Grant Wallace
Creative Writing
09/31/2009
“I want you to get a pint of milk, 2%, not whole milk, understand?”
“Yes, mom.”
“And get the store brand, not Mayfield. Too expensive.”
“Yes, mom.”
“And hurry back, the guests will be here soon. I want to make a good impression for my boss you understand?
“Okay, mom. I got it. “
“Hey boy, watch your tone. Here’s a dollar, and I want the change. Now hurry back.”
But Freddie was already out the door, dollar in hand, holding it up the sky’s light, pretending to legitimize it like he seen the clerks do when he went to the bank with his mom. Walking, Freddie spotted a nearby bluebird perched on a tree’s branch.
“Hey, Mr. Bluebird. Guess what I got!”
“Oh, my. Did your mother give that to you?” replied the bluebird.
“YES, she did. And if I have change leftover, I’m going to get some candy. Some red licorice, jellybeans, chocolate bars, lollipops!”
“Oh my, oh my. Isn’t that nice. Make sure to brush your teeth later okay?”
But Freddie was already skipping down the street, thoughts of laughy taffy and gumdrops gumming up his thoughts. Smiling, Freddie skipped into Sam’s Grocery where Sam greeted him with a respondent smile.
“Hey there Freddie. What can I do you for today?”
“Candy Sam please!”
“Well isn’t that nice. What would you like?”
“I wannnnt, one of those and… one of those. Two of these, and a handful of those? Yeah, I definitely want that.”
“Is that all?”
“YES!”
“The total comes out to… 88 cents.”
But Freddie had already laid the dollar on the counter and ran out, beans and bars in hand scarfing them down as fast as his tiny mouth would let him. Eating and walking, walking and eating, it wasn’t long before the candy ran out and the reality set in. Freddie started to sob realizing his mother was going to beat him for this.
“Why are you crying?” asked the nearby bluebird.
“I… I spent, I spent the money on candy instead of milk like mom asked.”
“Oh my, Freddie. Why did you do that?”
But Freddie was running, running as fast as his little legs could. Just running. Maybe it was the sugar rush but that’s all Freddie could think to do right now. Freddie ran past his house, past the old cemetery, through his school’s parking lot and then around the playground but the tears were still running with him. His math teacher spotted Freddie from inside and ran out to him.
“Freddie, my dear. What’s the matter?”
“I spent the money.. on candy, I was suppose to get milk,” Freddie said, letting the tears pour out onto Mrs. Mooninghams floral blouse.
“My dear boy, you had me so worried. Here, come with me, I’ll drive you back home.”
And Freddie realized then that he had to go with her. There was no way out of this, he would have to accept the consequences like a man. And so he continued to cry, louder now, his nose dripping drips of tears and mucus onto his blue polo. They arrive a few minutes later.
“Trust me Freddie, everything will be fine. Go see your mother and I’ll see you in class on Monday okay?”
But Freddie was already out the car door, running up the stairs, crying like a baby. He was running straight into Beelzebub’s arms but at the time, the only person he knew who would make him feel better was his mom.”
“Mommy!” cried Freddie, throwing his arms into the air, letting her pick him off the ground and holding him tight.
“Freddie, my God, are you okay?” she asked, scared and concerned, rocking him back and forth in her arms.
“I… I…”
“Shhhh, shhh now. Everything’s okay now, understand?”
“Yes, mom.”
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
A Day in the Life of the Africa Stain
A Day in the Life of the Africa Stain
Grant Wallace
My anxiety is getting the better of me. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Always promptly followed by a sense of false hope and an immediate rejection. I feel like The Plague is more popular than I am and it’s not like that helps any. He kills 15,000 people in a single reading yet everyone wants him. And it’s not like he’s all that different from me. Bound and branded, inked in numbers, costing next to nothing, hundreds of us just waiting to be picked off. Yet by the end of the day, they’re all gone and I’m the only one left. Am I that disgusting? Am I jealous? Am I jealous of Anne Frank? It’s gotten so bad I can’t even been stolen. Dam The Criminal Justice. I’m now the last of my kind, used and abused and covered in dried coffee. Oh, the stain. The stain of all stains. Every time someone touches me they instantly pull away. It’s true, the biggest moments in your life happen in just a few sounds and before you know it, you’ve turned from new and loved to sad and stained. I call it the Africa Stain because of the way it’s shaped. I tell myself it’s unique and endearing but then I’d just be lying to myself. And I know better than that. Once a customer suggested I be moved to the Monsters and Grotesque section. Those were dark times but I’m better now. I’ve accepted my fate and learned to live with my scar. I fall asleep each night reading Essentials of Children’s Literature. It relaxes me. But only the 5th edition, not 6th. I feel more comfortable with books my own age.
Grant Wallace
My anxiety is getting the better of me. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Always promptly followed by a sense of false hope and an immediate rejection. I feel like The Plague is more popular than I am and it’s not like that helps any. He kills 15,000 people in a single reading yet everyone wants him. And it’s not like he’s all that different from me. Bound and branded, inked in numbers, costing next to nothing, hundreds of us just waiting to be picked off. Yet by the end of the day, they’re all gone and I’m the only one left. Am I that disgusting? Am I jealous? Am I jealous of Anne Frank? It’s gotten so bad I can’t even been stolen. Dam The Criminal Justice. I’m now the last of my kind, used and abused and covered in dried coffee. Oh, the stain. The stain of all stains. Every time someone touches me they instantly pull away. It’s true, the biggest moments in your life happen in just a few sounds and before you know it, you’ve turned from new and loved to sad and stained. I call it the Africa Stain because of the way it’s shaped. I tell myself it’s unique and endearing but then I’d just be lying to myself. And I know better than that. Once a customer suggested I be moved to the Monsters and Grotesque section. Those were dark times but I’m better now. I’ve accepted my fate and learned to live with my scar. I fall asleep each night reading Essentials of Children’s Literature. It relaxes me. But only the 5th edition, not 6th. I feel more comfortable with books my own age.
EES.
Grant Wallace
Creative Process
8/25/09
Creation Myth
It started with a start button. It was shaped like a NES controller only it was more aptly titled back then as the EES, earth entertainment system. The Controller came from another controller that came from another controller and so on. It was made this way so everyone knew where he or she came from without question. An infinite amount controllers.
The Controller was also self-programmed so He could press the button upon his own request. Which is to say, in our human lifetime, the start button has only been pressed once. Before that it is unclear since The Controller decides on His own when he wishes to press the button. This is also to say that we are at His mercy and everything could evaporate and start over within minutes, just like when NES would randomly shut off and we would have to start over from the beginning.
However, it’s not as fickle as it may seem. The Controller set up some game rules for his creation to follow by promising to spare their lives in return. The Controller unfortunately hid these rules in a cheat, which no one has yet to figure out. Upon figuring out this answer, we can only assume that we will have either figured out something extraordinary or made Him incredibly mad thus resulting in Him pressing the start button. So in a certain aspect, it is exactly as fickle as it seems but we can rest assured this is all part of the process because He believes in karma too. Which, of course, is where karma was invented.
After The Controller invented the new earth, He instilled karma into every living thing. This was the best he could do because after all, how can one thing keep watch on everyone at every time everywhere? Exactly, He can’t, so he did the next best thing and made a system where if you did something well, you were rewarded, and vice versa.
After karma was created, he then pressed the up button to make the sky, the down button to make the ocean, and the left and right keys to make wind. He pressed the A button and a man appeared, then He pressed the B button and a women appeared. Lastly, He put in his secret code and a mutt animal appeared which could reduplicate itself into a variety of other animals. After all of this, The Controller was satisfied and went into a deep hibernation until the fateful day when the code is figured out.
Creative Process
8/25/09
Creation Myth
It started with a start button. It was shaped like a NES controller only it was more aptly titled back then as the EES, earth entertainment system. The Controller came from another controller that came from another controller and so on. It was made this way so everyone knew where he or she came from without question. An infinite amount controllers.
The Controller was also self-programmed so He could press the button upon his own request. Which is to say, in our human lifetime, the start button has only been pressed once. Before that it is unclear since The Controller decides on His own when he wishes to press the button. This is also to say that we are at His mercy and everything could evaporate and start over within minutes, just like when NES would randomly shut off and we would have to start over from the beginning.
However, it’s not as fickle as it may seem. The Controller set up some game rules for his creation to follow by promising to spare their lives in return. The Controller unfortunately hid these rules in a cheat, which no one has yet to figure out. Upon figuring out this answer, we can only assume that we will have either figured out something extraordinary or made Him incredibly mad thus resulting in Him pressing the start button. So in a certain aspect, it is exactly as fickle as it seems but we can rest assured this is all part of the process because He believes in karma too. Which, of course, is where karma was invented.
After The Controller invented the new earth, He instilled karma into every living thing. This was the best he could do because after all, how can one thing keep watch on everyone at every time everywhere? Exactly, He can’t, so he did the next best thing and made a system where if you did something well, you were rewarded, and vice versa.
After karma was created, he then pressed the up button to make the sky, the down button to make the ocean, and the left and right keys to make wind. He pressed the A button and a man appeared, then He pressed the B button and a women appeared. Lastly, He put in his secret code and a mutt animal appeared which could reduplicate itself into a variety of other animals. After all of this, The Controller was satisfied and went into a deep hibernation until the fateful day when the code is figured out.
Friday, April 10, 2009
The Busride They'll Never Forget.
“Happy birthday Sam,” she said with a radiant smile. She brought out the cake, thirteen candles burning brightly on top of Donatello’s head. She remembered my favorite turtle.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Sam, happy birthday to you.”
I’ve never been a fan of the birthday song but when she sang it for me I swear it was the best song I’ve ever heard.
“Make a wish!”
I wished for her to be with me forever. And for my taste to come back.
Freddie Feldmen was a big kid. Not Double Cheese pounder big but more like the single cheese single patty size. Regardless, he still outweighed the whole school by a good twenty pounds, easily. He had this hunger. This mad hunger that I’ve never seen from any one till this day. Ketchup, mustards and peanut butter sandwiches. Two a day for as long as I knew him.
“What did you wish for?” she said.
“Well.. I can’t tell you now can I? It’d break the wish.”
“Fine… why are you acting so distant Sam?
“You didn’t hear what happened?”
We grew to know Freddie for this sandwich. Anyone that knew Freddie knew him for that disgusting sandwich. Every day at lunch he would sit down, at his own table, open up his brown paper sack and bring out the most foul smelling, more rotten than freshly squashed road kill, worse than a thousand dead bodies, this was the most vile, putrid, death-infused smell I’ve ever smelt. And that was just the start. After that cyanide burned it’s way into his digestion, his body did the only thing it could do. We knew when it was coming too. He’d slightly tilt to his left, just enough for the toxic gas to silently evaporate into those few unfortunate kids sitting across from him who didn’t know who Freddie was just yet.
It was a Tuesday. I had brought myself a turkey club with fat free mayo, harvest cheddar sun chips and I purchased a low fat milk from the cafeteria. It was the first day of school and wasn’t informed as of yet who Freddie was.
First to go was my nostrils. The sewer swamp smell flared my nose into two giant elephant years. Then the sting. My eyes shot back into my head like recoil from a shotgun to escape smell. And then, the taste. Salty, like the sea, except more fish piss and decaying whales. And like Freddie’s natural bowel movements, I could only give in to my bodies demand to heave up my fully finished lunch. The vomit had my turkey laced in the red speckles of harvest cheddar, all floating in this hot mess of my low fat milk.
I later found out that this was a somewhat weekly occurrence, where unsuspecting victims would fall sour to Freddie’s unrelenting gas. People would laugh, calling him reek freak and Freddie McFartster and, he knew this was going on but, I now had this sympathy for the guy that only came with the stench of experience.
“Do you know who Freddie is?” I asked.
“Oh my god. Is that… why you’re acting like this?” she replied.
“Yes,” I said lowering my head.
“I’m so sorry. “ She put her hand over her mouth. “I know what you mean. This just happened to me too!”
“It was a Wednesday. We were going on a field trip with Mrs. McGillis and Mr. Thompson’s science classes to the Space Center. We left around nine. We were suppose to take two separate buses but Mr. Thompson had rearranged for us to all fit into one as he felt it was his environment responsibility to do this. I sat up front with Sarah. It was about twenty minutes into the drive when I heard this splatter come from the back of the bus. Someone had thrown up. Some kids were trying to hold her hair back but that’s when it really started to happen. I heard more splashes, followed by more and more, I could actually see it moving it’s way towards me like an enormous wave. And then it hit me. It’s exactly as you described it. It took only a second before all of my morning eggs and sausage breakfast spewed itself all onto Sarah’s lap.
She jumped up and proceeded to return to the favor to the unlucky sap sitting in the next seat over, Mr. Thompson. It was this uncontrollable chain reaction! Boyfriends were barfing on girlfriends. Teachers were regurgitating on students. We tried to pull down the windows but they were absolutely stuck. It must have looked like a horror movie from everyone watching outside. Kids were clawing at the windows, puckering their lips out at the windows crevices to get even the tiniest glimpse of air. The aisles ran green with milky blood and half digested breakfasts of cinnamon toast crunch; it really is “the taste you can see” with the tiny sugar sparkles shimmering in the upchucked upchuck.
“Oh my god, I heard that story! You were on that bus?”
“YES. It was exactly as horrid as you described it. I can never wear those shoes again, not after what they’ve stepped in. It was the underbelly of the underworld of the underness. That’s the only way to describe it.”
“I’m so sorry. Got to admit though, he got his point across well don’t you think?”
“What could you possibly be talking about Sam, he nearly gave Mrs. McGillis post traumatic stress disorder.”
“Well, this is what Bobby B. told me.”
After they arrived at the Space Center, prior to hitting one stop sign, running two stop lights and driving over three curbs, one of which was said to have “yelped”, the entire bus evacuated in seconds. Meanwhile, Freddie Feldmen is just sitting in the back of the bus, smiling this sadistic look of content, arms crossed and feet raised up on the seat in front of him.
Turns out he had planned everything. Before the class trip that day, he ate FIVE onion, ketchup and peanut butter sandwiches with extra onions, piled up high. Then after that, he ate two raw eggs, some week old buttermilk and to top it off, a can of extra spicy baked beans. He only had one thing on his mind, revenge. Word has it that when everyone scrambled off the bus, Freddie coolly got up and walked down the aisle, eyeing over the multi-colored stained seats, filled with whirls and swirls of all colors; Jazzberry Jam pink, Cornflower blue, Macaroni and Cheese yellow, Inch Worm green. This was a work of art.
Remember those windows you couldn’t get down? Turns out Freddie came into school really early that day and used industrial superglue to keep them stuck like that. Genius. Meanwhile, kids were dying on the Space Center parking lot. Some were crying, other were laying on the ground, fetal position, holding their stomachs, moaning in pain while the few kids who could walk now tried to help them out by smearing off the vomit or telling them “it’ll be alright.” Freddie just smiled. He knew it wasn’t going to be alright. As he stood in his bright yellow rain boots, he started to walk into the apocalyptic aftermath, eying over all the kids that made him feel so lonely and hated, his smile only grew more and more until he couldn’t hold it anymore and gave into his bodies demands one last time; he laughed. He walked into the Space Center after his body count (17) for surely one of the most enjoyable field trips he would ever take. Can you imagine that?
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Sam, happy birthday to you.”
I’ve never been a fan of the birthday song but when she sang it for me I swear it was the best song I’ve ever heard.
“Make a wish!”
I wished for her to be with me forever. And for my taste to come back.
Freddie Feldmen was a big kid. Not Double Cheese pounder big but more like the single cheese single patty size. Regardless, he still outweighed the whole school by a good twenty pounds, easily. He had this hunger. This mad hunger that I’ve never seen from any one till this day. Ketchup, mustards and peanut butter sandwiches. Two a day for as long as I knew him.
“What did you wish for?” she said.
“Well.. I can’t tell you now can I? It’d break the wish.”
“Fine… why are you acting so distant Sam?
“You didn’t hear what happened?”
We grew to know Freddie for this sandwich. Anyone that knew Freddie knew him for that disgusting sandwich. Every day at lunch he would sit down, at his own table, open up his brown paper sack and bring out the most foul smelling, more rotten than freshly squashed road kill, worse than a thousand dead bodies, this was the most vile, putrid, death-infused smell I’ve ever smelt. And that was just the start. After that cyanide burned it’s way into his digestion, his body did the only thing it could do. We knew when it was coming too. He’d slightly tilt to his left, just enough for the toxic gas to silently evaporate into those few unfortunate kids sitting across from him who didn’t know who Freddie was just yet.
It was a Tuesday. I had brought myself a turkey club with fat free mayo, harvest cheddar sun chips and I purchased a low fat milk from the cafeteria. It was the first day of school and wasn’t informed as of yet who Freddie was.
First to go was my nostrils. The sewer swamp smell flared my nose into two giant elephant years. Then the sting. My eyes shot back into my head like recoil from a shotgun to escape smell. And then, the taste. Salty, like the sea, except more fish piss and decaying whales. And like Freddie’s natural bowel movements, I could only give in to my bodies demand to heave up my fully finished lunch. The vomit had my turkey laced in the red speckles of harvest cheddar, all floating in this hot mess of my low fat milk.
I later found out that this was a somewhat weekly occurrence, where unsuspecting victims would fall sour to Freddie’s unrelenting gas. People would laugh, calling him reek freak and Freddie McFartster and, he knew this was going on but, I now had this sympathy for the guy that only came with the stench of experience.
“Do you know who Freddie is?” I asked.
“Oh my god. Is that… why you’re acting like this?” she replied.
“Yes,” I said lowering my head.
“I’m so sorry. “ She put her hand over her mouth. “I know what you mean. This just happened to me too!”
“It was a Wednesday. We were going on a field trip with Mrs. McGillis and Mr. Thompson’s science classes to the Space Center. We left around nine. We were suppose to take two separate buses but Mr. Thompson had rearranged for us to all fit into one as he felt it was his environment responsibility to do this. I sat up front with Sarah. It was about twenty minutes into the drive when I heard this splatter come from the back of the bus. Someone had thrown up. Some kids were trying to hold her hair back but that’s when it really started to happen. I heard more splashes, followed by more and more, I could actually see it moving it’s way towards me like an enormous wave. And then it hit me. It’s exactly as you described it. It took only a second before all of my morning eggs and sausage breakfast spewed itself all onto Sarah’s lap.
She jumped up and proceeded to return to the favor to the unlucky sap sitting in the next seat over, Mr. Thompson. It was this uncontrollable chain reaction! Boyfriends were barfing on girlfriends. Teachers were regurgitating on students. We tried to pull down the windows but they were absolutely stuck. It must have looked like a horror movie from everyone watching outside. Kids were clawing at the windows, puckering their lips out at the windows crevices to get even the tiniest glimpse of air. The aisles ran green with milky blood and half digested breakfasts of cinnamon toast crunch; it really is “the taste you can see” with the tiny sugar sparkles shimmering in the upchucked upchuck.
“Oh my god, I heard that story! You were on that bus?”
“YES. It was exactly as horrid as you described it. I can never wear those shoes again, not after what they’ve stepped in. It was the underbelly of the underworld of the underness. That’s the only way to describe it.”
“I’m so sorry. Got to admit though, he got his point across well don’t you think?”
“What could you possibly be talking about Sam, he nearly gave Mrs. McGillis post traumatic stress disorder.”
“Well, this is what Bobby B. told me.”
After they arrived at the Space Center, prior to hitting one stop sign, running two stop lights and driving over three curbs, one of which was said to have “yelped”, the entire bus evacuated in seconds. Meanwhile, Freddie Feldmen is just sitting in the back of the bus, smiling this sadistic look of content, arms crossed and feet raised up on the seat in front of him.
Turns out he had planned everything. Before the class trip that day, he ate FIVE onion, ketchup and peanut butter sandwiches with extra onions, piled up high. Then after that, he ate two raw eggs, some week old buttermilk and to top it off, a can of extra spicy baked beans. He only had one thing on his mind, revenge. Word has it that when everyone scrambled off the bus, Freddie coolly got up and walked down the aisle, eyeing over the multi-colored stained seats, filled with whirls and swirls of all colors; Jazzberry Jam pink, Cornflower blue, Macaroni and Cheese yellow, Inch Worm green. This was a work of art.
Remember those windows you couldn’t get down? Turns out Freddie came into school really early that day and used industrial superglue to keep them stuck like that. Genius. Meanwhile, kids were dying on the Space Center parking lot. Some were crying, other were laying on the ground, fetal position, holding their stomachs, moaning in pain while the few kids who could walk now tried to help them out by smearing off the vomit or telling them “it’ll be alright.” Freddie just smiled. He knew it wasn’t going to be alright. As he stood in his bright yellow rain boots, he started to walk into the apocalyptic aftermath, eying over all the kids that made him feel so lonely and hated, his smile only grew more and more until he couldn’t hold it anymore and gave into his bodies demands one last time; he laughed. He walked into the Space Center after his body count (17) for surely one of the most enjoyable field trips he would ever take. Can you imagine that?
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
beep beep beep!
Grant Wallace Creative Writing 3/25/09
BEEP BEEP BEEP. Click. Shy’s fingers clicked his alarm off seconds after it woke. Shy was already awake, anticipating his alarms alarm with an unsettling anxiety that left moist fingerprints on the “off” switch.
The day had come,
months in preparation, the daily half hour mediation sessions he started and the countless self help books on tape from such cassettes as “Are you really happy with who you are right now?” and the #1 best selling “No one likes you except your parents,” the highly acclaimed work of Patrick Bancroft as he talks you down to your lowest point hoping to give you that confidence to bring yourself back up to “the happiest you’ll ever be.” The tape now has to include a warming after several suicides were reported from people who couldn’t bring their selves back up.
Shy had achieved this happiness.
Shy dress himself in his favorite Worthington, dark blue two button jacket, complete with acetate lining and an inside chest pocket. He had coordinating light striped slacks with a hidden extender waistband that provides a 2" additional stretch on each side. They made him feel important. He enjoyed yawning because he could stretch out his arms and legs making his skin tingle as the expensive linen rubbed against his skin.
He thought of his mother as he looked at her picture standing on his nightstand. She was standing next to him when he was a child, holding his hand and smiling down on him. She told him he was the apple of her eye. He started to miss her less and less as each day grew on but he had more important things on his mind as of late. He decided right then that he would have to do this for his mother. He could not fail, otherwise he would feel like he had disappointed her.
It has to be today.
He made his way to the kitchen to get some dog food set out for Rex, a small doxen whose only resemblance to tyrannosaurus rex was how one of his upper teeth curled over his front gums, and even that was a stretch. Rex wouldn’t be awake for another hour or so as Shy poured him the food into his metallic bowl, but not before taking a quick glare into the shiny bowl, using the reflection to make sure his hair was still parted just right. He then quietly tiptoed through the living room as to not wake up Rex and closed the door in the way a lover might when getting up in the morning, turning the handle as gently as possible, adjusting the door’s speed to hide the creeks when possible. This thought brought a smile to his face.
He pulled his car into his normal parking spot, row E on the tenth floor of the Midway Parking Garage. He parked here every day since he found out she too parked on this floor, always wishfully hoping he could casually bump into her on their way into the office. He had lines preplanned such as “Hey, I’ve seen you around before. Are you friends with Maurie?” He had befriended her earlier in the year with the sole intention of using her for this exact scenario. He had a back up too, in the likely chance his memory failed and his words escaped him, as he would inevitably turn into the equivalent of a bag of freeze-dried onions. He was all too familiar with this feeling.
“Excuse me, I have a slightly weird question to ask but do you know who works in room 209 on the second floor?” To which she would respond, “Oh yeah, that’s my friend Maurie, what do you need to know?” which he would respond with, “Oh, thank you. I just had a few questions to ask her this morning but when I went to her office yesterday, her name plate was missing from door, well, I thought I saw you hang around her before so I wanted to ask.”
The night before, he had stayed approximately 10 minutes late just so he could take it down in the off chance a) he did meet her in the morning and b)credibility incase she decided to check to see if this was true. After a month of doing this, Maurie had to have her name plate remade for her four times.
BEEP BEEP BEEP. Click. Shy’s fingers clicked his alarm off seconds after it woke. Shy was already awake, anticipating his alarms alarm with an unsettling anxiety that left moist fingerprints on the “off” switch.
The day had come,
months in preparation, the daily half hour mediation sessions he started and the countless self help books on tape from such cassettes as “Are you really happy with who you are right now?” and the #1 best selling “No one likes you except your parents,” the highly acclaimed work of Patrick Bancroft as he talks you down to your lowest point hoping to give you that confidence to bring yourself back up to “the happiest you’ll ever be.” The tape now has to include a warming after several suicides were reported from people who couldn’t bring their selves back up.
Shy had achieved this happiness.
Shy dress himself in his favorite Worthington, dark blue two button jacket, complete with acetate lining and an inside chest pocket. He had coordinating light striped slacks with a hidden extender waistband that provides a 2" additional stretch on each side. They made him feel important. He enjoyed yawning because he could stretch out his arms and legs making his skin tingle as the expensive linen rubbed against his skin.
He thought of his mother as he looked at her picture standing on his nightstand. She was standing next to him when he was a child, holding his hand and smiling down on him. She told him he was the apple of her eye. He started to miss her less and less as each day grew on but he had more important things on his mind as of late. He decided right then that he would have to do this for his mother. He could not fail, otherwise he would feel like he had disappointed her.
It has to be today.
He made his way to the kitchen to get some dog food set out for Rex, a small doxen whose only resemblance to tyrannosaurus rex was how one of his upper teeth curled over his front gums, and even that was a stretch. Rex wouldn’t be awake for another hour or so as Shy poured him the food into his metallic bowl, but not before taking a quick glare into the shiny bowl, using the reflection to make sure his hair was still parted just right. He then quietly tiptoed through the living room as to not wake up Rex and closed the door in the way a lover might when getting up in the morning, turning the handle as gently as possible, adjusting the door’s speed to hide the creeks when possible. This thought brought a smile to his face.
He pulled his car into his normal parking spot, row E on the tenth floor of the Midway Parking Garage. He parked here every day since he found out she too parked on this floor, always wishfully hoping he could casually bump into her on their way into the office. He had lines preplanned such as “Hey, I’ve seen you around before. Are you friends with Maurie?” He had befriended her earlier in the year with the sole intention of using her for this exact scenario. He had a back up too, in the likely chance his memory failed and his words escaped him, as he would inevitably turn into the equivalent of a bag of freeze-dried onions. He was all too familiar with this feeling.
“Excuse me, I have a slightly weird question to ask but do you know who works in room 209 on the second floor?” To which she would respond, “Oh yeah, that’s my friend Maurie, what do you need to know?” which he would respond with, “Oh, thank you. I just had a few questions to ask her this morning but when I went to her office yesterday, her name plate was missing from door, well, I thought I saw you hang around her before so I wanted to ask.”
The night before, he had stayed approximately 10 minutes late just so he could take it down in the off chance a) he did meet her in the morning and b)credibility incase she decided to check to see if this was true. After a month of doing this, Maurie had to have her name plate remade for her four times.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Here's my poem from last week. I borrowed a lottt of it from my community service convicts. i mean.. friends. We were suppose to write a poem from the perspective of someone else so, of course I chose to do this.
“I just caught the biggest damn turtle that I’d ever seen!”
This was my story I’d like to share with the guys.
“Catch it, cook it. Make that sonofabitch into turtle stew.”
Chew, spit, huck. Repeat.
These were my Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays,
I drive around the accused for the Carroll County Community Service Program
“When you’re 18 you carry a .22 in one hand and a pabst in the other and shoot whatever the fuck you want.”
That was Jim’s favorite story to tell.
They would all start the same but always end with
“Back in ’67, you couldn’t tell me shit!”
Then there was Matt.
Four hundred hours service, five years probation and three thousand in fines.
He’s the reason Carrollton sounds unpoetic
But the best ones were told by Jerry.
Stories like “I’d fix my ’69 with three wrenches. God damn I was good!” and the insatiable “Take 20 years off of me and I’d be all over that,” were always welcomed.
And there was always Sammy,
he was there every day but we were all too scared to ask why
“One more damn day and I’m through with this civil shit,” he would say.
You’d be surprised how many different ways there is to say that.
“I just caught the biggest damn turtle that I’d ever seen!”
This was my story I’d like to share with the guys.
“Catch it, cook it. Make that sonofabitch into turtle stew.”
Chew, spit, huck. Repeat.
These were my Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays,
I drive around the accused for the Carroll County Community Service Program
“When you’re 18 you carry a .22 in one hand and a pabst in the other and shoot whatever the fuck you want.”
That was Jim’s favorite story to tell.
They would all start the same but always end with
“Back in ’67, you couldn’t tell me shit!”
Then there was Matt.
Four hundred hours service, five years probation and three thousand in fines.
He’s the reason Carrollton sounds unpoetic
But the best ones were told by Jerry.
Stories like “I’d fix my ’69 with three wrenches. God damn I was good!” and the insatiable “Take 20 years off of me and I’d be all over that,” were always welcomed.
And there was always Sammy,
he was there every day but we were all too scared to ask why
“One more damn day and I’m through with this civil shit,” he would say.
You’d be surprised how many different ways there is to say that.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
just one of those days.
How to start. I'll start at the beginning. I was walking to class today, happy, listening to appleseed cast. really good music, so good in fact that I took a full breath of air which i haven't done in far too long and then remembered i liked to watch people. so it started! i started to wish kaleigh was around so we could watch together, she got me into people watching. then viola, she appears. strange? yeah, but this is only the first. later today i realize i'll probably have to apologize to hilary for pressuring her to talk to me. it's demasculating and embarrassing. and right before i do that she says she like to talk to me. viola!
i also liked this morning's cow story. we were suppose to write this poem in 'line breaks' to see how the poem can differ from person to person. i could care less about this so i draw the poem in the shape of a cow and it just so happens today was the one day i get called on. i draw it on the board and get called out on daydreaming. at least i thought it was funny..
i also liked this morning's cow story. we were suppose to write this poem in 'line breaks' to see how the poem can differ from person to person. i could care less about this so i draw the poem in the shape of a cow and it just so happens today was the one day i get called on. i draw it on the board and get called out on daydreaming. at least i thought it was funny..
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