Those Rough Pieces I Promised

So I just noticed that I never actually put up those ultra-rough drafts I promised. My apologies. I've rummaged around my notebooks and found a couple that I'll just put up exactly as they are in my notebook (so don't be surprised if they're disjointed or end kind of abruptly). These are works I may have scribbled down while at the bus stop or at home with a few extra minutes. In any case, here you are.

The first piece is the one I alluded to a while ago, the dystopic fiction I was trying to flesh out into a tangible idea.

Elias still marveled, as people unabashedly buffaloed their way past him and into the shelter, at how damn efficient the whole thing was. Not five minutes earlier he had been sitting quietly at his kitchen table, paying his bills while the Animals gently crooned about how their father had been a tailor. Steam was lazily wafting from his mug of coffee, spiralling away in long curling tendrils of heat before dissipating into the kitchen air.
Then he heard the unmistakable static crack-pop of a loudspeaker turning on, followed by the rising wail of the air raid siren, urgent yet detached, almost uninterested. It wasn't until he looked out his window and saw entire buildings flooding people into the street that he knew this was no drill.
The crowd was silent. They had run this scenario so many times it had lost any novelty or urgency; it had become a matter of routine. Innumerable rows of shoulders slouched forward. Countless dull eyes, soft and lamblike, watched countless worn feet tramp across the asphalt. There almost seemed to be a resignation, perhaps even a grateful thought or two that the damn thing was finally decided.
Elias straightened up, stretching his back with a groan. Exhaling deeply he let his arms fall to his sides as he looked around the apartment he'd called home for nearly a decade. Almost lazily he conjured an image of the entire place engulfed in flames. He watched red-orange fingers as they scrambled up his aged parlor drapes, growling and snarling across the shag carpet, hissing through his heating ducts.
A low rumble was beginning to gather itself to the north, a single guttural noise slowly snowballing into a great swath of fearsome droning moving closer and closer.

Not too shabby. In my opinion, anyway. But I'm biased.

This other piece didn't really stand for anything larger; it was just a sort of snapshot I sketched out while at the doctor's office a while ago. A nice little moment with some imagery I really like.

"Did I ever tell you about the man I once saw in the laundromat? Of course I did. I did! He came into the laundromat and without a word stripped down buck naked and threw his clothes in the washer. Poor guy just stood there in front of the machine shivering. Scrawny little guy. He got arrested, of course. A mother came in with her daughter, took one look at him, and turned around so fast you'd think she'd been slapped across the face.
"But only one set of clothes, can you imagine? Isn't that something?"
Mitch had no response. Snow continued to fall in great thick heaps, like feathers pouring from a goosedown pillow. The sky was slipping into a blue-black, chasing away the last red hues of the sunset like air rushing out from under a falling blanket. The interstate was thick with cars returning from the airport, families briefly united as they gabbed incessantly to kill the time.
The long black scaly leech of traffic lurched forward in segments. Mitch briefly thought of longitudinal waves along a slinky, drew the connection back to school, and immediately abandoned his train of thought.
Joan was growing increasingly uncomfortable. Mitch's forehead hadn't left the window since they left the airport, and he just carried an aura, an ennui she couldn't seem to penetrate.

Thanks to Juliana's mother for the anecdote that not only led off this story, but was also responsible for what there currently is of it.

So that's that. Incredibly brief and rough works that hopefully satiate you for a while. I'll be putting up more as it gets written, but that novel's becoming pretty promising. I can't escape it, especially considering I'm in a class that deals specifically with the Apocalypse and humanity's response thereto. Hopefully the novel will have an outline within a couple weeks, soon as I figure out how I want the characters to be. I'll also need to do some research for factual accuracy. I'm so excited!

Take care, and come back!

I'm Planning a Novel!

Dismissing the usual apologies regarding my inability to keep this thing updated more than twice a month, I've got some news...I'm going to write a novel!

Perhaps I should make an elaboration here; I'm planning on writing a novel. I was at work a week ago or so and an idea just sort of walked into my head. Nothing revolutionary as far as plot goes but definitely something that explores the ideas of humanity and compassion in dire circumstance.

Without giving too much away (not that I don't trust you, but this is the Internet) it's going to be a post-apocalyptic story following two families as they attempt to survive a nuclear winter. I can already tell there's going to be a great amount of Cormac McCarthy's The Road present in this piece, hopefully just as a sort of mood establishment. I'll be updating sporadically throughout the process so that you can see where I am in the novel-writing thing. Who knows, maybe you'll even be inspired!

Well, I'm off to class. I had a couple minutes and got out what I want to say. Take it easy!

I Haven't Forgotten About You

It's been almost 2 weeks since I posted last. Sorry about that. I'm just throwing this up really quick before class, but as a form of penitence I will be posting some VERY rough drafts of some stuff that's just been sitting in my various notebooks. A couple of them could be rather nice stories, but I just haven't had the time to expand them at all (working 24-28 hours a week on top of being a full-time student is surprisingly taxing).

But anyway, as I said I'll be tossing up a couple new pieces shortly, just because I like you guys so much. They should be up this afternoon. Happy belated Valentines Day!

Down to the Nitty-Gritty

Well, I'm finally starting to really sink my teeth into this semester. I'm becoming more and more impressed with my classes, but especially English 215. It's a rudimentary class that, as I've said before, is essential to English majors but I just love the method of discourse in our class. We all arrange the tables in a circle and just discuss the reading we had due for that day. It hearkens back many fond memories of the Philosophy and Ethics course I took in high school, and honestly I think it's my favorite style of classroom participation. Not to mention the fact that in Week 2 we've already read essays on Aristotle and Marxist literary interpretation (and next week we cover Deleuze and Guattari, two VERY famous post-modern literary scholars).

We're currently reading The Brief and Wonderous Life of Oscar Wao bu Junot Diaz. It's one of those books that, prior to this class, I had been perpetually intending to purchase but never did. I'm only about 70 pages in thus far, but it's a great ride. The voice is so genuine and funny, but also deeply personal and intimate. You feel like Diaz wrote the book specifically for you, which is intriguing because as a writer I am aware of the difficulties of engaging your audience early on. It's nice to see examples of novels that have the ability to hook you and keep you on the line, to use a fishing metaphor.

I also came across a wonderful book at the Golda Meir Library a little while ago that attempts to interpret the works of Kurt Vonnegut through the lens of Postmodern analysis as well as chaos theory. Seeing as I'm a math and physics geek at heart, as well as a fan of Vonnegut, this book just seemed interesting. I've only read the introduction but it looks like it will be quite the treat!

I'm coming down with a rather unwelcome bout of writer's apathy (which is really just apathy) and haven't written recently. I'm going to take some time this evening to try finding potential writing prompts that'll kick-start my creative side. I haven't forgotten the point of this blog!

Off to read for my Philosophy of Art class. Until later!

Catching Up

Hey everyone! Sorry I haven't been around lately. School was a bit of a headache for a while, getting into classes and so on, but I'm back. I'll be updating on a weekly basis or so and just letting you know what's new on this end.

So I'm taking two English courses this year, English 245 and English 215. The latter is a mandatory course for English majors, but looks promising with some of the books we'll be reading, including excerpts from Aristotle, Freud, and Foucault. The former is an in-depth analysis of a prominent literary figure, and in this case it's the Southern writer Flannery O'Connor. I'll admit I hadn't heard of her before this class, and didn't know what to expect in taking such a class but I've been reading her short stories and have to say I'm quite impressed! It's fascinating to think her first short story, "The Geranium" was published when she was just 22 years old. I can't help but think that she was only three years older than me and she was already published. I guess that's just more motivation for me!

The class I'm most interested in, however, would have to be my Comparative Literature class, Comp Lit 135. It's an exploration into apocalyptic literature and how it relates to society through the ages. For those who have read my bio, there's little in the literary world I find more enjoyable than the post-apocalyptic genre and this class, which analyzes the strengths of the human condition in post-apocalyptic settings, is guaranteed to be entertaining and thought-provoking. If that's not enough, the book list for the class includes Kurt Vonnegut, Alan Moore, and Jose Saramago! Needless to say, a very exciting class.

I'll be starting work on another short story soon; I've got a great little idea I'm trying to flesh out into something tangible. It's a dystopic piece, which is a new genre for me, but it should be a rather rewarding experience. Stay tuned!

Part 3 of 3

January 25

It’s night again. I spent all of yesterday making sure everything is found just as I want it to be. I don’t know exactly what will happen to me after this, but I can’t leave Alice out there. I made a vow to her and to God that I would stay by her side in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, in good times and in bad, forever.

My dear wife Alice used to say I didn’t know how to follow through with resolutions because I didn’t like the idea of changing myself. I can only smile as I remember how she’d stare at me over her half-moon glasses and chuckle as I made my resolutions, wishing me the best but knowing I’d never finish any of them. But that was before. Now I truly see just how much I meant to Alice, and I want her to know that I will love her forever, regardless of how she looks. I’m committed to showing her my dedication, to prove to her she’s not fighting alone against whatever dark abyss she’s gazed into. I want to be there holding her hand as we fight together.

I’ve already set about making myself appropriate for the next time I see her. The straight razor has made quick work of my left hand. It’s almost eerie to watch the muscles twitch and strain as I flex my hand. I’ve done away with my legs, stomach, and chest too. I remember getting a manual as we landed in Korea, showing pictures of the human body as a muscle-enveloped skeleton with vital organs circled under bright red ink. As I looked into the bathroom mirror beneath a forehead gleaming white in the harsh fluorescent light, my lips dangling from my crazily-grinning mouth I could only imagine myself as some great leering caricature of what I’d seen fifty years ago.

I’ve saved my right hand for last, because I want to be sure the world knows why I’ve done what I’ve done. Any minute now I’ll go back into the bathroom and add a final pound of flesh to the bloody mess on the linoleum floor.

I want the world to know that I loved Alice. I still love her. I don’t know what will happen when I descend the attic stairs, trailing blood behind me like some macabre wedding train, but I know I’ll be with her.

That’s all I really want.

Part 2 of 3 (Long Section)

January 16

I’ve stared at this picture throughout the night. Every part of me knows it can’t be true, but the more I look at that haze of yellow light the more I can see her face. Her high cheekbones and soft chin hiding behind a radiant cascade of soft hair, her fair skinned arms holding her hands just like they did the night of our honeymoon, nervous but excited as we stood on the tarmac waiting for our plane to Hawaii. Her eyes, though. I keep coming back to her eyes. They seem different somehow, like they’re holding some kind of secret. There’s a soft smile behind them, but more a look of understanding. I don’t know where Alice went after she passed away. I guess I just assumed she moved on to a better place. But I’ve gone through every one of these pictures and she’s in each of them. Maybe Heaven was lonely. Maybe she could sense how much pain I was still in. I don’t know. All I know is she’s back now. Maybe things will get better.

January 18

I’m turning into the barmy old coot I never wanted to be. I’m completely changing my lifestyle for a blur in a picture that vaguely resembles my wife. There’s a small voice in the back of my head saying it’s all just a trick of the light or a funky blur, and the entire rational side of my brain is screaming at me for being so deluded. But at the same time, the camera doesn’t lie. Does it? All it does is show what’s there. So maybe there is something to this whole thing. I’ve certainly acted like there was this past few days. I’m back to my old ways of courting.

I’ve saved everything Alice used to like. I set her place at the kitchen table when I sit down to eat, laid out in her best china and crystal wine glasses. We used to love sharing a bottle of wine together. Tonight I’m treating her to a candlelight dinner, just like the one we had in Paris the night of our twentieth anniversary. The light glinted and seemed to dance, playing against the darkness of her eyes. I feel so much more life within me having seen Alice in those pictures. I need to take more.

January 20

I saw her today. Not in the pictures this time, I’ve seen her there dozens of times. I saw her in real life, before my eyes. Well, out of the corner of them maybe. I was in the den reading my evening paper and suddenly a glint of light sprang into the corner of my eye. I cocked my head almost instinctually, expecting perhaps light bouncing off the hood of a passing car, but I saw her. The yellow haze of light and dust was moving slowly, like a passing car’s reflection crawls across your ceiling. She seemed to be moving without any real speed, but if you’re no longer among the living I suppose you don’t really need to set an agenda. The light had an almost human form but still drifted like a patch of smoke, dreamily, toward her old sewing room. I feel so stupid, not remembering the hours she’s spend in that room making shirts and quilts and goodness knows what else. It’s only natural she want to stay where she’s comfortable.

She looks so much different when she’s right in front of you, rather than looking at you from a picture. Her features were softer, not so horribly contrasted by whatever barbarous acts the photo developers use. Her face was blurred, so much so that it almost seemed fake. Like a piece of rubber pulled over her skull. Maybe all the crazy stuff she’s going through means it’s just going to take some time to fully rearrange herself. Even without the eyes, nose and lips I’d stared at for so many decades, without the cheekbones that held her smile so beautifully, the forehead that always relaxed into a smooth dome when she laughed, I think she’s happy. She’s seen how I’ve kept everything just as she left it, and you need that. It’s like returning home from a long trip in a distant land, finding everything exactly as you left it and sliding into that sense of comfort in knowing you’re home at last.

January 21

Alice hasn’t come out at all today. I haven’t seen her around the rest of the house, anyway, so I’m pretty sure she’s still there. A soft golden glow keeps pouring out from under the door, moving around like a firefly who can’t find its off button. Maybe she’s just settling in again. Hopefully I’ll see her tomorrow.

January 22

Still nothing from Alice. I stood in the hallway outside her sewing room for about half an hour today, knocking on the door and waiting for a response. All I felt was a cold silence. The light under the door’s dimmed a little. I hope I haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t want her to be angry with me. I told her I wanted her to feel comfortable, and I’d do whatever it took to make her feel that way. Maybe she’ll come out tomorrow.

January 23

She’s started crying. I didn’t hear it at first, except as a low sort of whimpering. It sounded like air rattling through the heating vents; this old house makes more noise in the winter than I do. Anyway, it started out really weakly, a couple of sniffles and some whimpers. Now it’s gotten a bit louder, and I’m concerned. It’s the crying you hear when someone learns of the death of someone they knew well, but weren’t particularly close to. The death of some kind of ideal image of that person. Maybe I’ve done something wrong.

Later

The crying’s gotten louder. It’s become full-fledged weeping now, flowing out from under her sewing room door like tar, heavy and solemn. I can’t seem to get her to stop, no matter what I say. It’s almost as though she can’t even hear me.

January 24

She hasn’t stopped. It’s two in the morning and her weeping has turned into wailing. Heart-rending shrieks of pain are coming from the other side of the door, and I can’t get her to stop. She never cried like this when she was alive; it’s a kind of screaming I haven’t heard since Korea. It’s the frantic, terrified scream of the men who limped back into the trenches with their stomachs torn open, holding their guts in their arms, eyes darting everywhere in hope of some kind of relief but secretly knowing all they could do was wait to die.

I just wish I knew what was wrong. I don’t know what else to do. I need to confront her and see what happened.

Later

My heart won’t stop pounding. God in Heaven, what’s happened to my wife?

I put down this journal and tried steadying myself, though her constant screams had quite deeply unnerved me. I slowly walked down the stairs, and as I did I felt an odd pulling sensation, as though part of me was trying to stay away from the source of the noise. I’d felt as though I tapped into the unrivalled fear of our ancestors who lived in the trees, huddling together as they heard dark shadows rustling in the foliage below. I reached the bottom of the stairs and started slowly moving down the hallway to her sewing room. I could see a weak reddish light coming from below the door, though I knew it to be the sun rising on the horizon. There was no other light.

I need to stop for a minute. My hands won’t stop shaking.

Later

The sun’s been up for a couple hours, and I think that’s helped to calm me a bit. I can still hear her; she hasn’t stopped screaming. She’s wandering around the house now, shrieking like a banshee, but her screams have lost their sorrowful tones. They’re now completely filled with horror.

To continue my story, I approached Alice’s door, my breath escaping my chest only in the slightest of constricted gasps. I could feel beads of sweat slowly forming on my brow, cool in the early morning air. I prepared to knock on the door, thinking as I did that there was no way she could have heard me over her own frenzied screeching, but the second my knuckles rapped the dense wood the door flung open, and I saw Alice.

Her body was no longer a shaft of light and dust. She was an honest-to-God human, though I don’t believe God would have claimed her. Her skin had gone a mottled gray and green, large patches falling off her face and arms, exposing black muscle and pearly bone covered in writhing maggots. Her hair was a scraggly black mess, sparsely covering her skull in the places where her skin still clung stubbornly. Her forehead was white bone, a huge flap of skin dangling over her cheek. Her nose had been eaten away, leaving a gaping hole in the center of her face. Most of all I remember her mouth. Her lips had gone a purple-green, shriveled to the point where her remaining yellow and black teeth leered at me in a grim rictus. Her tongue was hugely swollen, writhing behind her teeth like a purple slug, half eaten by whatever godless creature had done this.

She stopped screaming when she saw me. There was no love left in the empty sockets of her eyes, but her eyebrows wrinkled in an expression of absolute helplessness. She stumbled toward me on rotting legs, her fungus-eaten bones on the verge of collapse. Her wildly-flailing arms reached for me, shaking off dirt and maggots as she moved. I tried to back away, but her rotted stump of a hand, finger bones and ligaments wasted away, managed to grab my shoulder. Her rotten sockets stared into my eyes, her sour breath like compost against my face. She took a few shuddering breaths and with monumental effort succeeded in hissing a single word:

“Empty.”

Then her head fell back, as if she were struck with some divine inspiration. For the briefest of moments it rolled aimlessly over her shoulders, across her chest, and along her back as though she were trying to remove a kink in her neck. Her arm fell lamely to her side as she stumbled backward slightly. I began to back away from what had once been the woman I loved, the woman I swore to be with until the end of time, tears falling from my unblinking eyes. She seemed to sense my departure, and lunged toward me with a shriek that froze my heart. I turned around and ran, tears streaming from my face and in that last moment before I slammed the attic door behind me I could hear our screams mingling in the stale air of the morning.

Later

Since I left Alice downstairs she hasn’t stopped screaming. I can hear her downstairs, tearing the house apart. I must have left the door open behind me when I ran out on her. She’s still shrieking, but now it’s almost sorrowful. I think she’s looking for me. I know I didn’t see any love in what used to be her eyes, but I can feel her sadness. After all, she must be scared. Who knows what thoughts have been running through her mind these past days as she’s had to watch her body slowly decompose, then see nothing at all. Imagine sitting in your favorite chair, feeling every sensation as your skin decomposes and insects gnaw away at your flesh, the only person you’ve ever loved in the living room mere feet away from you. Imagine the utter helplessness of feeling your own body decompose.

I have done wrong by her. My God, I’ve forsaken the only woman I ever loved, and she’s going to walk the earth searching for me until the end of time, if she has to. Every now and then I hear a shattering come from below me, and I know she’s searching for me now. I’ve seen her as she is, and she thinks I’ve left her. There’s no way I can imagine the fear she must be enduring, and yet here I am, hiding away from her as she tries so desperately to make sense of what’s happened to herself.

I can’t do this anymore. I can’t leave her like this.