quick story

Too many choices, too many choices. How on earth did mom do this once a week? I mean, I like chocolate, but Frankie likes vanilla, and Susie likes strawberry, and dad, well dad likes beer. I was so looking forward to coming here and getting whatever I wanted and filling my own fridge with it. And then eating my food, the food I chose, and not having to worry about whether or not someone else ate it already. This place needs to turn the lights down, I’m going to get a sunburn with the amount of ultra violet rays that are raining down on my head. Maybe I’ll get melanoma and die and then never have to come back here again. Maybe I should have never moved out, I got my laundry done, free food that I didn’t have to shop for, as well as free internet and gas money. Those were the days, it was only last month but it feels like a lifetime ago. How on earth can someone possibly pick what kind of pickles they want, when there are easily thirty seven different kinds of pickles to choose from, I know, I counted. I feel like I am going to go into a epileptic seizure from all the different bright ads that jump out at you to tell you what’s on sale, and the exact amount of trans fat is in their deal. The signs are not nearly as bad as the produce section however. How am I supposed to choose a fruit? I felt like an idiot standing next to that soccer mom. She would casually pick up a nectarine, work some magic with it in her hand and then toss it back into the pile. I don’t know any nectarine spells. How can she tell which ones to take home and which ones not to? They should have some kind of pre-moving out training that prepares you for moving out on your own. How did I know that I really should have been growing up while I was growing up? I thought that this knowledge just came with me as I left the house. I have been here for three hours and my basket has three items in it milk, cherry Garcia ice cream, and a toothbrush.
“Rebecca?”
Who’s that ? “Mom!” Never in a million years did I think I would be this happy to see my mom.

WIP 3

“You gonna give me the money?” Frank was sweating, not that Frank minded sweating, it’s just that Frank minded sweating in his three thousand dollar suit.
“Why did you run? You must have known that I would catch you. I mean previous experience alone should have led you to realize this.” It was true Frank had chased Jesse, a small time coke dealer, four previous times when he had gone to collect from him. The only reason he was allowed to deal in this neighborhood was because he was small time, and because he was the son of a cousin of one of the lieutenants. It was for this same reason that he thought he could get out of paying Frank. Now back behind a Mario’s Pizza parlor in an alley littered with pizza boxes, empty bottles, and newspapers soggy from a rain the previous day, Frank had Jesse pinned against a wall next to a dented green trash dumpster. With his hand securely gripped around Jesse’s platinum chain that hung nearly down to his waist and ended in a pendant of a Jesus in front of a dollar bill symbol, Frank proceeded to garrote Jesse. Jesus’ came complete with a diamond encrusted halo, and a heart of gold.
“C’mon Frankie, let me off this time. I ain’t got no money.”
“You say that every week,” Frank said nonchalantly punching Jesse in the abdomen. He hated being called Frankie. Jesse doubled over with an explosion of air escaping his lungs. Bent over wheezing he tried to utter a sentence fragment.
“I don’t want to hear anything you have to say Jesse, I just want you to give me the money you owe Mr. Concanon. Lifting his head to meet Franks eyes Jesse’s jaw began to open and a vowel came out. “I-.” Frank thrust his fist into Jesses’ abdomen again, his knuckles thrust upward and slammed into Jesses’ ribcage. With a resounding thud and another explosion of breath Jesse fell to his knees. A sodden newspaper clung to his jeans soaking them through, as the liquid soaked into his pants a dark color began to seep through his knees. Jesse thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out a sweaty wad of ten and twenty dollar bills.
“This is all I got, I swear.”
Without counting the money Frank casually put it into his inside jacket pocket, “Now now Jesse no need for swearing, I believed this was all you had before you even spoke. You wouldn’t try to lie to me even after running from me would you?”
“No Mr. Frank, I wouldn’t”
“Frank will do Jesse, just Frank, you have a good day now.”
“Thank you Frank.” Jesse said clutching his stomach still kneeling on the wet pavement. Frank adjusted his jacket collar, fixed his medium length jet black hair and strolled out from the alley.

WIP 2

“I don’t know why you talk to him Nance. He is so…dull.” Becky said coming out from the kitchen dusting flour off of her hands and on to her jeans. Becky was a short, stout woman who hated to be called Rebecca. She said she wasn’t a serious enough person to go around insisting that she be referred to as “Rebecca.” Somewhat of a clumsy person, she always seemed to be spilling something or other, be it flour or icing on her clothes. Becky is older than Nancy by a decade, and despite being employed by Nancy she used her age to lecture Nancy.
“He’s not dull, you are just too scared to talk to him. He is just…different. I’m not sure why I talk to him. A part of me repulses him for what he does, but then another part of me finds him interesting. Why don’t you give him a chance? You might end up liking him. Besides what is it to you if I want to talk to him or not?”
“Nance you have a son at home who loves you and needs you. What is he going to think if he sees you consorting with the likes of him?”
“He’s too little to understand what Frank does. But you don’t need to worry, what would Frank see in someone like me?” And with that Nancy let the subject drop and went about her day baking and cleaning.
“Hey Becky, its three I’m going to go and get Christian from school. I’ll be back later.”
“Ok Nance, but you better not let him hear you calling him Christian, its “Chris” now remember?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Nancy thought as she walked into the brisk afternoon air, “what’s the point of naming your child if his friends are just going to change it anyway.” Christian’s school was only five blocks away and Nancy enjoyed the walk to and from the school each day. It gave her time to think about anything she pleased. A lot of the time she thought about the bakery, and Christian. But today she couldn’t help thinking about the conversation she and Becky had had. What is it about Frank that makes me want to get to know him? Besides, what would Frank see in me? He is good looking, has money, he’s charming and funny. I’m just a widow with a seven year old. I run a bakery and go to the PTA. There is nothing interesting about me at all. Nancy had arrived at Christian’s school. After signing him out from the playground monitor, Nancy and her son began walking back to the bakery. Christians’ little legs wouldn’t carry him as far as Nancy’s steps would, despite how many super powers he received from his Spider-Man socks.
“It sure is cold mom,” Christian said rubbing his gloves on his heavy blue jacket.
“You look cold honey, would you like my jacket?”
“Of course not mom, then you’ll get cold too.”
“You think I’m interesting don’t you Christian?” Nancy abruptly asked giving in to what was bothering her.
“It’s Chris mom! I go by Chris now.”
“Sorry Chris, but you do think I’m interesting don’t you?”
“Of course I do mom, you’re the best!”
Smiling broadly Nancy thought, Who needs another man, I’ve got the only one I need right here.

WIP

“Those smell wonderful Nancy, they always do.”
“Well thank you, I hope they taste just as good as they smell. Would you like to try one Frank?”
“Yes ma’am, any opportunity to have a taste of heaven, is an opportunity I’ll take.”
Frank’s appearance clashed horribly with the surrounding décor of the bakery. The only thing that made him blend in was the cup of coffee Nancy had just given him. He wore a charcoal gray suit, with a smooth black shirt under his jacket. He wore no tie. He never did. His shoes reflected the warm ceiling lights, and seemed to shine just as bright. However the dark leather stood on the smooth burnt orange ceramic tiles like an elephant trying to tiptoe through daisies. All around him there were colorful signs depicting some of the delicacies that could be found inside of Nancy’s Bakery. He always liked the name of the bakery, he thought it suited Nancy perfectly. She had no need for an ostentatious name, it didn’t suit her, just plain, simple, straightforward, that’s how Nancy was.
As Nancy walked through her bakery toward the rear of the store where the were large cushioned leather chairs and loveseats, with dark maple wood coffee tables all around them Frank asked her, “ So how are things going with the bakery?” He always wanted to make more than small talk with Nancy, but for some reason he never could bring himself to. He was carrying a tray full of steaming mugs of hot chocolate, as he followed Nancy around delivering orders to customers.
“Very well thank you Frank, and how are you this morning?” she replied now nearing the windows where there are tables two can sit at and enjoy some fresh baked goods, coffee, or hot cocoa. These windows look out into the city and off in the distance customers can see Lake Michigan. During the cold seasons is when the bakery does best, people just can’t resist looking in at the warm bakery with the comfy chairs, steaming cups of coffee and baked goods fresh out of the oven, and they come in to fight off the chill. With their icy wind blasted red faces they step through the front doors into Nancy’s Bakery, and feel immediately welcome and at home. There is a row of wooden pegs jutting out of the front wall for jackets and beanies. In the very back where the large loveseats sit inviting someone to relax, there is a large fireplace built into the wall, during the winter the fire never goes out. Those lucky enough to find themselves in the two overstuffed chairs can almost always be found nodding off in the presence of the warmth.
“I’m doing very well this morning Nancy. I enjoy the brisk winter air very much.” He opened his mouth as if about to say more, but then shut it quickly as if he couldn’t think of anything else to say and handed Nancy her tray.
“Would you like anything else Frank?’ Nancy asked as she put a large envelope stuffed with green bills in a red box filled with fresh white chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies and melt in your mouth caramel brownies.
Taking the box with a smile that reached his eyes and dazzled Nancy with perfect white teeth, “No Nancy, this will be all. Thank you for everything, how much do I owe you for the cookie and coffee?”
“Don’t be silly Frank, your money is no good here you know that. You just come back and see me before next month so we can continue our conversation on why Little Debbie ought to be imprisoned and executed. How dare she call her products ‘baked goods.’ ”
“Thank you so much Nancy, I’ll be sure to stop by, have a good day.”
And, with that, Frank stepped toward the door of the bakery, politely holding it open for an elderly couple. He then stepped out of the bakery and met the icy wind without so much as a flinch. He looked up and down the street, and casually walked out of Nancy’s sight.

Intimate Strangers at the Mall

Intimate Strangers at the Mall



sitting down

during a cold evening

on a warm toliet seat

random description

The car must have smelled so nice when it was first driven off the lot of the dealership. Now however the acrid odor of burnt pleather flows in and out of the passenger’s nostrils. A smell so acute the cigarette must have just burned through the worn down driver’s seat. The interior of the car is the color of an old catchers mitt in need of some oil, so much smoke has been blown in this ride that there is a permanent haze on the windshield that needs to be wiped off before the ignition is turned over. If the ignition could be turned over. Only half as bad as the windshield is the rearview mirror, cracked down the center from being tweaked so many times so she could get a better view of her lipstick. The only thing that is reflected in this mirror now is the backseat and the open air. Through the back window into the open air there is an abandoned building, half torn down as a result of a company that changed its mind halfway through the project and decided not to build in this neighborhood.
The back window of the sedan had been blown out by a tree limb falling during a heavy storm. The water had come down in waves washing the glass down the backseat like surfers riding a wave. Seeping into the cracks in the pleather making it stretch and burst at the seams. However bad the car had smelled because of the incessant smoking that went on inside of it was nothing in comparison to the way it smelled now. Because the owner of the car never made it back to her car, the result of an unfortunate misunderstanding she had with a customer, the mold that had accumulated because of the rain had started to grow. The rats hadn’t eaten all of the mold before they left, the constant visitors that started showing up once they realized that this car had been abandoned drove the rats away. Now the only passengers that get to breathe the cigarette odor are not conscious long enough for it to bother them, or smell even worse in comparison to the car. The car floorboard had mats at one point, but those tan mats of woven fabric had been taken for god knows what, and now the only thing on the floor besides cigarette butts and broken needles is rat droppings and the occasional pair of shoes lying haphazardly on the floor as if thrown off in a last ditch attempt to get comfortable before passing out.
The outside of the car gives the onlooker a good idea as to what they could find inside of the car. Forty bags and trash litter the area around the blocks the car had been put up on after someone had decided to make a quick buck off the fresh new tires. The car had once been regal blue, and the owner had taken pride in her car. It was her way of making a living, driving to meet one customer, and then as soon as she got paid for her time, driving off again to yet another one. Her car was her pride and joy, washed and waxed so frequently the car wash stayed in business another year because of her. After she died however, the car wash went under, as did her pride and joy. Rust is now taking over the outside of the car and soon just like the owner of the car, it will be forgotten.

draft 3

Lucky

After a night of shooting pool down at a local bowling alley, James and I left our friends behind in order to make my midnight curfew. Crude goodbyes of a high school nature are flung at each other like monkeys flinging crap. Pushing aside books and papers with my feet I make room on the floorboards for my feet, I get in and buckle my seatbelt. Giving him directions to my house because he wasn’t used to driving there at night, we discussed the new Modest Mouse album. Cruising down the road at a cool sixty miles an hour in a posted forty-five, it was raining. It was raining hard. Despite God having promised Noah that he wouldn’t flood the earth again, we still thought about breaking out the paddles and pushing the boat button hidden under the steering wheel. However we didn’t have enough room for many animals in the bed of the truck, all we thought we could fit was barely enough girls for the each of us if we were to repopulate the planet. But that would require effort and magic, so we continued driving. James had been the first to get his drivers license and a car, or truck in his case. A bright red stick shift Chevy S-10, complete with a black plastic bed liner and silver metal craftsman tool chest just behind the rear window. With my knees inside the glove box and James sitting comfortably behind the steering wheel we changed the topic of conversation to our upcoming graduation and college. Caught up in the discussion of him leaving to go up to NAU, and my staying in Tucson to attend the U of A, I noticed we were nearing a turn we needed to take to get to my house.
Coming up on the turn that led to my neighborhood and realizing that he didn’t know to turn there, I mentioned that we needed to make the next left, thinking James would blaze on by and we would stop and turn around. I thought wrong. Realizing that he has no intention of slowing down, my heart starts to pump and adrenaline begins to course through my veins. Every passing moment comes in to fine detail and slows down. James downshifts into third from fifth, taps the breaks and wails on the steering wheel turning left, moving hand over hand as if they were racing to grab the next part of the steering wheel. I grab the passenger handle above his door and look straight ahead. Water shedding off the window in great arcs, the windshield wipers beat slower than my heart, tires squealing on the water-wrecked road, utter silence in the vehicle. As we hydroplane across the pavement James shifts into second and then neutral. I see the yellow lines of the pavement getting farther away from me, and the white lines on the edge of the road are underneath the middle of the truck. Bouncing up and down like bull riders we left the road and headed for desert country. Instead of stopping on what should have been dry land any other night, we zip through the mud like motocross riders. The once pristine red truck now mucked with mud more than a pig fresh out of the pen. I look through my window to glimpse our sure to be oncoming demise and I see an electric box the size of small car and a telephone pole taller and stouter than any oak. We careen through the gap between the two with mere inches to spare as we come to a halt. And not too soon do we slide to a stop, the person whose property is just off the road had placed large boulders on the edge of their property line to keep vehicles from driving on their land. At our current course we would have slammed into them passenger side first, leaving the car and I infused into a bionic dead organism. Silence.
Silence.
Neither of us looking at each other we sat in silence staring out the windshield, appreciating just how lucky we were, and how the chances of our surviving that incident unharmed had been slim. Lightning flashing in the distance and the thunder rolling in after breaks us out of our stupor. “Man…we just had a blues brothers moment,” I casually mention breaking the silence. Nervous laughter ensued, the kind of laughter that lasts longer than it should. Foot still on the break James pushes the clutch in and shifts out of idle into first gear, “All right Elwood, lets get out of here.”

Draft 2

After a night of shooting pool down at a local bowling alley, James and I left our friends behind in order to make my midnight curfew. Crude goodbyes of a high school nature are flung at each other like monkeys flinging crap. Pushing aside books and papers with my feet I make room on the floorboards for my feet, I get in and buckle my seatbelt. Giving him directions to my house because he wasn’t used to driving there at night, we discussed the new Modest Mouse album. Cruising down the road at a cool sixty miles an hour in a posted forty-five, it was raining. It was raining hard. Despite God having promised Noah that he wouldn’t flood the earth again, we still thought about breaking out the paddles and pushing the boat button hidden under the steering wheel. However we didn’t have enough room for many animals in the bed of the truck, all we thought we could fit was barely enough girls for the each of us if we were to repopulate the planet. But that would require effort and magic, so we continued driving. James had been the first to get his drivers license and a car, or truck in his case. A bright red stick shift Chevy S-10, complete with a black plastic bed liner and silver metal craftsman tool chest just behind the rear window. With my knees inside the glove box and him sitting comfortably behind the steering wheel we changed the topic of conversation to our upcoming graduation and college. Caught up in the discussion of him leaving to go up to NAU, and my staying in Tucson to attend the U of A, I noticed we were coming up on a turn we needed to take to get to my house.
Coming up on the turn that led to my neighborhood and realizing that he didn’t know to turn there, I mentioned that we needed to make the next left, thinking James would blaze on by and we would stop and turn around. I thought wrong. Realizing that he has no intention of slowing down, my heart starts to pump and adrenaline begins to course through my veins. Every passing moment comes in to fine detail and slows down. James downshifts into third from fifth, taps the breaks and wails on the steering wheel turning left, moving hand over hand as if they were racing to grab the next part of the steering wheel. I grab the passenger handle above his door and look straight ahead. Water shedding off the window in great arcs, the windshield wipers are beating slower than my heart, tires squealing on the water-wrecked road, utter silence in the vehicle. As we hydroplane across the pavement James shifts into second and then neutral. I see the yellow lines of the pavement getting farther away from me, and the white lines on the edge of the road are underneath the middle of the truck. Bouncing up and down like bull riders we left the road and headed for desert country. Instead of stopping on what should have been dry land any other night, we zip through the mud like motor cross riders. I look right, through my window to glimpse our sure to be oncoming demise and I see an electric box the size of small car and a telephone pole taller and stouter than any oak. We careen through the gap between the two with not but inches to spare as we come to a halt. And not too soon to we slide to a stop, the person whose property is just off the road had placed large boulders on the edge of their property line to keep vehicles from driving on their land. At our current course we would have slammed into them passenger side first. Leaving the car and I infused into a bionic dead organism. Silence.
Silence.
Neither of us looking at each other we sat in silence staring out the windshield. Lightning flashing in the distance and the thunder rolling in after breaks us out of our reverie. “Man…we just had a blues brothers moment,” I casually mention breaking the silence. Nervous laughter ensued, the kind of laughter that lasts longer than it should. Foot still on the break James pushes the clutch in and shifts out of idle into first gear, “All right Elwood, lets get out of here.”

body

Skating to school was an every day occurrence, a few tumbles in the beginning, a few scrapes, a few bruises, but nothing serious. I had been skating for an entire semester to school from about a mile and a half away. First day of second semester sophomore year broke my record of nothing bad happening to my body. I had gotten so comfortable in my skills on my long board that I thought I could look at a map of the U of A campus and figure out where my building was on the first day of class while skating. In front of the StUnion with countless people milling about I trusted my instinct and peripheral vision to guide me though a gap surrounded by a pole and a curb. Looking up only briefly I figured I would easily fit through the gap on my current course and went back to searching for my building. I wasn’t a little bit wrong in my assumption, I was way fucking wrong. My front right wheel slammed into the pole, I Supermanned through the air and introduced my face to the concrete, but my face didn’t want to meet only the concrete it also wanted to meet the asphalt just up aways from its current location. So it slid across the concrete and into the asphalt and proceeded to allow the asphalt to take up residence in forehead and right side of my face starting at my eyeball and working its way back to behind my ear. Only my sideburn stood up for me, not allowing the asphalt to set up shop in too much of my facial structure. Apart from my fractured wrist, bloodied face and ripped hands I'm sure I looked just as normal as could be skating to campus health, where asked "did you lose consciousness?" to which I could only reply, "Not that I remember."

memior (WIP)

Cruising down the road at a cool sixty miles an hour in a posted forty-five, it was raining. It was raining hard. So hard in fact we thought about breaking out the paddles and pushing the boat button hidden under the steering wheel. But that would require work and magic, so we continued driving. James had been the first to get his drivers license and a car, or truck in his case. A bright red stick shift Chevy S-10, complete with a black plastic bed liner and silver metal craftsman tool chest just behind the rear window. My knees in the dashboard and him sitting comfortably we talked about who knows what. Coming up on the turn and realizing that he didn’t know to turn there, I mentioned that we needed to turn there, thinking James would blaze on by and we would stop and turn around. All of the sudden everything is happening very fast but at the same time in my mind in slow motion. James downshifts into third, taps the breaks and wails on the steering wheel turning left. I grab the passenger handle above his door and look straight ahead. Water shedding off the window in great arcs, tires squealing and sliding on the water-wrecked road, utter silence in the vehicle. Bouncing up and down like bull riders we left the road and headed for desert country. Sliding between an electric box the size of small car and a telephone pole taller and stouter than any oak with not but inches to spare we came to a halt. Silence.
Silence.“Man…we just had a blues brothers moment.”

Pass (Rickel)

In Boyer Rickel’s Pass the reader can easily derive the sense of distance from others Rickel felt as a young boy growing up. Throughout the memoir Rickel creates a sense of being distant from what is taking place in the story. He does this by talking about how he viewed things in the past, not by narrating the story as if he were there right then. He does it omnisciently, as if he is watching himself perform actions in the moment. By doing this it helps the reader feel as he felt, not connected to what is going on but “a spy” (4), always watching but never interfering. By narrating from a distance Rickel instills in the reader how it is he felt as a young man, distant and unsure of whom he was. Without this narration from a distance the reader would not have as great a sense of the distance and uncertainty he felt. If Rickel had simply told the reader he was distant from everyone in his life growing up and then proceeded to narrate the story in the moment not omnisciently, then the reader would have had greater trouble identifying with what is Rickel’s main point. He felt like every single young person growing up feels, unsure of who they are and scared of doing something “uncool” and then being ridiculed for it. It is this fear of being ridiculed that makes Rickel seem tense throughout the story. He sees his father not being sure of himself and is “embarrassed by his awkwardness“(2) among the other adults. From an early age Rickel learns to stay out from under foot of other people as to not be noticed. It seems to start when he is becomes ashamed of his father awkwardness and continues into young adulthood. The reader is able to identify with this tenseness because of the way Rickel describes everything around him, from seeing the other boys naked bodies in the shower and being embarrassed that he too is naked, to staying out of his brothers way so he would remain “ok” (4) in his brother’s and his brother’s friends eyes. Throughout the story we see Rickel watching everything from a distance and never speaking. When he does speak it is only to laugh when everyone else laughs or to make jokes when everyone else makes jokes. By showing the reader how distant from everyone yet how reliant on everyone he was, Rickel is allowing the reader greater access into his psyche as an adolescent. By narrating this story from a distance and telling the reader how he felt rather than showing them directly, Rickel is very effectively allowing the reader to know exactly how he felt. He felt as every young person growing up feels, unsure of what or who they are and wanting to be accepted, as well as constantly under stress at the fear of being labeled an outsider or “unacceptable.” (4) By writing in this style Rickel is creating what could be referred to as a first person omniscient narrator, which in my belief is essentially what a memoir is.