader must do to get his bearings isn’t an unnecessary distraction from an
otherwise smoother reading—if you blatantly led the way with an opening line, such as
“Three weeks later, once they were settled in and Indiana seemed like…” or “When
they’d first arrived from Indiana, having just pulled into the driveway, their father was
already calling down from the balcony…” or “As a seven-year-old Randy had always
known better than to just barge in to his big brother’s bedroom…” This kind of
commanding, guiding, distant narrative voice isn’t too far off from what you’ve already
got working here—and, in fact, I’d say it’s just a matter of allowing yourself to fully reap
the benefits of the already “distant” narrative voice you’re using—at least at the outsets
of scenes, where you might start “distant” before “zooming in” to get close (particularly
in the past scenes). You can, of course, use this “omniscient,” or “distant,” voice not
only in order to provide information that might serve the story better, but also to withhold
information that could make the story better, more interesting…and, most important,
more true to the tone and intention of the narrative. No better example than in the
climactic collision scene, where perhaps you don’t need to describe the actual collision,
which, thanks to your effective narrating (the shifting, etc.) you’ve already created
sufficient dramatic irony, and so the accident is inevitable once these forces are in
motion—perhaps we can leap past the event itself…or leap into the past, as you do, then
return to the “future…”
I’ve tracked my admiration throughout the story, so please read all the comments; also,
I’ve noted my questions and moments of skepticism—which I hope you’ll see as
266
opportunities to make this “work of art” reach its fullest potential. It is a rare, rare treat to
read a student’s work that so startles me for its excellence. Right down to the sentence
level, I’m in a state of wonder reading your work—your insights, your use of language,
your sensitivity to various personalities, your humor, your compassion… What
impresses me most of all is witnessing your work ethic—you know that a great story
doesn’t just happen; it arrives after careful wrestling…with words, ideas… You’ve got
extraordinary talent, and you don’t take it for granted—you challenge yourself to make
the very most of it, and so gracefully, I might add.
100
267
Kathryn Lund’s notes on revision
Mr. Zervanos,
I took into account all the critiques you gave my story and tried to correct and
strengthen it where I could. In general, I added more chronology details to eliminate
confusion between jumping back and forth. I also took out Zac, the older brother who
died Iraq. Though it wasn’t suggested, as I reviewed my story, I felt that the Zac
character really added no point to the story, or at least to the aspects that I really wanted
to convey. By deleting him, I was able to focus more on the dynamics between Randy
and Diana, the implications of the car crash, the motivations for his college decision, and
the symbolism of the cat. Although I liked the big-brother dynamic with Zac, I hadn’t
developed his character enough originally, and while that may be something I could add
when I work on the story later, I figured it best to take him out for now. Though I could
and would certainly continue polishing, I feel these changes have improved the story
from its previous version and hope it makes a good addition to your collection.
Kathryn Lund
268
Kathryn Lund
Original Outline for “Never Too Far”
Flashback to initial move eastward
Cat (which will inadvertently connect to protagonist) is described as she stresses out Mom,
younger sister Teresa, older brother Zac, and Randy (protagonist). They are on their long trek to
their new home, having already spent several hours in the car. After the cat throws up and Mom
misses her exit, she pulls over in exhausted desperation.
Present Day (protagonist is six years older)
The protagonist is on the brink of life after six years of adjusting to the east coast. Teresa has
changed a lot since starting high school, but not horribly. Adaptation to the east coast is
described, and Randy drives Teresa home from school. Randy opens an acceptance letter from
his lesser college, but says he’ll still hold out for his prize. Everyone gears up for their Valentine
plans.
Flashback to Apartment
Portrayed as paradise (by Dad). The three rooms, gym facility, access to Dairy Queen, etc. are
described. Each person gives their respective evaluation of the place upon first arrival. The night
of the car ride, when the three reunite with Dad, is climaxed by loss of cat. Bitter reconciliation
occurs when Dad searches for cat and returns her safely.
Dad and Mom
Randy and Teresa say bye to parents in passing. Randy is going out with girlfriend, while Teresa
is going to the Valentine’s dance. Dad sees the letter lying on the table. He and Mom talk about
Randy’s college plans, briefly alluding to eldest son. Dad balks at the idea of Randy moving
away, saying he’s getting too big for his pants, wanting to get into international relations. Mom
points out that the family has been moving for the past two decades—Randy has a pattern that
Dad has worked in him—and that he’s thoughtful and intuitive, not a soldier like Zac. They drop
the conversation and prepare to leave for their own Valentine’s dinner.
Valentine Jitters
Though still winter, the weather is crisp Randy drops Teresa off at school, subconsciously
worried about her 18-year-old boyfriend, then goes by girlfriend’s house for a special dinner. He
is euphoric as he walks up to the front door with a bouquet of flowers.
Flashback to conversation with Zac
Randy talks to older brother right after he signs up for Marines. (Randy is 14, Zac is 19.) Randy
immaturely states how macho he thinks it is. Zac admits his fear and the pressure from dad.
Randy’s date
Diana seems happy, but something is on her mind. (From her perspective) She had everything
planned out—they would have one last dinner, and then she would gently let him down. She
likes Randy but is feeling overwhelmed—applying to the same college, this fancy Valentine’s
dinner, being together the past four years. The weight of her task burdens her, and immediately
after receiving their orders, she breaks down. Neither eats, Randy drives her home, and not
knowing what else to do, waits outside in his car.
269
Dad and Mom after dinner
(From Mom’s perspective) Dad is a little drunk; Mom advises that she drive. He chuckles, says
he’s fine. She lightens up, and hops in car.
Teresa’s dance; crash
Randy is sober; Teresa is not. After getting no response on her cell, he walks into dance (he
knows he’s picking her up early), forces a guy off her, and forces her out to car. He yells at her
for being stupid. A period of silence ensues, he speeds through a yellow-red light, as another car
barrels into Teresa’s side.
Flashback to Zac going off
(From each person’s view.) Family sees eldest son off to war. Dad is proud. Mom is maternally
protective yet proud. Teresa (age 9) worries about her big brother, but is assured by parents.
Randy is quiet, mournful, recalling his brother’s words. He hugs him tightly.
Ambulance to Hospital (short, all action)
Randy fuzzily describes the lights, the screams, the pain. Key point: before the paramedics arrive
and before he goes to the hospital, he sees his parents.
Flashback to receiving Zac’s letter, a year after his being sent off
Mom picks Randy up from school. They get the mail, eager to see a letter from Zac because he
hasn’t written in a month. Upon opening, Mom slumps into a chair, burying her face in her
hands. Randy picks the letter from the floor, and reads that his brother has been killed. Dad
comes home, and Randy resentfully hands him the letter.
Two weeks later (present)
Sister is paralyzed; Randy, Mom, and Dad survive. Sifting through a week’s worth of mail (with
his various braces and bandages), Randy finds an acceptance letter from the college he and his
girlfriend had applied to. He also sees an almost acceptance from West Point (to which his Dad
had applied him), requesting an interview. He hides them from his parents.
Two months later (April 30)
Teresa’s medical bills get bigger. Mom has quit job, Randy has quit sports to work job, Dad is
working double. A new complication with Teresa forces them to refinance. Tension between
Randy and Dad is high (though Randy doesn’t know that Dad drove that night; his mother lied
and said she did). Dad brings up that he found Randy’s acceptance letter and accuses him of
ditching the family. At least if he joined the Marines, Dad wouldn’t have to pay for him and
Randy would rake some money in. The cat chirps as she jumps on the couch, and Randy glances
at his weak sister compassionately. He retorts that Dad can’t bring Zac back through him.
Storming away, he overhears Dad make a flippant comment to wife asking why she ever let him
drive that night. Looking at the calendar, he notices the date and his May 1 deadline. The two
letters lie before him.
Your Name Is Blaine Jones
Courtney O’Connor 2007
Until the phone conversation on
Thursday night with Amy, Sophia had
forgotten she was going to be a mother.
The birth mother had gone to the doctor
for a check-up and she was in labor
which meant Sophia would be flying out
to Illinois tomorrow to pick up her new
child. She knew it was a boy but that’s
about all. On the airplane Sophia
realized she hadn’t even thought of a
name. Of course, names had been
discussed in previous months but
nothing had been decided. On the plane
she saw a boy and his mother who
seemed to be very close but at the
moment were in a heated argument. The
mother continued to yell from check-in
throughout the entire flight. It was not
hard to find out the boy’s name was
Blaine. Sophia listened to the name, and
it seemed an okay fit. Blaine sounded
cute and it was an easy name to yell,
which she imagined she would do a lot
when raising a son. The letter B was
good and the rest sounded like a fine
name. That’s how her life had been
lately-just fine.
When Sophia exited the airport
she called Amy, who was five minutes
away. Sophia sat down on one of the
bird-poop-stained benches that was
supposed to be a great tribute to a dead
person and started to let the idea that
soon she would be a mother sink into her
brain. She wanted to cry but had no tears
left. She had spent the past month crying
and she was plain sick of it. Sophia had
pretended that she wasn’t scared but she
was. She was worried she would not be a
good mother. Heck, she wasn’t even sure
if she wanted a child at this time but it
had been planned for so long she figured
she would go ahead with it. Then Amy
picked her up and asked her if she was
ready to meet the baby. Sophia
responded with “as ready as I’ll ever
be,” and Amy took that as a sign to put
the car in drive and move towards the
direction of the hospital.
Blaine, as he was now named,
had been born at a healthy weight and
with great reaction by the doctors. He
was ready to go home, the doctors said,
but Sophia wasn’t so sure. She went to
the nursery in the hospital and peered
through the observation window and
then saw a baby in a blue blanket with
no name tag. That must be him. Amy
told her that she could go inside and hold
Blaine. Sophia hesitated and became
pale in the face: she was going to get
sick. The reality had just set in. The
emotions overloaded her face and she
looked as if she were up at heaven but
was actually in deep thought. These
breakdowns, as her friends had gently
called them, had been happening quite
frequently. She quickly recovered,
blamed it on not eating, and asked if
Amy could go down to the cafeteria and
get her a snack of some sort. This left
her with time alone with the baby.
She looked down at him in his
crib and introduced herself by her full
name, “Hi, I am Sophia Marie Jones.”
The words I am your new mom could not
leave her lips. “Your name is Blaine
William Jones”. He opened his eyes and
stretched one of those great baby
stretches that went from the top of his
head to his pinkie toe. She counted 10
fingers and 10 toes. Perfect.
The new family, consisting of
Sophia and Blaine arrived back at their
house late on Friday night. In one day
Sophia had flown from New York to
Illinois, become a mother, and flown
home. On the plane ride home she had
271
changed his diaper twice and concluded
that from now on she would have to use
duct tape to keep the diapers on. She
couldn’t figure the damn things out. She
also didn’t understand why baby clothes
had so many buttons when the clothes
were being put on and taken off many
times throughout the day. She figured
Velcro would work better.
The first night the normally quiet
house was roaring with screams. She had
no idea what to do with this child. She
put him in his crib that she had bought
the week before. She knew the baby
wasn’t wet or hungry, yet she didn’t
know what the child wanted. Then she
brought in her laptop, thanks to wireless
internet, and went on Google. Any
person who has a question about
something always Googles it. She was
going to Google how to be a mother. She
looked at many websites and each one
said the same thing. A mother holding
their newborn should be enough to calm
the child. On one website it said that the
child wanted to be back in the womb and
suggested putting something that ticks
next to the crib to imitate the sound of
the mother’s heart beating. She found a
clock and tried to put it close to the
baby. That didn’t work. The screams got
louder and louder as the day got older
and older. Sophia held her child but he
reached for her nipple and she could not
comfort her own child. She wished she
had bought a rocking chair because she
remembered as a small child that the
rocking movement had soothed her. She
wished she had done a lot of things
before she received Blaine but she
hadn’t. She always dreamed of creating
a beautiful nursery and stenciling in
small creatures on the walls. The walls
in Blaine’s nursery were white. The crib
had one white sheet on it. There was no
theme or room design. Sophia hadn’t
even had the time to put the clothes for
the baby in the armoire she bought a
week ago along with the crib. The colors
were supposed to be green and yellow if
a boy and pink and yellow if a girl.
There were no colors. She didn’t even
have a changing table yet. The floor and
a towel would serve as a changing table.
The only things she had were cream for
the butt, a pack of diapers that were too
big, two bottles, a black diaper bag and a
couple of onesies.
She thought of this while holding
Blaine in her arms. He had worked
himself to sleep by crying so much. He
had gone through every type of cry.
First, the cry that is soft and sounded
like a whining child. Then he was
huffing and puffing and cries were only
coming out every ten seconds. Then he
had worked himself into the no—sound
cry. His mouth was wide open but
nothing would come out. His face had
gotten beet red and for a second she
thought he was not breathing. Then the
long wails came. They began to get
shorter and quieter. The little guy had
tired himself out. Sophia put him down
in his crib with a tiny blue receiving
blanket from the hospital lying over him
and one lonesome stuffed animal beside
him. She had not been able to put her
own child to sleep. He put himself to
sleep. The roles had already been
switched: Blaine was taking care of
himself instead of her taking care of him.
She was not cut out to be a mother.
When Sophia finally found a
minute to herself she decided to go into
her closet. His clothes were still hanging
from hangers on his side, but the newest
addition was the box of baby clothes.
When her friends threw her a surprise
baby shower last week the tone was
272
unlike any other shower. It was dull and
grim. None the less gifts were received
and Sophia had thrown the clothes into
the closet because the realization had not
set in yet that she was going to be a
single mother. Now, as Sophia was
digging through the closet she pulled out
a small jersey knit onesie that had blue
stripes and buttoned up the front
replicating a jersey of the New York
Yankees. On the back the famous name
Jeter was printed. Sophia sprung into
tears at seeing the outfit. She had bought
this with Billy about 4 months ago when
their birth mother had found out she was
having a baby boy. Billy had never been
so excited to be a Dad and be able to
teach his son manly things. Sophia
began to shake and think about how
great Billy would have been with Blaine.
He would be staring above the crib at
this very moment bragging about how
his son would be the best pitcher in the
major leagues without being a week old.
Sophia remembers that dreadful
day like it was yesterday; it had only
been two months. She had ordered pizza
for dinner and talked to Billy when he
said he was leaving work.
He told her he had one errand then
would be home. They had just talked to
Amy the day before, the day she told
them the baby was a boy and the
expectant mother had a clean bill of
health. That day at work Billy had made
the arrangements for their lawyer to
draw up the papers for the adoption. It
would all be happening within the next
two months. They were going to
celebrate over pizza and wine and stay in
all night thinking about baby names. The
pizza arrived and it was beginning to get
cold when Sophia realized Billy had
taken an hour to get home. She was mad
at Billy; he was always late and
inconsiderate when she cooked or
prepared dinner. After about two hours
she started to feel faint and became sick
to her stomach. She had a feeling
something had gone wrong. She had
been calling his cell phone for a while
and the past couples time it had gone
directly to the voicemail. This meant the
phone had died and she prayed that the
same thing had not happened to Billy.
Horrible ideas began to invade her head.
She went out driving around her New
Jersey suburb to see if she could see him
on the side of the road maybe with a flat
tire. Then she saw a racing ambulance
and up ahead a long line of cars and a
squad of police cars. She knew it was
him, and he had had a terrible accident.
She returned home and sat in her quiet
house in silence.
A knock on the door had made
her almost fall off her chair. It was two
state troopers who wore faces that a
person never wanted to see. She thought
to herself that this is how loved ones in
movies find out someone had died—but
this was reality. The trooper escorted her
to her kitchen table. The heavy walk of
his steel-toed boots echoed throughout
the empty house. Sophia noticed the
female cop had her hat very low, trying
to conceal her eyes then she saw a tear
drop streaming down her face. The male
cop sat her at the table and took off his
hat; he had the ideal army buzzed hair
cut. He looked as if he was a stoic man
but he could not hold back his emotions.
Then the words had been said
and, now, the next thing she remembered
was her friend, siblings, priest, and inlaws being in her house. The world had
begun to go on without her. She felt as if
she was standing still and everyone else
was in fast forward around her. That
next day she was not sure if she slept or
not. People had been circulating
throughout her house; she had never
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seen so many people in her house. It had
usually just been she and Billy. Sophia
wanted to scream at the top of her lungs
and tell everyone to get out! There was
tons of food in her house and at one
point her friend asked her if the
chocolate chip cookie tasted good. She
had no idea what the friend was
speaking about until she looked down at
her hand and realized she had a half
bitten cookie in her hand. Even more she
realized she was chewing on something.
Her answer to the question was, “I don’t
know.” She was in what people called a
state of shock.
The next couple of days she had
the entire town crowding around her.
The funeral was planned and attended.
About a week after the accident
everything died down and people started
calling less and stopping by less. It hit
her two weeks later. She was a widow at
the innocent age of thirty-two and would
be a new mother in the near future.
Then she heard Blaine crying in
the room that was supposed to resemble
a nursery but with only a crib and bureau
it looked very bare. That was another
thing on the list of things to do that she
never got around to doing. Sophia held
in her arms the Yankees jersey and
vowed that she would put forth all the
energy she had used in sulking to raising
this child and giving him the best life
possible.
She was awakened by the knock
at her door. She had overslept and Mia
was banging on the door to her house. It
was 7:45 and her doctor’s appointment
was at 8:00 a.m. The previous night had
been worse than the first. It was the first
time in over ten years that she had seen
each different hour on the clock. Blaine
had not allowed her to sleep for more
than forty minutes at a time. The last
time she looked at the clock it was 6:53,
and she figured Blaine would wake her
up again before it was time for his first
doctor’s appointment. Her plan did not
work out as well as she had planned. At
this point she had been lying in bed for
five more minutes since she’d first heard
Mia knocking on the door. She quickly
jumped out of bed and ran down the
steps to greet her friend. Mia had
decided to help Sophia take Blaine out
of the house for the first time. Mia was
also the one who found the pediatrician
and begged on the phone with the
receptionist for an appointment sooner
than two months away. Mia had become
a crutch for Sophia and since they had
always been such good friends Sophia
let Mia help.
The two women and Blaine
arrived at the doctor’s office twenty
minutes late and after Sophia broke
down into tears and threw a minor
temper tantrum they were told to sit
down and the doctor would be with them
shortly. The doctor walked in and
immediately looked at Sophia with her
large bags under her eyes and said that
she must be the new mother.
Lately, Sophia had been hesitant
to go anywhere new and having to meet
new people because she didn’t want to
have to explain her situation to everyone
under the sun then have those people
pity her. She noticed that the doctor
looked down at her hand and she looked
down also. She was still wearing her
wedding band and engagement ring on
her left ring finger; she wasn’t ready to
take it off. Then the dreadful question
came. Dr. Wasserstein asked where the
father was. Sophia knew from that point
on in her life she would always have to
explain her situation. She was a widow.
She was not Blaine’s real mother and he
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was adopted. She wanted to well up with
tears but decided to be strong.
Dr. Wasserstein realized he had
hit a nerve so he offered his condolences
and moved along with the exam. After
going through the particulars Dr.
Wasserstein mentioned that since Sophia
was not breastfeeding, Blaine should
have twelve ounces of formula a day.
Sophia had been giving him twenty
ounces the two days she had had him.
After Sophia learned another reason for
why she shouldn’t be a mother, Dr.
Wasserstein checked out Blaine and
stated that he was a remarkably strong
and healthy baby boy.
Sophia paid the co-pay and
walked out the door. She was halfway
down the hallway when she realized she
had walked out of the office without Mia
or Blaine. She turned around to see Mia
carrying Blaine. Mia was laughing but
Sophia wanted to cry. She realized that
being a mother was not in her nature.
Back at the house Mia put Blaine
down for a nap; she had always been
good with children and Sophia wondered
why Mia had not had children. The
answer soon came when Mia let Sophia
in on a little secret. It hadn’t happened in
one of the best-friend, heart-to-hearttype conversations. It had happened
when Sophia broke down about Blaine
and admitted how she didn’t think she
could make it in the world of mothers.
Mia screamed at her with a passion she
had never seen in her friend. Mia told
her to get a grip on her life and told her
she no longer felt sorry for her. Didn’t
she realize Blaine was brought down
from heaven for her and she should be
thankful? Mia and her husband of seven
years had been trying to have children
and had ended up with the same fate as
Sophia and Billy. They were on a
waiting list for adopting a child,
expecting it to be about two years.
Sophia desperately wanted to feel bad
for Mia and appreciate Blaine even more
but she was still a mess.
Once Mia left on not such good
terms, Sophia realized she was not tired
and wanted to sit down at her desk. The
desk was a dark mahogany wood and
along with the rest of the house was not
baby-proofed. Luckily, she didn’t have
to worry about that for another five
months until he started to crawl, but
there were many things she did have to
worry about. When she decided to go
back to her job as a nurse, who would
care for Blaine? She had had the stable
mother and father in her life growing up,
and it had pained her greatly when they
both passed away while she was in her
late twenties. Her mother had taught her
how to cook. Her father had taught her
how to play sports. Would she do both
for Blaine? Sophia wasn’t sure she could
handle being the mother and the father.
Even though she could not fathom the
idea of dating, what if at some point in
her life she decided she wanted to date?
How would Blaine feel about that? The
biggest question that lingered in her
mind since she held him for the first time
was how he would live his life never
meeting his intended father? He would
live a life never knowing the person who
had made her life worth living.
Out of the corner of her eye she
saw a manila folder with papers
scattered around the folder. It was called
her “baby” folder. It was everything that
she had received from the adoption
agency and the hospital when she went
to Illinois to pick up her new son. It had
become large and overflowed with
papers. She couldn’t even imagine how
many folders she would need to keep
track of Blaine in his lifetime. Sophia
was a type-A personality. That meant
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that everything had to be planned and
things were kept organized so she stayed
in control of many situations. Life had
not gone according to her plan.
In her mind she wanted a
schedule for Blaine. She wanted him to
eat at certain times and to be changed at
certain times. She thought he would
sleep at the same time every day. This
did not happen and it was stressing her
out.
She decided to organize her baby
folder, and while she was putting away
the papers she noticed the one paper
with her signature on the bottom. She
remembered signing it as she arrived at
the hospital. It had felt weird, as if she
were signing a sort of a return policy.
Earlier on in her steps to adopting a
child, she was told this was the paper
that she would dread the most. It stated
that within thirty days of the birthparents
handing over the child, the child could
be returned. In most cases this happened
when a birth mother became attached to
a child, then decided after having given
it up for adoption, that she wanted the
child back. Many adoption parents held
their breath until the thirty day wait
period was over. Sophia thought about
giving Blaine back to his birthparents.
They might be able to do a better job
raising him. She picked up the phone
and called the adoption agency; she had
the number memorized because she had
called over a thousand times in the past
two years. She talked to her
representative, Amy, and asked if she
could give back Blaine. Amy talked to
her about counseling and such, but
Sophia demanded an answer. Amy told
her it was possible and that Blaine would
be adopted very easily into another
family if she could not meet his needs.
Sophia hung up the phone with a lot of
new thinking to do. Blaine did not agree
with giving her time to think, he needed
her attention now.
His screams were blood curdling.
She went over to the baby and with no
idea of what he wanted; she decided to
check his diaper—clean. Then she tried
to hold him, but that didn’t work either.
She thought when mothers held their
own babies, they would probably stop
crying. The connection she had longed
for hadn’t happened. She tried to give
Blaine a pacifier but he spat it out. He
began to squirm, and she tried to hold
him close to her body to let him feel her
heartbeat so maybe he would feel as if
he were in his safe womb again. She felt
distraught and frustrated. What kind of
mother was she if she couldn’t even
comfort her child? What mother even
considered returning their child like a
faulty electronic device that is returned
to Sears.
She began to feel weak at the
knees and wanted to cry. She looked
down and Blaine was squeezing her
pinkie finger. This might seem very
ordinary to anyone else but to her this
meant Billy was watching over her. Billy
and she had made this as a signal that
everything would turn out okay. From
the very beginning of their marriage they
had an idea that they would have trouble
conceiving. After going through many
doctors’ appointments and many tests,
bad results always occurred. Billy began
squeezing her finger while they were
sitting in the doctor’s offices waiting to
hear dreadful news. The first time he did
this, she was told that her eggs were not
good for conceiving children. Then
again when Billy was told he had a low
sperm count. The two both had
problems. Hers was worse and she
always felt that it was her fault they
didn’t have their own biological
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children. Her biggest fear was that Billy
would up and move because he was the
one who wanted children more. Each
time a $20,000 in-vetro fertilization had
failed, he would squeeze her pinkie
finger and take her on a nice date that
night. Adoption became their last hope:
that wasn’t easy either. Birthparents
would sign up and Billy and Sophia
would get their hopes up then get let
down. He had continued their little
signal up until that last meeting they had
gone to together. Even in the last stages
of the adoption, plans could change in a
minute and then they would have to start
all over again. After being let down time
and time again, he would sit next to
Sophia and squeeze her right pinkie
finger. Whenever he did that she knew
that no matter what happened everything
would turn out all right. It would always
be the perfect signal.
Two days later Amy called and
asked how she was adjusting to her new
lifestyle. Sophia thought back to the
past couple of days since Blaine had
given her the sign from Billy. The
ultimate decision was made with a lot of
help from her deceased husband who
was looking down on her. He had been
sneaking into her life more than usual in
the past couple days. She thought she
heard Blaine laughing just like Billy
used to. She also noticed that Blaine
enjoyed when ESPN was on the TV, just
like Billy. She thought she had been
noticing signals from Billy, like his
favorite type of bird perched on the
porch balcony or his favorite songs
playing on the radio. Sophia decided that
her relationship with Blaine would be
much like her marriage with Billy. It
was for better or for worse. Then she
answered “Great” to Amy on the other
end of the phone. Her response shocked
even herself. Both ends of the phone
paused a moment. That was the first time
in a long while that Sophia thought her
life was above fine. She had finally felt
like a mom. She would go out and
people would gawk at Blaine and say
that he had his mother’s eyes. They kept
it a little secret between the two of them.
She decided it was the two of them
against the world.
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Teacher’s feedback on Courtney O’Connor’s original submission of “Your Name Is
Blaine Jones”
Courtney O’Connor. The Perfect Signal.
Courtney, as I told you in class the day, or the very period after, I read your story—and
now that I’ve read over it once again—I could not be more thoroughly impressed with
your accomplishment here. From the intriguing opening sentence—and the intriguing
opening paragraph, for that matter—to the final, beautiful paragraph, the story never
falters, never lets up.
You’ve created something very special with your narrator: the narration is steady, even
rhythmic, often poetic, yet always direct; also, you maintain a close third-person POV,
even as you keep some distance, outside of Sophia’s consciousness, offering a bit of
irony and wonderful concrete details that suggest her quirks and idiosyncrasies, but
without the slightest condescension toward her, in spite of her inadequacies as mother—
to the contrary, the narrative tone is utterly non-judgmental toward Sophia and, as such,
captures the heartbreaking essence of her experience, in a straightforward manner,
without spoon-feeding the reader, without explaining, without resorting to sentimentality.
Similarly, the plot feels utterly natural, not at all contrived; and at the same time, even as
it rolls along, from one challenging ordeal to the next, it remains suspenseful, as the
central question remains compelling from the first to the last sentence of the story: will
she succeed, or give up, being a mother? There are moments when certain plot elements
could (but don’t) feel contrived, unconvincing, if not for your skillful storytelling: for
example, you could suddenly reveal, too conveniently and suddenly, that she’s got a way
“out,” the 30-day deal, and you could have Sophia suddenly remember this and consider
the option; but, instead, you have her going through a folder filled with old items, a
convincing detail, as she is “type-A” and her life has not gone as planned (so we don’t
stop to question her action)—what a wonderful way to introduce the 30-day papers—so,
you’ve taken a crucial plot element and disguised it in some “other” believable action
(her going through the folder) and you build up to it seamlessly. Similarly—and best of
all, perhaps—you let the “pinkie” moment simply unfold naturally, just as she’s feeling
more frustrated than ever…and once again, utterly convincingly, a crucial turning point
in the story unfolds, as she remembers Billy squeezing her finger…and not just during
some arbitrary experience when he comforted her, but during the single most relevant
experience of all: when they discovered they would not be able to have a baby. Wow—
here, seemingly out of nowhere, you reveal the most crucial backstory of all, and so close
to the ending/climax and so all the more powerfully. Once again, you’ve taken one idea
(the pinkie) and not only avoided a sentimental, contrived moment, but created an
entirely new and crucial moment (her remembering Billy and that devastating day) in the
story. You make it look easy.
In the final paragraph, the timing gets a little fuzzy, but you’re right on track with this
perfect, understated ending, as she says she’s “great” and realizes, gratefully, her own
progress—the final details/thoughts/sentences are just perfect, powerful and moving and
278
simply put. Please see the little notes along the way—and edits—you’ve got some
sharpening to do (and here lies the only reason I’ve deducted a couple of points)…but the
content of the story is wonderful. (And I have to say, I think the title could be better.)
Your writing style is confident and unique, filled with humor, compassion, insight, and
wonderful, authentic details—yours is one of the best student stories I’ve read, and I
think you know that puts you in impressive company.
98+
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Courtney O’Connor’s notes on revision:
Mr. Zervanos,
I only changed the line edits that you pointed out in my first copy. I worked on the
timing in the last paragraph and it makes more sense now. Other than that there was not
a lot to do. The last thing that you told me to think about was the title. I brainstormed a
little, and decided that a title we discussed for the movie seemed to be a good fit. The
movie and the story are somewhat similar. I hope you don’t mind the double-dipping. I
also brainstormed other ideas so I thought I would share them with you and hopefully we
could go over them and pick the best one.
•
The Worst Possible Timing Imaginable
•
Unexpected Delight
•
The Unwanted Baby
•
Bad Timing
I am sure there are many more options and once I hand this in I will probably think of a
perfect title but for the past week these are the only titles I remotely liked.
Courtney O’Connor
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Courtney O’Connor’s original outline for “Your Name Is Blaine Jones”
1. Scene: Sophia has to travel to Illinois to receive her adopted child. She returns home at
night and the baby is tired and cranky … the normally quiet house is louder than she has
ever heard. The baby reaches to her breast to be breastfed and she cannot comfort her son
Blaine. She finally gets the baby to fall asleep in her bed then realizes that that is the
definition of being a bad mother.
2. Backstory: She goes into the closet to try to organize the small collection of baby
clothes she received from her baby shower a week ago. In the back of her closet she finds
a small New York Yankees jersey. Her husband bought this when they found out the
birth mother was having a baby boy. This brings her back to her husband and how he
died and how much she misses him.
3. Scene: The next day she wakes up after having only one hour of sleep. Her friend
comes over to get her and the baby ready to go to their first doctor’s appointment. She
finds out that she has been giving the baby double the amount of formula, and then she
walks out of the office without Blaine. When she goes home her friend puts the baby
down for a nap then Sophia breaks down. The friend lets her in on a secret that she just
found out her and her husband cannot have children and tells Sophia to cherish her times
with her baby.
4. Scene/Intense thought: Her friend leaves and then since the baby is asleep she decides
to take a second for herself. She passes the office in her house and sees the signed papers.
She remembers when she was with the lawyer him saying that with adoption there is a
thirty day grace period. She could decide to return Blaine. Then she thinks what kind of
mother is she? A baby cannot be returned like a pair of pants.
5. Scene: The baby wakes her up out of her deep thought by screaming cries. She tries to
comfort Blaine and begins to cry when she feels no connection with her child. Blaine
then squeezes her right pinkie finger which was something that her and her husband used
to do to signal to each other that everything would be okay. They had started doing this at
every doctor’s appointments time after time of finding out they could not have children.
At that moment Blaine sopped crying and she knew Blaine was sent to her from her
husband.
6. Flashback: She can remember laying in bed with her husband talking about their
future…from early times in their relationship they had a suspicion that they wouldn’t be
able to have children. She goes back to all the times she prayed and prayed for a child
and in the past couple of days she had been praying to not have a child.
7. Narration/Summary: It had been a week and she thought she could handle having a
child. She tries to put all of her focus on raising Blaine but the burden of being a young
widow catches up with her almost every day. She is often shocked by how her husband
can sneak back into her new life and how Blaine resembles her husband. She realizes this
may workout but the 30 day grace period is always lingering in her head.