Here's the final part of the story - enjoy.
By Matt
Now silver wings carried the glimmer of hope. He was back, if only for a while. He’d vowed to return when the Mariners opened their new stadium. Following that magical year had been one of his greatest joys. The miracle comeback, Randy reaching for the heavens, Dave Niehaus’s “grand salami” call on an Edgar Martinez home run and Junior’s exuberant dive across home to beat the Yankees.
The houses grew more numerous, the green landscape giving way to yet more shades of grey as concrete replaced evergreens. The plane whirred and thunked as flaps hung out and landing gear came down. The pressure grew on sensitive ears as the plane drew nearer to sea level.
Suddenly a thump and a screech as rubber met runway, the noise increasing as powerful engines reversed their thrust.
12B waited patiently as the other 86 people around him gathered their belongings and exited. He came to his feet and pulled his carryon from the bin. Shuffling along the aisle, he bade the flight crew a friendly farewell and thanked them for the flight. Excitement growing, he picked up the pace down the Jetway and burst into the busy, familiar terminal. It was exactly as he’d remembered, not particularly beautiful, and under a seemingly perpetual state of construction.
A short wait at the baggage claim later, and he had a heavy bag slung over his shoulder and was on his way to the ground transportation area. An airport shuttle bus would be along soon to take him to the hotel downtown, a real deal at $39 a night.
Stepping outside, he took in the sights and sounds of the airport. The air was cool and heavy. It smelled of rain, pine and jet fuel. He found it rather pleasant. The frequent sounds of jets taking off drowned out the cacophony of cars, taxis, and buses swirling around the terminal. Across International Boulevard he could see the twin towers of the Airport Plaza with the familiar 13 Coins restaurant sign. He’d never eaten there. Too expensive on $7.00 an hour, but it was one of the best restaurants in the area.
Around him people headed in all sorts of directions. He wondered where they were going. Did they have families here? Business? Pleasure?
The blue and yellow Dodge van approached. The usual mix of tourists piled in with him. Typically they were the only ones who used the Airporter.
Passengers around him called out their destinations. Soon he was alone with the driver. He gave the name of a hotel on Sixth Avenue, not far from the TV station whose offer he turned down two years earlier. “King’s Inn”, he said. He made no small talk with the driver, not wanting to miss the sights of the familiar city.
The van pulled into the lot of the hotel and the man’s heart sank. There was a reason the place was so cheap. It was a place more for the furtive, furious rendezvous of strangers than tourists.
He went to the grimy desk, to a disinterested clerk and gave his reservation. The clerk seemed surprised anyone wanted to actually stay the entire night, but dutifully gave him a key to a first-floor room.
As rooms went, he had seen better garbage dumps. A tiny lamp with a 45-watt bulb provided the only light. The ancient TV had cable in name only. A twin bed had more lumps than bad gravy. As if to punctuate his miserable situation, the rain outside picked up. Fatigue beginning to set in, he set down his suitcase. The room had an unmistakable chill. A worn-out heater provided no relief, blowing only cold air, and even then with a protest of noise louder than the plane he’d left shortly before.
At least the room had a working phone and phone book. He didn’t have much money, but that didn’t mean he had to stay in this dive any longer than necessary. A scan through the book located a Motel 6 back down by the airport. He made a reservation for the next day. Another call arranged for a van to pick him up and take him to his new hotel. He hadn’t rented a car for this trip, not really believing he’d need one. He’d fix that tomorrow.
Satisfied his living arrangements would only be temporary, the man settled into the bed. A new feeling settled over him, one he hadn’t felt in years. The miserable room did nothing to contain it. He was happy.
The dim surroundings, the lumpy bed, the lack of heat couldn’t diminish the feeling. Here, amongst the trees and mountains, water, concrete and rain was something more. Here was home.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Flight 827 - Part 2
Part 2 of my story Flight 827. There will be one more addition. To my fellow hacks - You've read this story before, but not in this expanded version.
By Matt
Not seeing Annette anymore pained him the most. He longed to see her on a more serious level, but his timidity prevented that. If only he could have brought himself to ask.It was a regret he carried still, one he’d probably always carry.
The downfall was swift. He didn’t qualify for unemployment. “You haven’t worked enough,” the grey-haired woman told him. She seemed truly apologetic. But she couldn’t know what the news meant.
The job market was tight; recession had once again struck the area. A visit to a job fair had been particularly disastrous. He’d gotten lost among the buildings at the Seattle Center and never even made it there.
Once again in tears, he called his parents, told them he was coming come, that he was failure on his own.
Resigned to his fate, he visited the TV station where he’d interned before needing to get a paying job. He said he was leaving town and said his goodbyes. His supervisors had tried to get him hired before, to no avail.
The phone call a few days later had caught him by surprise. Was he interested in a job? The night assignment editor was leaving. Perhaps they could convince the news director he was the right person.
Of course he was interested, this was what he wanted. "We’ll get back to you," they said. When they did, it was the day before he was leaving. He’d made the arrangements to go. The landlord expected him to move out. The utilities were shut off, cable cancelled, train tickets in hand and the airline was coming to pick up his stuff to ship back to New York.
“Too late,” he told them. “If only you’d called yesterday.” He could have said yes, but he was too afraid, again too timid, to change his plans.
He’d still be here if he’d taken a chance, but chances weren’t what he was good at.
By Matt
Not seeing Annette anymore pained him the most. He longed to see her on a more serious level, but his timidity prevented that. If only he could have brought himself to ask.It was a regret he carried still, one he’d probably always carry.
The downfall was swift. He didn’t qualify for unemployment. “You haven’t worked enough,” the grey-haired woman told him. She seemed truly apologetic. But she couldn’t know what the news meant.
The job market was tight; recession had once again struck the area. A visit to a job fair had been particularly disastrous. He’d gotten lost among the buildings at the Seattle Center and never even made it there.
Once again in tears, he called his parents, told them he was coming come, that he was failure on his own.
Resigned to his fate, he visited the TV station where he’d interned before needing to get a paying job. He said he was leaving town and said his goodbyes. His supervisors had tried to get him hired before, to no avail.
The phone call a few days later had caught him by surprise. Was he interested in a job? The night assignment editor was leaving. Perhaps they could convince the news director he was the right person.
Of course he was interested, this was what he wanted. "We’ll get back to you," they said. When they did, it was the day before he was leaving. He’d made the arrangements to go. The landlord expected him to move out. The utilities were shut off, cable cancelled, train tickets in hand and the airline was coming to pick up his stuff to ship back to New York.
“Too late,” he told them. “If only you’d called yesterday.” He could have said yes, but he was too afraid, again too timid, to change his plans.
He’d still be here if he’d taken a chance, but chances weren’t what he was good at.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Solarainne 2
(For an explanation of this project, please see the note on the post entitled "Solarainne 1." Thanks!)
(And sorry - for some reason this won't let me indent paragraphs.)
By Marcy and Bryan
The class filed out quickly, mumbling to each other about the absurdly short class. Connall looked at none of them. He fixed his eyes on the floor, making a line for his professor's desk. He wanted to know what the note meant, or what he should do. This guy says one thing to me and I'm going to deck him. He straightened himself up just in time to see Mary McCrary, a pretty girl that sat in the front, head him off. She was focused on Mr. Durst, and opened her mouth to speak.
"Mr. Durst, this is by far the most outrageous form of sexual harassment I have encountered at this school, and I hang out with rugby players, so that is saying a lot!" Mary said, her green eyes flashing with anger. She held up her essay, which had the same blue-inked message on it as Connall's did.
Mr. Durst laughed.
Connall's brow furrowed. "What is going on here? Is this some kind of joke?"
"Well, at least you both took offense to my little experiment," Mr. Durst said. "That's a good sign."
"A good sign of what? That we're human beings? And that we don't like being treated as objects by a professor who uses his assignments for his own personal agenda?" Mary retorted hotly.
"Exactly, Miss McCrary. That you are humans. And humans with some shred of moral character to boot. It's taken me half a semester to root you out of the crop of this year's pathetic hybrids. Our kind are rarities anymore."
"What the hell are you talking about? Hybrids? Are you on crack?" Connall asked, and then realized that he was simply asking questions that the good professor was already about to explain.
But Mr. Durst simply handed them a small business card. "Go to this address, at precisely four o'clock. Show this card to no-one, do you understand? I will meet you there and show you exactly what I am talking about. I'm afraid this classroom, even this campus, is not the place to discuss such subjects."
"Why should we trust you?" Connall asked.
"Do me a favor," Mr. Durst said. "Go to the coffee shop. Sit down with a mocha and observe your fellow college mates. Really observe them. And imagine that you are watching a cosmic science experiment. You'll be surprised what you see."
He gathered his things and headed for the door, leaving Mary and Connall completely baffled. Before he exited, he turned to them again. "Stay together until you meet me later. It's not as safe for you out there anymore; you're in the know."
He left.
Connall looked at Mary. She said:
"Do you have any clue what he's talking about? I've got another class at four. What's he talking about? He's not getting off that easy..."
But something in the way he said cosmic science experiment didn't sit right with Connall. He had heard those words once before, but where exactly he couldn't recall. Clearly, though, this professor had a plan for them. And it didn't involve wine and cheese in his dining room followed by gladiator movies in the bedroom.
"Look, it's a little weird, but maybe we should do this," Connall said. "And I know you don't know me and I don't know you, but it's probably just part of some lesson he's trying to teach."
Mary's breathing slowed a little. Curiosity began to take over.
"Well, he can't rape us both, can he?" she said, wishing instantly she hadn't. I don't even know this guy, hope he's not offended. His smile told her he wasn't.
"Well, I hope not. Here's what's really wrong: I left my money in my dorm room, so if we're supposed to hang out for the next three hours, I guess you're coming too. What do you think?"
Half an hour later, after money was fetched and more cold braved, Mary and Connall were sitting in the coffee shop, each with a mocha and a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin. They kicked back in a booth and began their people watching experiment, oblivious to what they were actually looking for.
"I can't believe I'm skipping Chem to sit here and ingest carbs with a stranger at the request of a perverted, demented professor." Mary said through a bite of muffin.
"Tell us how you really feel," Connall countered.
"What are we supposed to be looking for, anyway."
Connall sipped his mocha, then wiped whipped cream from the tip of his nose. "A cosmic science project."
"This whole thing is a cosmic science project." Mary mumbled.
Connall scanned the crowd, a regular mix of coffe shop patrons. The punks, the goths, the poets, the preps, and the average joes all mingled and gorged on treats. He watched them for weirdness, but spoke to Mary as he did.
"So where are you from, Mary McCrary?"
"Ohio. You?"
"Buffalo."
"You came a long way for school then." She huffed.
"That's original."
Mary sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm frustrated. None of this makes any logical sense, but it seems to be the right thing to do here."
Connall smirked, and was about to speak, when something caught his eye...
He found himself staring back at an iguana with a pearl necklace sitting atop Ben Ngyuen's shoulder.
Ben took a poetry class with Connall, and Connall remembered his was particularly bad, not just for the writing but because Ben came from Korea, and his r's were sometimes lost in the shuffle. Even with the public readings in class, up until now Connall never saw Ben communicate much with anybody, let alone a pet lizard. Yet here he was, feeding cracker crumbs to it as he read a bike manual in a far corner of the room. And the lizard looked at Connall like it was waiting for him to look away, but he didn't.
Mary saw the confusion smattered on Connall's face.
"What is it? What's the matter?" But before he could answer, she turned around to look at the lizard, which was now whispering into Ben's ear.
Ben's head snapped around to look directly at Connall and Mary. Connall swore he thought he saw Ben's eyes flare a brilliant yellow, and then fade back to normal. Ben pulled the lizard off of his shoulder and carefully placed her inside his backpack. He shouldered the bag, and with a cold glare, turned his back on the two observers and left the coffee shop. The backpack rustled, and the lizard peeked out of the bag, flipping off Mary and Connall.
"Did you see -"
"Oh yes, I saw," Mary replied before Connall could finish.
"How soon until four o'clock?"
Mary looked at her cell phone's time display. "Thirty-five minutes. Should we go? A trained lizard doesn't necessarily constitute a cosmic science experiment."
"But a Korean poet's eyes glowing yellow might." Connall stood and donned his jacket. "Safety in numbers. Let's go."
"How reassuring," mumbled Mary, but she followed Connall out to the bus stop.
(And sorry - for some reason this won't let me indent paragraphs.)
By Marcy and Bryan
The class filed out quickly, mumbling to each other about the absurdly short class. Connall looked at none of them. He fixed his eyes on the floor, making a line for his professor's desk. He wanted to know what the note meant, or what he should do. This guy says one thing to me and I'm going to deck him. He straightened himself up just in time to see Mary McCrary, a pretty girl that sat in the front, head him off. She was focused on Mr. Durst, and opened her mouth to speak.
"Mr. Durst, this is by far the most outrageous form of sexual harassment I have encountered at this school, and I hang out with rugby players, so that is saying a lot!" Mary said, her green eyes flashing with anger. She held up her essay, which had the same blue-inked message on it as Connall's did.
Mr. Durst laughed.
Connall's brow furrowed. "What is going on here? Is this some kind of joke?"
"Well, at least you both took offense to my little experiment," Mr. Durst said. "That's a good sign."
"A good sign of what? That we're human beings? And that we don't like being treated as objects by a professor who uses his assignments for his own personal agenda?" Mary retorted hotly.
"Exactly, Miss McCrary. That you are humans. And humans with some shred of moral character to boot. It's taken me half a semester to root you out of the crop of this year's pathetic hybrids. Our kind are rarities anymore."
"What the hell are you talking about? Hybrids? Are you on crack?" Connall asked, and then realized that he was simply asking questions that the good professor was already about to explain.
But Mr. Durst simply handed them a small business card. "Go to this address, at precisely four o'clock. Show this card to no-one, do you understand? I will meet you there and show you exactly what I am talking about. I'm afraid this classroom, even this campus, is not the place to discuss such subjects."
"Why should we trust you?" Connall asked.
"Do me a favor," Mr. Durst said. "Go to the coffee shop. Sit down with a mocha and observe your fellow college mates. Really observe them. And imagine that you are watching a cosmic science experiment. You'll be surprised what you see."
He gathered his things and headed for the door, leaving Mary and Connall completely baffled. Before he exited, he turned to them again. "Stay together until you meet me later. It's not as safe for you out there anymore; you're in the know."
He left.
Connall looked at Mary. She said:
"Do you have any clue what he's talking about? I've got another class at four. What's he talking about? He's not getting off that easy..."
But something in the way he said cosmic science experiment didn't sit right with Connall. He had heard those words once before, but where exactly he couldn't recall. Clearly, though, this professor had a plan for them. And it didn't involve wine and cheese in his dining room followed by gladiator movies in the bedroom.
"Look, it's a little weird, but maybe we should do this," Connall said. "And I know you don't know me and I don't know you, but it's probably just part of some lesson he's trying to teach."
Mary's breathing slowed a little. Curiosity began to take over.
"Well, he can't rape us both, can he?" she said, wishing instantly she hadn't. I don't even know this guy, hope he's not offended. His smile told her he wasn't.
"Well, I hope not. Here's what's really wrong: I left my money in my dorm room, so if we're supposed to hang out for the next three hours, I guess you're coming too. What do you think?"
Half an hour later, after money was fetched and more cold braved, Mary and Connall were sitting in the coffee shop, each with a mocha and a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin. They kicked back in a booth and began their people watching experiment, oblivious to what they were actually looking for.
"I can't believe I'm skipping Chem to sit here and ingest carbs with a stranger at the request of a perverted, demented professor." Mary said through a bite of muffin.
"Tell us how you really feel," Connall countered.
"What are we supposed to be looking for, anyway."
Connall sipped his mocha, then wiped whipped cream from the tip of his nose. "A cosmic science project."
"This whole thing is a cosmic science project." Mary mumbled.
Connall scanned the crowd, a regular mix of coffe shop patrons. The punks, the goths, the poets, the preps, and the average joes all mingled and gorged on treats. He watched them for weirdness, but spoke to Mary as he did.
"So where are you from, Mary McCrary?"
"Ohio. You?"
"Buffalo."
"You came a long way for school then." She huffed.
"That's original."
Mary sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm frustrated. None of this makes any logical sense, but it seems to be the right thing to do here."
Connall smirked, and was about to speak, when something caught his eye...
He found himself staring back at an iguana with a pearl necklace sitting atop Ben Ngyuen's shoulder.
Ben took a poetry class with Connall, and Connall remembered his was particularly bad, not just for the writing but because Ben came from Korea, and his r's were sometimes lost in the shuffle. Even with the public readings in class, up until now Connall never saw Ben communicate much with anybody, let alone a pet lizard. Yet here he was, feeding cracker crumbs to it as he read a bike manual in a far corner of the room. And the lizard looked at Connall like it was waiting for him to look away, but he didn't.
Mary saw the confusion smattered on Connall's face.
"What is it? What's the matter?" But before he could answer, she turned around to look at the lizard, which was now whispering into Ben's ear.
Ben's head snapped around to look directly at Connall and Mary. Connall swore he thought he saw Ben's eyes flare a brilliant yellow, and then fade back to normal. Ben pulled the lizard off of his shoulder and carefully placed her inside his backpack. He shouldered the bag, and with a cold glare, turned his back on the two observers and left the coffee shop. The backpack rustled, and the lizard peeked out of the bag, flipping off Mary and Connall.
"Did you see -"
"Oh yes, I saw," Mary replied before Connall could finish.
"How soon until four o'clock?"
Mary looked at her cell phone's time display. "Thirty-five minutes. Should we go? A trained lizard doesn't necessarily constitute a cosmic science experiment."
"But a Korean poet's eyes glowing yellow might." Connall stood and donned his jacket. "Safety in numbers. Let's go."
"How reassuring," mumbled Mary, but she followed Connall out to the bus stop.
Friday, May 19, 2006
Flight 827
This was one of the few stories to survive my computer crash. It began life as one of our assignments. The goal was to think of a story in the time you were stopped at a red light. What came out was this. This is the first installment.
By Matt
Flight 827, a 737 from Pittsburgh with 87 people on board broke through the clouds at 6,000 feet. Below, a lush green landscape unfolded, punctuated by the occasional dot of houses. Ahead, the sky showed the first hints of gathering twilight amongst the leaden grey. Mountains were barely visible amongst the haze. Streaks of liquid formed against Plexiglas.
For the passenger in 12B, these were sights he’d thought he’d not see again. Sights last seen that miserable St. Patrick’s Day when screeching, protesting rails carried him out of King Street Station on a slow journey back to the monotony of a life he thought he’d left behind. The journey then had left him too much time to reflect on missed opportunities. His time in the city had been the happiest of his life. He’d thought he’d spend the rest of his life there. Sure, he had a cheap apartment, and made way too little money. He’d had no need to change his driver’s license since he had been to poor to own a car, even a cheap old beater.
The city had suited him. On days off he take the bus to Discovery Park and walk among the wooded trails, stopping at the occasional clearing to take in the view of the sound. He found he enjoyed the view most when his favorite mountain poked its head out from the frequent mists. Or maybe he’d go to the waterfront and watch the bustle on the sound and the city around him.
He loved the city’s quirks; the troll under the Aurora Bridge; Hammering Man at the SAM. He loved how rain made the city seem alive, one with its surroundings. Espresso stands in dry cleaners, tanning salons and grimy gas stations. He missed good coffee.
His job had been nothing special. Selling computers at store in a suburban strip mall was as far away from TV journalism as he could get. Still it had paid the bills.
It was a shock losing his job. He was the store’s top seller. This couldn’t happen to him. He cried in the manager’s office. The job wasn’t much but it had been everything to him. His co-workers were the closest thing he had to friends. Without them he was alone.
By Matt
Flight 827, a 737 from Pittsburgh with 87 people on board broke through the clouds at 6,000 feet. Below, a lush green landscape unfolded, punctuated by the occasional dot of houses. Ahead, the sky showed the first hints of gathering twilight amongst the leaden grey. Mountains were barely visible amongst the haze. Streaks of liquid formed against Plexiglas.
For the passenger in 12B, these were sights he’d thought he’d not see again. Sights last seen that miserable St. Patrick’s Day when screeching, protesting rails carried him out of King Street Station on a slow journey back to the monotony of a life he thought he’d left behind. The journey then had left him too much time to reflect on missed opportunities. His time in the city had been the happiest of his life. He’d thought he’d spend the rest of his life there. Sure, he had a cheap apartment, and made way too little money. He’d had no need to change his driver’s license since he had been to poor to own a car, even a cheap old beater.
The city had suited him. On days off he take the bus to Discovery Park and walk among the wooded trails, stopping at the occasional clearing to take in the view of the sound. He found he enjoyed the view most when his favorite mountain poked its head out from the frequent mists. Or maybe he’d go to the waterfront and watch the bustle on the sound and the city around him.
He loved the city’s quirks; the troll under the Aurora Bridge; Hammering Man at the SAM. He loved how rain made the city seem alive, one with its surroundings. Espresso stands in dry cleaners, tanning salons and grimy gas stations. He missed good coffee.
His job had been nothing special. Selling computers at store in a suburban strip mall was as far away from TV journalism as he could get. Still it had paid the bills.
It was a shock losing his job. He was the store’s top seller. This couldn’t happen to him. He cried in the manager’s office. The job wasn’t much but it had been everything to him. His co-workers were the closest thing he had to friends. Without them he was alone.
The cup
By Matt
Grown men will cry. Men who wouldn’t cry at the ending of “Old Yeller” will weep uncontrollably. They won’t be tears of pain, but of joy. Young and old alike will join together in celebration. The eyes of a continent will turn to them. And a city and region around them will find out once what it feels like to be on top of the world, if just for a fleeting moment.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Solarainne 1
Hello Hack fans!
It's your friendly neighborhood Marcy here.
As you can tell, our writers' group is still warming up to this blog thing. So as we continue to work on our individual pieces, we will present some of our creative outlet assignments from meetings and such on this blog. (Some of which you have seen already.
This particular post is an unfinished, ongoing story that Bryan and I started writing last summer as a stress reliever at work. We've been e-mailing paragraphs back and forth, and letting it meander to see where it goes. So for the Blog, we're going to post a couple paragraphs at a time.
It is rough, cheesey, and random. Like my feet. So, I guess we'll call it a serial, because that sounds cooler that rough, cheesy, random and unfinished story.
Here's the first installment of Solarainne:
Connall threw his jacket on and zipped it as far as it would go. He could hear the wind screaming outside of the walls, and lamented that he had to leave the warmth of his dorm room to brave the winter chill. But alas, he thought, Mr. Durst's fiction writing class waits for no-one. While donning his fleece ski cap, he glanced at the calendar picture hanging by the door. Palm trees waved in sunshine over white sandy beaches. A margarita in hand, and steel drum music drifting on the air, he dreamed of digging his bare toes into warm sand. A Jimmy Buffet song worked its way into his brain, and the refrain would be stuck in his head the rest of the day. Heaving a huge sigh, Connall grabbed his bag and gloves and headed out into what was most definitely not Margaritaville.
No, this was indeed Williamsville, where sombreros are traded for stocking caps and a bite of wind can hurt more than the worm in tequila. There was at least one good bit of news awaiting him before he hit his professor's door at the University of Buffalo campus. He had to pick up his paycheck at Hooters around the block, and spend a few minutes basking in the glow of deep fryers and a woman named Pamela.
"UUUhhhhh... Pamela..." he drooled in his best Homer Simpson voice as the lock of the dorm room clicked. With a hop he shouldered his bookbag, stuffed his wallet in his coat, and dreamed of Hooters.
Glancing at his watch, he decided that suffering through class and then seeing Pamela would be a better course of action; it gave him something to look forward to. So he re-routed his steps to class and dreamed. Hooters and the beach. Somehow those two thoughts seemed to meld in Connall's mind, and kept him warm throughout the rest of his trek to class.
When he reached the warm building, he stripped a few of his layers off on the chair, and felt slightly overheated, despite the cold he had just come in from. He wondered why the brass heated class buildings to the high seventies or eighties. They knew that students overbundled for the upstate NY cold, and then huffed their way around campus. The insta-heat would most certainly put them to sleep. Didn't that seem rather counterproductive to classtime?
Mr. Durst began his review of the previous assignments he had graded and was handing back to his students. It was the same speech as always; "You all are capable of better writing than this. Why is it that you insist on not living up to your potential?" He passed by Connall on his way to hand Mandy Marco her essay. As he walked by, Connall noticed the familiar odor of his professor; stale coffee and minestrone soup. Why did this guy always smell like minestrone soup?
The smell intensified as Mr. Durst stopped in front of Connall, essay in hand. In scrawling blue ballpoint pen, there was a message on the top of the page, and Mr. Durst looked at Connall pointedly. The message said "I love you, sweetie." The last word was underlined twice.
Connall looked back at his teacher, who only shot a fleeting smile and a look out the corner of his eye before turning to the next desk, making his rounds. Connall's arm drooped and his pen fell to the floor. He could only shake his head, dumbfounded. The professor resumed his place behind his desk.
"Now class, this abomination of an assignment has left me utterly defeated," he said as each student held their breath for the hammer to fall. "You are all dismissed. Except for Connall. You stay."
It's your friendly neighborhood Marcy here.
As you can tell, our writers' group is still warming up to this blog thing. So as we continue to work on our individual pieces, we will present some of our creative outlet assignments from meetings and such on this blog. (Some of which you have seen already.
This particular post is an unfinished, ongoing story that Bryan and I started writing last summer as a stress reliever at work. We've been e-mailing paragraphs back and forth, and letting it meander to see where it goes. So for the Blog, we're going to post a couple paragraphs at a time.
It is rough, cheesey, and random. Like my feet. So, I guess we'll call it a serial, because that sounds cooler that rough, cheesy, random and unfinished story.
Here's the first installment of Solarainne:
Connall threw his jacket on and zipped it as far as it would go. He could hear the wind screaming outside of the walls, and lamented that he had to leave the warmth of his dorm room to brave the winter chill. But alas, he thought, Mr. Durst's fiction writing class waits for no-one. While donning his fleece ski cap, he glanced at the calendar picture hanging by the door. Palm trees waved in sunshine over white sandy beaches. A margarita in hand, and steel drum music drifting on the air, he dreamed of digging his bare toes into warm sand. A Jimmy Buffet song worked its way into his brain, and the refrain would be stuck in his head the rest of the day. Heaving a huge sigh, Connall grabbed his bag and gloves and headed out into what was most definitely not Margaritaville.
No, this was indeed Williamsville, where sombreros are traded for stocking caps and a bite of wind can hurt more than the worm in tequila. There was at least one good bit of news awaiting him before he hit his professor's door at the University of Buffalo campus. He had to pick up his paycheck at Hooters around the block, and spend a few minutes basking in the glow of deep fryers and a woman named Pamela.
"UUUhhhhh... Pamela..." he drooled in his best Homer Simpson voice as the lock of the dorm room clicked. With a hop he shouldered his bookbag, stuffed his wallet in his coat, and dreamed of Hooters.
Glancing at his watch, he decided that suffering through class and then seeing Pamela would be a better course of action; it gave him something to look forward to. So he re-routed his steps to class and dreamed. Hooters and the beach. Somehow those two thoughts seemed to meld in Connall's mind, and kept him warm throughout the rest of his trek to class.
When he reached the warm building, he stripped a few of his layers off on the chair, and felt slightly overheated, despite the cold he had just come in from. He wondered why the brass heated class buildings to the high seventies or eighties. They knew that students overbundled for the upstate NY cold, and then huffed their way around campus. The insta-heat would most certainly put them to sleep. Didn't that seem rather counterproductive to classtime?
Mr. Durst began his review of the previous assignments he had graded and was handing back to his students. It was the same speech as always; "You all are capable of better writing than this. Why is it that you insist on not living up to your potential?" He passed by Connall on his way to hand Mandy Marco her essay. As he walked by, Connall noticed the familiar odor of his professor; stale coffee and minestrone soup. Why did this guy always smell like minestrone soup?
The smell intensified as Mr. Durst stopped in front of Connall, essay in hand. In scrawling blue ballpoint pen, there was a message on the top of the page, and Mr. Durst looked at Connall pointedly. The message said "I love you, sweetie." The last word was underlined twice.
Connall looked back at his teacher, who only shot a fleeting smile and a look out the corner of his eye before turning to the next desk, making his rounds. Connall's arm drooped and his pen fell to the floor. He could only shake his head, dumbfounded. The professor resumed his place behind his desk.
"Now class, this abomination of an assignment has left me utterly defeated," he said as each student held their breath for the hammer to fall. "You are all dismissed. Except for Connall. You stay."
Friday, May 12, 2006
Bad Poetry Night in Hackland!
Hello Hack Fans!
Here it is - as promised. The No-Talent Hacks take a swing at pretend teenage poetry!
Keep in mind the youngest member of the Hacks is 27.
(Bonus points to whomever guesses which one of us is 27!!)
(Pete - you don’t count, you know the answer. Thanks for playing though!)
Sunshine and Light
By Matt
Why does school have to be so crass?
My entire life ruled by the hall pass.
Across the street the slackers smoke
I envy them their lives without care
My parents are always in my hair
I’m just not good enough
Does anyone here care?
My soul is ripped.
My mind a waste.
Why’d you leave?
I hate you
Grounded
By Marcy
No one listens to me
It's like I'm not even here
A voice in the dark
Faceless
Formless
Sound from everywhere
So loud it becomes nothing
Background noise
I am static
I am wind
I am the grinding screech of a dot matrix printer
Annoying
Repetitive
Obsolete
And they tune me out
Nothing I say is important
So I hide in the dark
Soundless
Barely breathing
And I scream
SOUL SQUISHER
By Dave
Crippled cockroach climbing
warily, gingerly, erratically
up the basement wall
hanging on with
furious insectoid desperation shrieking
I am more than vermin
I am life
I am your soul
Suddenly it topples
dead as a dead bug
How do I pay it due tribute?
Choking back a sob
I squish my soul
Angst
By Allison
No one understands
the dark
I'm here alone
without him
I felt the fear
of losing
I tried to fight
it won
Now my life
gray, torn
No one understands
I'm trapped
There is time
now for
breaking free from
the dark
Title: Combustible
By Bryan
The universe has swallowed me
wallowing in the haze
Shut me out don't let me in
shout at me my name
Am I girl? not yet a woman
Mother of the cosmos, speak
I will hear you and come
the class bell rings but I wait
to hear you speak once more
Shut them out don't let them in
My mind is yours, my womb is mine
The universe spits me back out
A snippet from a love poem
By Kris
"Watch me and take it
as I extend my love.
I'll only give it once."
The meeting
By Matt
You said meet behind the bleachers
I was there for hours
You never came
My tears were fertilizer
You were my idol
For you I'd do anything
Did it make feel good,
Your little prank?
My dreams were crushed
Life is over
I hope you enjoy the flowers
You Know What You've Done
By Dave
You've put it all behind you.
Such a luxury.
Such effrontery.
Breakup Haiku
By Marcy
Back of the school bus
Track meet races on outside
I cry tears alone
Waring souls
By Marcy
Who will win the long battle
Chuck Norris or Screech
Only Pete can tell
Thursday, May 11, 2006
AND NOW, Hacks of all ages...
The minutes from last night's Hack Meeting (as remembered the next morning by Marcy):
Tonight's Meeting Attendees: Marcy, Bryan, Matt, Dave
Location: Marcy's apartment
Time: 7:30 pm EST
We began our meeting as always - by gorging ourselves on Dave's Guacamole. This brought about a quote from Matt:
"Dave, I could live at the bottom of a bowl of your Guac."
While consuming Dave's Guac and Marcy's Spinach Artichoke Dip, we viewed a tape of the film "Covert Operatives" - a stop-motion GI Joe film made by friends of Marcy's from college. Hilarity ensued.
After the viewing, we discussed Matt's "The Traveler" piece. Much insight was shared - both literary and metaphysical. Matt's setting - an Arizona desert - and his symbolism with animals led Marcy to bring up the point that he should check into the local Native American connections to these particular animals. We agreed that Matt's piece was nearly polished, and left us wanting more.
At this point, Marcy made a big pot of coffee. Matt drinks his coffee black. Dave drinks his coffee black but with two spoonfuls of sugar. Bryan drinks his coffee with Irish Cream creamer. Marcy drinks her coffee with fat free creamer and a spoonful of sugar mixed with cinnamon.
While sipping coffee, Bryan made the observation that every time Dave submits a piece of his novel to the group, it is never enough. This led to a quote by Dave: "My story is giving you blue balls?"
We discussed Dave's latest piece of his novel, and how the brilliant chunks he's written - while captivating - need to start being tied together. We also discussed other authors that write in a similar way; George R.R. Martin and ___ in particular. We also made the observation that there is not a real strong female character - the few that are there seem to be background characters - in the story and wondered if that would come into play. We then begged Dave for the next part of the story. He laughed maniacally and called us minions.
At this point, we snarfed down a Devil's Food cake that Marcy made. It tasted yummy but wasn't very pretty. The top layer had broken in half and was sliding off the frosting. It looked so bad that "This was supposed to be pretty" was scrawled on the top in the frosting. In retrospect, we should have taken a picture to post with this blog entry, but we were distracted by bad teenage poetry.
A local poetry contest inspired us to our next writers' group assignment:
This Friday, we will post a blog entry in which we have all written our absolute worst attempt at mocking bad teenage angst-ridden poetry. To get us all in the mood, Marcy broke out her high school diaries and read horrible passages to all as we laughed with glee.
So, Hack Fans...stay tuned, and read all our pretend teenage angst this Friday...
-The No Talent Hacks
Tonight's Meeting Attendees: Marcy, Bryan, Matt, Dave
Location: Marcy's apartment
Time: 7:30 pm EST
We began our meeting as always - by gorging ourselves on Dave's Guacamole. This brought about a quote from Matt:
"Dave, I could live at the bottom of a bowl of your Guac."
While consuming Dave's Guac and Marcy's Spinach Artichoke Dip, we viewed a tape of the film "Covert Operatives" - a stop-motion GI Joe film made by friends of Marcy's from college. Hilarity ensued.
After the viewing, we discussed Matt's "The Traveler" piece. Much insight was shared - both literary and metaphysical. Matt's setting - an Arizona desert - and his symbolism with animals led Marcy to bring up the point that he should check into the local Native American connections to these particular animals. We agreed that Matt's piece was nearly polished, and left us wanting more.
At this point, Marcy made a big pot of coffee. Matt drinks his coffee black. Dave drinks his coffee black but with two spoonfuls of sugar. Bryan drinks his coffee with Irish Cream creamer. Marcy drinks her coffee with fat free creamer and a spoonful of sugar mixed with cinnamon.
While sipping coffee, Bryan made the observation that every time Dave submits a piece of his novel to the group, it is never enough. This led to a quote by Dave: "My story is giving you blue balls?"
We discussed Dave's latest piece of his novel, and how the brilliant chunks he's written - while captivating - need to start being tied together. We also discussed other authors that write in a similar way; George R.R. Martin and ___ in particular. We also made the observation that there is not a real strong female character - the few that are there seem to be background characters - in the story and wondered if that would come into play. We then begged Dave for the next part of the story. He laughed maniacally and called us minions.
At this point, we snarfed down a Devil's Food cake that Marcy made. It tasted yummy but wasn't very pretty. The top layer had broken in half and was sliding off the frosting. It looked so bad that "This was supposed to be pretty" was scrawled on the top in the frosting. In retrospect, we should have taken a picture to post with this blog entry, but we were distracted by bad teenage poetry.
A local poetry contest inspired us to our next writers' group assignment:
This Friday, we will post a blog entry in which we have all written our absolute worst attempt at mocking bad teenage angst-ridden poetry. To get us all in the mood, Marcy broke out her high school diaries and read horrible passages to all as we laughed with glee.
So, Hack Fans...stay tuned, and read all our pretend teenage angst this Friday...
-The No Talent Hacks
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Honoring the voice, celebrating the sacred space
By Allison
Saturday morning and the sky is crying, sheets of icy rain are bursting out of the gray. I sit snug in front of the fire, contemplating Marcy’s post, missing Don and thinking about voice and expression, art and literature. Don, by the way, (the hack without a picture – my bad) is working in the rain to create the sacred space for us to honor the voice.
When he leaves, he says, “write.”
There is so much I must not do: Worry about what must be done, stress over piles of work sitting on my desk in the newsroom or censor the wild voice that informs the writing. Censor her and she’ll rear her ugly head and roar, leaving fragments of drivel on the page.
Where does she come from, that voice? She is the one who says things I would never say out loud. She frightens others – she frightens me sometimes with the things she says. That’s what I like about her.
She’s the mystical, magical unconscious and she’s like driving from one place to another and wondering how you got there. She’s like mining for gold.
I will spend much of the day immersed in the letters of Virginia Woolf. The Bloomsbury group – Leonard and Virginia Woolf, T.S. Eliot, Lytton Strachey, Virginia and Clive Bell – they honored the art and the voice. They communed in their sacred space and made their passion, their art, the focal point of their lives. Minds, bodies, souls. They said, “This expression matters.” They said, “This is what we are called to do.”
The studied and critiqued literature, wrote and reviewed and celebrated. Through the madness and the pennilessness, they persevered for the art – for the voice. Don and I envision our sacred space much the same – our hack group, though lighthearted, honors our expression by honoring the voice.
Dishonor her and she falls silent.
Saturday morning and the sky is crying, sheets of icy rain are bursting out of the gray. I sit snug in front of the fire, contemplating Marcy’s post, missing Don and thinking about voice and expression, art and literature. Don, by the way, (the hack without a picture – my bad) is working in the rain to create the sacred space for us to honor the voice.
When he leaves, he says, “write.”
There is so much I must not do: Worry about what must be done, stress over piles of work sitting on my desk in the newsroom or censor the wild voice that informs the writing. Censor her and she’ll rear her ugly head and roar, leaving fragments of drivel on the page.
Where does she come from, that voice? She is the one who says things I would never say out loud. She frightens others – she frightens me sometimes with the things she says. That’s what I like about her.
She’s the mystical, magical unconscious and she’s like driving from one place to another and wondering how you got there. She’s like mining for gold.
I will spend much of the day immersed in the letters of Virginia Woolf. The Bloomsbury group – Leonard and Virginia Woolf, T.S. Eliot, Lytton Strachey, Virginia and Clive Bell – they honored the art and the voice. They communed in their sacred space and made their passion, their art, the focal point of their lives. Minds, bodies, souls. They said, “This expression matters.” They said, “This is what we are called to do.”
The studied and critiqued literature, wrote and reviewed and celebrated. Through the madness and the pennilessness, they persevered for the art – for the voice. Don and I envision our sacred space much the same – our hack group, though lighthearted, honors our expression by honoring the voice.
Dishonor her and she falls silent.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
