Pen and Paper Addicts

nicholas.sweeney1@marist.edu (Nick Sweeney) — Wed, 02 Sep 2009 16:19:00 +0000

Wake me up Love

The stillness of the morning air was welcoming. The front porch on the one hundred year old house was where Marge and Edison sat and had their morning dose of coffee. This was their tradition for the last forty years.

“Isn’t that bad today. Maybe you should go into business for yourself.” Edison said as he slowly rocked back and forth on the homemade chair he made for his own kids when they were young.

“Oh, it took you this long to like my coffee, eh?” She replied with dim smile.

Child like friends, and full time lovers, Edison and Marge had been through just about everything: war, children, the changing times, everything. They were simple people, sticking to an old Ford pick-up that Edison had since his working days before the war and staying in the house they got married in. No need for a Hummer, or surround sound high tech gadgets, they lived peacefully. They were happy as is.

They morning dew saw on the grass like the elderly couple sat on the chair. Marge just looked down at her cup of coffee. Edison just looked off, nearly dazing off.

“Edison.”

“Yes, dear?”

“I went to Doc Coopers yesterday.” Marge said.

“Edison suddenly woke up not because of the coffee, but of the comment.

“I’m sick.”

“How sick?”

Marge just held Edison’s hand as tears went down his face.

“Your coffee was good today, Marge. Honest.” Edison just held his wife’s hand and her crappy cup of coffee.

nicholas.sweeney1@marist.edu (Nick Sweeney) — Tue, 01 Sep 2009 23:07:00 +0000

Warning: If you are a fan of the Disney version of Snow White, this might not be for you. For this particular (extremely short) story, I put the Seven Dwarves and the Seven Samurai together. Needless to say, there is no happy ending to it.

Ride High Seven Dwarves

There were only seven of us then, enough for a decent stand, enough for any fool to think highly of himself. I thought the whole idea was ridiculous, but it was the Prince who helped us out. After the wedding, before the honeymoon, he told us that one of the small villages on the outskirts of his land were under attack. Being the kind hearted dwarves that we were; we accepted this task with joy, hoping to stay in his good favor. Besides, it certainly beats trying to clean up the house. Without Snow White, it quickly grew into a mess. Worse than before, actually. If only we knew what was going to happen.

Of course Grumpy bitched and moaned about it the whole time. He actually punched Happy in the throat for even suggesting a song. The rest of us laughed, and thought about sending Grumpy to anger management. At least I did, as the leader of this motley gang of bearded dwarves. So we armed ourselves, mostly with axes, and shields, loaded up the horses with food and made our way to the village. Not a single song was sung on that trip.

“And I thought our place was a mess.” Sneezy said as we made our way into the small town, lit by a few torches and only having a few old buildings. As sarcastic as he was between sneeze fits, he was right. This poor town had it bad, and all the villagers had been dirty for several days. It seemed that showers came as sparingly as hope around this place. I said nothing, knowing that being high and wise would probably go unanswered. I was the damn Doc of course. I had to prepare for myself, to lead the way.

After talking to some of the locals, we found out that there had been some kind of band of bandits lurking around the area, causing chaos in the surrounding area. Any men worthy of defending the town were all gone, died defending the small piece of land they had. I thought we would have been made fun of by this point, being the small and hairy people that we were. It seemed that any help was going to be good help for them. So we prepared ourselves. We waited for them on the first night, sticking in pairs, with Dopey joining Bashful and Sneezy. It took a few hours before the actual battle happened, but when it did, it seemed like forever. That’s all I remember.

At the end of it all, it was me and Bashful who survived the whole damn thing. Sleepy was picked off during his guard duty, kind of ironic actually. Dopey was killed defending the little kids from the village, we found him with a single arrow in him. While these deaths touched me deeply, it was the finding of Grumpy and Happy, back to back, that made me grow cold. Surrounded by motionless enemies, they slumped there quietly. But their actions spoke volumes.

Happy went toe to toe with the bandit leader and was his equal when he was injured; Grumpy screamed his battle cry and rushed to his side, holding back endless waves of enemies. I was patching up Bashful when I heard his last cry. Between the two of them, they had at least twenty or so dead enemies around them, including the leader of them. A tragic loss none the less.

It took us a few days to clean up the mess and help the villagers, who hid in their houses the entire time; get back into the shape of things. We were nearly there when the Prince’s Royal Guard showed up to tell us to go home. Our job was done. Silently, we went on our way.

“Again we are defeated.” Bashful said, much to my astonishment as we left the town. We rode home, side by side, and started to sing in memory of the friends we lost. We might have won the day, but at the greatest cost.

nicholas.sweeney1@marist.edu (Nick Sweeney) — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 23:35:00 +0000

Monday

He woke up to a ray of sunshine. Where he lived, Gary always had sunshine outside his window. It was part of the area, many old timers joked. The “rookies” as Peter called them, had much to learn about their new home. Still in shock from his removal from his last place of residence, Gary quickly got out of bed. It had been a near sleepless night for him, as the last few had been. But he suddenly woke up, knowing that he had to make it to work.

Being the newcomer that he was, he took his job very cautiously. The older guys, Iggy, Sebastian and Jude would sit there and joke around about other people as they watched on. They were experienced, being here for years, and weren’t as strict as many others Gary met during his first few days here. Gary was only now getting the hang of it, and it had taken him a few days to realize what exactly he must do. Jude had told him to do his best, and nobody would get mad if he messed up. Sometimes, you couldn’t save them all, he once said. Gary listened to this elderly veteran, he should know, he knew a lost cause when he saw it.

“Don’t worry Gary, how much trouble could someone get into on a Monday morning?”

Elsewhere, Susan was late to work. Her dog had left a lovely surprise in the bathroom again, and forced Susan to clean it up immediately. Frantically looking for cleaning supplies, she hastily took an old sweater from an old boyfriend and put it on.

“He won’t need this anymore.” She managed to smile to her dog and laugh. Looking at her watch, she dropped everything.

“Take care of the house. Be home soon hunny.” She said to the dog, noting to herself that she was probably going crazy. It wouldn’t be the first time she had thought that though. Life had been frantic up to this point, running from place to place. Trying to pay rent. Trying to keep the dog fit. Trying to make it by.

Running out of the building, she saw the local bus pull away. Putting her hands up in mock anger, she sighed to herself and started the long walk to work. It was only Monday. It was going to take about fifteen minutes, enough time to figure out a good lie to tell her boss. Thinking about her dog, her job, and what fabulous lie she was going to come up with, Susan crossed the street, trying to figure out what block to cross at next.

“Watch out!” A man yelled as Susan turned around and saw a speeding taxi coming straight at her. Suddenly, she felt something hit her, causing her to get out of the way of the bus, which missed her by mere inches.

“Show time.” Gary said to himself. It was only his second time going down since he started, and it still was a scary feeling. It felt like his stomach was up in his throat. It felt like he was on a roller coaster for twenty minutes. A normal feeling, Jude said. It would happen over the next few times. Eventually it would go away. Gary sighed when he heard that. Eventually meant a long time coming. It still hadn’t hit him that he was going to be doing this for the rest of his life. But on the bright side, he thought, it was a job people only imagined of talking about.

“Boy, you must have some kind of guardian angel or something.” The man who helped Susan said, dropping his newspaper in the process. Most people had resumed to their daily routines. The man picked her up with both hands, got his own newspaper and continued to walk down the street. And life went on. Susan continued to take deep breathes and look up at the sky.

Gary smiled to himself. It had been a good day’s work and it was only 9 o’clock.

nicholas.sweeney1@marist.edu (Nick Sweeney) — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 01:01:00 +0000

The Home Wrecked

She knew that he had been with another girl simply by his smell when he walked into the door. A mix of his Old Spice cologne and a mix of something fruity and fresh, something she would not wear. Every day she would find its scent when he came in to give her a kiss after a long day of work. But she hid it well, much like he hid his own secrets. Or so he thought. It was not by scent alone that put this horrible idea into her head. She had been busy at work, busy writing for her next novel, and he was busy too. His company had been putting him on overtime almost every week. Or so he told her. Who knew, maybe he had concocted this entire thing up after a quickie session with his new love. Maybe this new one gave him the idea. If there was any sign of disgust, it wasn’t shown.

“Hunny, I’m home.” He said as he came in. He seemed less tired these days, he must have been with her today. She dreaded thinking about her. Not wanting to measure herself up to this mysterious third party, she chose to think elsewhere. Needless to say, less writing occurred and more cleaning around the house. In fact, she had organized all the books in her study, first by year written, then year published, and finally alphabetical.

When he finally came into view, she faked a smile, a smile that didn’t faze him one bit. He would put his bag down in the kitchen, as he always did, sneak up behind her and catch her off guard for a short yet romantic peck on the cheek. It was things like this that had her won over to him. He was everything that she ever dreamed of and more. At the time, he did everything right. She loved him for what he was, and what he wanted to do. But it was his smile that got him. The smile of hope and deceit at the same time. Her friends loved him, and always asked for him. Her mother told her that he was the one for her, she knew it. Everything seemed so right.

But that was years ago. Now everything changed. Now meaning the time since that love blossomed. Of course it had changed when she found out he was with another. It wasn’t so much this girl, although she did play a major part. More or less, it was about how he felt he could trick her. Like she wouldn’t notice his change in mood and such. How he started to care so much about how he looked when he went to work. How he would go far lengths to justify his story. Apparently, their definitions of love were different. They did the same things, but he wanted more. He wanted the side dish and the main meal. He, as she would think, got greedy and got caught. But this minor victory could do no justice. She knew the costs that such truth would create. He still loved her, made love to her, and cared. Drastically changed and at the same time, not at all.

She hid the feeling of defeat as she opened the wooden back door into their yard and signed before yelling. A small boy was hard at work fighting the imaginary goblins in his mind. He saw her and paused. The fantastical sword battle would have to wait another day. Dad was home.

“Come in Danny, time for dinner.”

nicholas.sweeney1@marist.edu (Nick Sweeney) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 23:40:00 +0000

Out of Business

When he was called into the office, Archie Mayes knew his job was done. He knew that he would have to eventually go home that night and tell Janet about it, and find a way to cover this month’s rent. Besides being late on the car payments, Archie would now have to find a job to last for a while until things improved. Janet would have to wait for that long awaited vacation in the Mediterranean. He would have to wait to buy those new ProSwing golf clubs to use in the family outing next spring. Thinking of all of this made his head spin, much like his first night out on the job. However, in spite of things, Archie expected this. In this recession, the tooth fairies should be happy for lasting as long as they did. More importantly, he now had to find a way to sneak his work wings out of the job place as there was no way those babies were leaving him.

“So…hunny, I have to tell you something. Too straight forward. Hey babe, want to eat out tonight. Too unexpected. Listen, we need to talk. That…just sounds awful. Janet, you know how you said you always wanted to spend more time together? That’s just bullshit.” Archie shook his head as he walked home.

“What are you going to do Archie?” He muttered to himself as he passed by an old lady walking the opposite way. His hands tightly gripped around the white convenience store bag. This was his out with a bang idea when he found out about the job cuts.

He found out from “Nickel Only” Nate, another veteran in the field. Apparently, one of the old cooks from one of the eastern Canadian sectors went on a rampage and flew up by the ceiling and started to pelt workers with teeth he had found. Archie found that funny until he realized that the story meant pay cuts, which were never good.

“Figures, we’ve been losing money for years ever since we went up to the dollar. Remember when it was just a nickel? Going up to the quarter seemed outrageous and almost started a war. I can’t believe this shit.” Nate said as he walked to corner bar by work where they used to hang out after the late shifts. They were half way in when they realized this might be the last time they walked in.

“I don’t think I can do it.”

“It will only be for one drink.”

“I mean, I can’t tell Janet about losing this. This is all I have.”

“Archie, sometimes there are things more to life than being the tooth fairy. We can always find another job.” Nate said reassuringly. Besides working with him for five years, Archie loved Nate for his laid back personality. He used to smoke on the job and said the experience made the job that much more exciting. Nate once said that it was almost like he was flying in mid air, and Archie responded with hitting him over the head with a half filled bag of baby teeth from his night of work.

“And do what? We fly into people’s houses, take something without them knowing and leave some change for their kids for crying out loud. What the hell can we do now?” Archie said as a couple of elderly women exited the bar, giving the two men dirty looks before leaving completely.

Nate paused.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” He gave a natural smirk as they went into the bar.

“What? –Nate, we’re not going to steal from people.” He whispered back. When they had signed the contract when they first got their job, all new hires were told you could not take items from the houses they would enter. Of course, rules were made to be broken and Archie had heard stories of what people took. Mostly small things, things that would go unnoticed until it was actually looked at. Things like picture frames, stuffed animals, food that was left out the night before. Personally, he never took a thing, as he was an honest man, a very honest tooth fairy. Besides, if Janet ever found out, she would kill him immediately.

“Why not? We’re good at it.” He was right. Being a tooth fairy wasn’t exactly an easy job, and if you ever got caught, you might as well just give up your wings because you would be fired the moment you stepped through the door. Suspense and mystery was part of the job after all.

“We just got laid off. I need some time to breathe.”

“Maybe there’s a way to get back at them.”

“How? I told you I’m not going to steal.” Archie complied. Being an honest man was one thing, but being an honest man with no money wasn’t going to win out at the end of the day. He knew Janet, and he knew that she would be with him regardless, but he wanted the best for her and he was going to stick to that promise.

“By stealing business of course.” Nate said, sipping down his now milk warm beer as they began to watch Monday night football. At least he would enjoy some entertainment before heading back to the real world. He didn’t care what teams were on, as long as he got through the night. He didn’t need much to get a smile on his face.

Archie sat there for a moment, now that he was unemployed; so many fun things came to mind. Employee of the Month twice in the last two years, he worked hard for his paycheck. He barely ever had time to really just hang out. He thought of all the things he could do with the free time and all the hours of sleeping in late, even until he finds another job. Finally, the idea hit him.

“I always wanted to build an actual castle of teeth before.”

nicholas.sweeney1@marist.edu (Nick Sweeney) — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 20:39:00 +0000

Officer 119

For a lack of a better word, nemesis seemed perfect at the time to describe the law enforcement officer. The definition, one we had to look up during study hall one day, was an understatement for the infamous Officer 119. He had no real distinct features; the sign of the dark blue outfit he sported was enough for us to recognize him, that and the license plate numbered 119. We had gotten in trouble time and time again, and it seemed to no avail that he would show up, almost on cue.

“Ah shit, not him again.” The common response was, much similar to that of the pestering kid who tried to fit into an already established group of friends.

“Good evening gentlemen.” This was his introduction to the soon to be long night. We questioned the fact of being gentlemen. We, being Buck, James, Hughes and myself would come home early in the morning, chaperoned by the nice officer himself and explain to our parents what we were up to. Buck had it the worst, with that demon of a father always getting him hard. If Buck had any pride, he would have told Officer 119 of what happened behind closed doors and give him an actual purpose for being a man of the law. Instead of busting kids for underage drinking, or driving fast down Montauk Highway, perhaps he could actually be doing some good.

“I wonder if he realizes how much people don’t like him.” James once asked when we picked up a twelve pack of Pabs Blue Ribbon beer, courtesy of his older brother. The plan was to have another night filled with debauchery but it seemed that our plans had rarely gone as they were supposed to.

“Do you think he knows he has a stick up his ass too?” Buck responded. We all laughed, we laughed because it felt right. This adult ruined the good times, the good memories that we should have been having. Instead, we had to deal with our disappointed and upset parents, but I don’t think I can complain, at least I didn’t have it as bad as Buck did.

Hughes was the first to call when he found out. His mother was sitting watching the local news when she found out that there had been a hit and run involving a police officer. Of course, the persistence mother of our friend ordered him to watch it as something of a lesson about reckless driving. When she turned around to call for her husband, the screen showed the formal picture of the officer who had been killed and Hughes only caught the last few seconds of it being on. At first he thought his eyes tricked him; he thought it was a blur that it couldn’t have been. He called me as flabbergasted as I was when I called Buck. This tragic game of telephone didn’t seem to end well, with the result of us not knowing who it had been on the screen. The only truth we could use was the second blur that Hughes thought he saw. What it could have been.

We never saw Officer 119 again.

on the eve

noreply@blogger.com (May) — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 20:22:00 +0000

When you breathe, you inhale and exhale,
but every single time you do that,
you're a little bit different than the one before.
WE'RE ALWAYS CHANGING.
and it's important to know that there are some changes
you can't control and there are others you can.
-- Taken from here.

one breath enters while another runs away,
screaming that it's not ready to fly.
can't you feel the impending revolution?
the drums beat from within your ivory cage.
marching, marching ... they are coming.

don't you feel the invasion?
it plunders and pillages on a molecular level.
organ by organ,
vein by vein.
until you have cavalries spilling from your teeth.

you canonot stop them;
you are no Fort Knox.

one breath enters while another runs away,
clinging to the battle cries of its predecessor.
"i am not ready!
you cannot make me go!"

they are here,
ready to overthrow the imaginary tyrant
you think you have become and always been.
but illusions no more.
your dream is well beyond its expiration date.
lay down your invisible sword and intangible shield.
they can no longer serve you
as you can no longer serve yourself.

don't you feel the invasion?

nicholas.sweeney1@marist.edu (Nick Sweeney) — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 02:36:00 +0000

Instead of just posting random things, how about having a little motivation to write? This is completely optional though. Kyle Swan thought it would be a good idea to have some writing prompts on here, and people can choose to write something along these lines. I know everyone is busy working, or doing a summer class, or just passing out on the beach, but I know personally, I need a little push to get me started. If this goes well, maybe someone can post one or two up here for others to try out. So here are some ideas to help just that:

-Recall a dream from any time in your life and write about it.

-Sit in a public place and write a scene, story, or poem about something you heard or saw.

nicholas.sweeney1@marist.edu (Nick Sweeney) — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 22:43:00 +0000

So I get a nice message from Leigh Everett, a recent Marist graduate, with this poem enclosed. She is quiet busy at the moment with things so she has asked me to post it on here. Hope you enjoy it!

Untitled By Leigh Everett

Jumping Off a bridge is never a Good Idea
Coffee and Bagels every Saturday morning
Smooches before dawn
Giving up the next best thing
To be with me

He was a green bean
An impractical dreamer (forgetting that cynics were out to get him)
The “Prince without the Charming”
As He would say

We watched movies in his mother’s house
Till 12am and He would get lost in my starlight’s blue
I kept telling him I didn’t know what I was doing
Kept telling him that things aren’t the way I always wanted
(I was trying to get him to run)

One evening he came to my door wrecked
His eyes looked destitute and unforgiving
And He said “You have to choose”
Then He waited, waited for days
For my answer

The excuse I always gave him was
“I’m scared
This one boy in my life destroyed me
For everybody else”

But that night he said something
Something that made me jump
“If you ever want this boy to stop taking over your life
You have to stop giving him time”

And Now I am faced with a decision
Start over with a perpetual dreamer
Who loves me more than anyone ever has?
(Love the relative term)
Or do I go back to “THE LOVE OF MY LIFE”

The only boy who’s played Russian roulette with my heart?

nicholas.sweeney1@marist.edu (Nick Sweeney) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 23:56:00 +0000

Hey guys, the stuff so far is great. If you know any people who are interested, the more the merrier!

This is more of a rant like prose if anything. I wanted to work sentences against each other. I don't want this to become a debate if you disagree, this is based off work experience and more or less breaks my heart to see. A fellow writer once wrote a piece starting with "Dear Mom" and it was an angry rant. This is similar to that.

Dear Parents,

Hello. I stand speechless at the sight I see. Let me start with my story. I grew up going to camp because my parents both worked. During the year I was home, sometimes with a baby sitter sometimes not. It wasn’t that my parents didn’t love me. They do. Heck, I want to be a writer and they love me (I think). Camp is a second home to me. I adapted to the times because I had to. I had no choice. There was only so many times I could watch a movie or sleep in late and do nothing. Times are different now. I work with your children, and I see you go to work. Dads in business suits, mom’s explaining that the baby sitter is picking up, and scared kids. Kids who cry a river for a moment to hold you. Today, I overheard a child say “My mommy doesn’t have to work; she just hangs out all day and does nothing. It’s like camp for her.” Is this your child?

It stings like a bee during a hot summer day. The kind of pain that hurts more as time progresses. Perhaps I’m just feeling sympathetic. Perhaps I envy your lifestyle. Perhaps I grit my teeth because I expected better. The little kids scream for their moms, the moms too busy to be a parent. The parents who rather enjoy the product and not the making of it. Last time I checked, being a parent was a full time job, no vacations and no pay. You don’t get paid double for overtime or holidays. You don’t get appreciated. Not until they are older, hopefully. They will hurt you, they will disappoint you, they will fall. Don’t add to that by not being there. It’s the only job that I know that people look forward to. I’m a child still, I always will be. They say you appreciate things more after it’s gone. I hope it’s not for you. One day your boy is four years old singing songs and clasping onto your index finger with his entire hand, and in the next moment, he’s seventeen and convinced he’s invincible without your help. He has the love of his life and a mind filled with dreams. He doesn’t want to spend time with you. He’s “growing up”. Where were you when it counted? When he screamed to hold you, to get attention, to get anything from you? Is anything ringing a bell? Anything?

Always,

An Ex-Latchkey Kid

Losers

noreply@blogger.com (Thomas Lotito) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 22:34:00 +0000

I've been wanting to write a lightening quick story for a while, so here's my attempt.

"Losers"

They lost the war.

Nobody thought they would, but they did. Nobody thought so because they had everything and people who have everything don’t lose. They had years of training and the best weaponry and lifetimes of knowing the guys, the ones they were told to die along – if it came to that, which it did.

They all didn’t die of course. That’s because they didn’t fully lose. They just wouldn’t win, so they were called home. It’s the ones who didn’t die that didn’t win who are called calls losers.

The ones who didn’t die that didn’t win will go back home to their husbands or wives who greeted them with large hugs and larger kisses (if the kids weren’t looking). Then, without thought of a gun or an explosion or any blood they get into a quiet care with the family and drive home.

When they get home, they go into their very nice bathrooms to relieve themselves, in whatever way they do, and then exit to the living room to sit on the couch. Their respective spouses emerge from the kitchen with a cold drink and sit close and turns on the television.

It will be a game show playing on the television, but the volume will be turned down so it’s only background noise. They’ll order pizza or Chinese or Thai – something quick and fulfilling. Their spouses will order their usual orders, and if there are kids they can watch them make a happy mess of themselves.

Dinner will be over and the kids will want to play for a bit. Toys are thrown about the floor and for an hour or two there is content chaos in the household before they tire out.

Then it’s time for the lovers. The veteran will be serious, but the spouse will be a wet mess, sobbing of relief. They’ll start to kiss. They lose their clothes once the bedroom door opens and the lights are barely put on – just a dim ambience. Then they’re on the bed and they lose all inhibitions. They will have sex and it will be very passionate and probably a little hard because it emerged out of grief, relief and desperation. For a few seconds, they’ll completely lose their minds.

Afterward, they’ll lose all ability to stay awake and they’ll fall asleep. It will make them wonder what they lost at all.

One More

noreply@blogger.com (May) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 15:01:00 +0000

The poem make up is more scattered. Lines are indented, halves of words are moved about, and only 6 lines are actually left-aligned. However, blogspot doesn't keep the spaces I put in, so you're just going to have to use your imagination. :)

-------

[070509]
there are momentous moments
in which no explanation can be offered(nor
would you really want one)and sometimes
you can never ask the "right questions"(if it

gets you an answer, can i really be wrong?), no
matter how ha
rd you try. and believe you me,

i've tried.

it's in these momentous moments that
the silence(which has been bronzified
like a pair of baby booties your great

grand
mother once crocheted for the new breath
of life
she was so scared to lose, and, as a result,
couldn't control her nervous twitch and
before anyone could blink, she'd
created 1,002 delicately woven booties,
much like the small wriggling form in
the rocking bassinet --
she had been a

miracle, you see)suddenly
takes on a golden hue and
somehow,

you finally seem to
get it.

the first draft of the declaration of independence.

noreply@blogger.com (May) — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 21:49:00 +0000

freedom is not just about
flipping off the monarchy
and telling them that they
can take their crowns and
eat them for all you
care. it's about letting
go of everything that's
haunted you, forever on your
back and forever on your
heart. it's flipping off
all of the negativity other
people try to spread,
like some rampant case of
VD, and keeping your
proverbial legs closed.

it's learning to forgive
the negativity and under-
standing that it never
really had a say in where
it was going but was
strung along like some
derranged pinocchio with
no hopes of ever becoming
a real boy (it was never
encouraged as a child). it's
finally realizing that, damn
it, you're worth the
sun and the breeze to
cool those beads of sweat
upon your salty flesh
and the whispering of those
gossiping trees (i swear they're
worse than most beauticians) and

the joy of waking up
another morning and
realizing that you have
the chance to do something
extraordinary. because
that's what you are; forget
what you've learned in those
wretched, glossy spreads
and repeat after me: i
am an extraordinary
being. i want you to take
2 doses each and every morning
and, you know what, it's
PRN (as needed, for those
of you who may not know),
because this life is one of those
drugs that can turn you
into some kind of addict,

with your tongue
hanging out and your
forearms bruised, always
begging for more.

from behind the fading embers of a hypothetical nighttime cigarette

noreply@blogger.com (May) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 13:22:00 +0000

Hello everyone! Just recently joined up with this blog. I wrote something last night and would love, love, love to hear feedback :) By the way, I'm May. It's nice to (virtually) meet you all!

Fondness rode the swings over Tivoli and I was elated
Sincerity slipped another sunrise into watery eyes
Train stations spit citizens back onto the streets
And I am still not asleep
- J. Mraz, blog entry on 06/24.

i will always be this way.
i will always feel my skin tingle
and my lips curl
and my tongue dance
and my eyes glisten
as soon as the sun hides its in-need-of-Rogaine head
and i am surrounded by the cloak of the absence of light.

my body may protest and, indeed,
it often does.
fibrous muscles ache
and remind me of the casualties of the day:
a wrong twist in the swirling, rolling chair-turned-amusement-ride;
a purpled section of flesh after violent contact
with a desk or table that seemingly appeared out of nowhere;
7 hours of being resigned to the same
position, upright with knees at right angles.

by the time this hemisphere of the world
has long shut its eyes
and kissed its beloved children good night
and turned its shadowed back upon the growing light
that's slowly trickling over its shoulder,
i have just awoken from my daytime slumber.
my adventures have only just begun.
thoughts leap from my cluttered cranium,
wishing to explore the world they've heard so much about.

but i resign myself to becoming a follower
of trends,
though my individuality is none too happy with my
nightly battle and resulting decision.

slowly, i slide underneath my cotton and polyester cape
that's a few sizes too big for my small frame,
skin tingling,
lips curling,
tongue dancing,
eyes glistening,
lullabied by the melodies of the slumbering world.

A Short Sci-Fi Piece

nicholas.sweeney1@marist.edu (Nick Sweeney) — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 20:24:00 +0000

So I was rummaging through some old papers from the past semester and I found my revised story for Fiction Class. For those who do not know, my first story dealt with this wise cracking nerd called Hudson and the power of telepathy that he had and found out from this time traveling old man named the "Watchmaker." This story is a revised story, now focusing on Joan, his sister and on flashbacks (and a forward!). For those who read the first one, this is simple a different take on the same story. As for Joan and Hudson now...they are finding their way into the summer novel I am writing. I remember looking at everyone's comments about Hudson's story and how they felt that it was the first chapter of a novel.

This here is just a draft, and the only thing that landed into the novel were the characters and the creative fantasy that I'm working on. For inspiration, I took Milla Jocovich and her portrayal in Resident Evil: Extinction for her look and appearance. It was a blast to write this little draft, and the novel itself is doing well. I hope to finish it some time in July! For now, I hope you enjoy this and there is definitely more on the way!

Hot Hands and Cold Feet

Some people drink to remember, some people drink to forget. Joan drank to figure out who, or what for that matter, the fuck she was. She wasn’t a drunk; she just liked the scene of the bar. It was the place outcasts and runaways would find refuge. It would be safe to assume that she was a runaway. From what, not even she was for sure. All she knew is that she was running from something and running towards something else, Away from the questions and towards the answers. Somehow she had travelled from the hustle and bustle of the City and ended up in the “Breadbasket” of America, Kansas. Attica, Kansas to be exact. Small town, small talk. Fate had led Joan to this obscure town for a reason.

For a town that had only six hundred people or so, Joan was surprised the place had a bar, let alone a main street. Being in town for a few days, she grew friendly with some locals and the bartender and gained that “outsider” status few received. Nobody knew where Attica was, or even knew it existed. Joan remembered something her father once said to her little brother Hudson and her, there is a reason behind everything kids. Those words stuck like glue, everything her parents said stuck like glue. Especially now.

“Well Miss, Attica keeps you another day?” The partially balding bartender said as he gave her a tall glass of beer. Late in the afternoon was prime time for people to be walking around this town, and this bar was one of the two places to unwind after a long day.

“It keeps me for something.” Joan replies as she gives a small grin and a crisp bill to the bartender.

“And what’s that?”

“Don’t know yet.” She replied. Her blue eyes roll as she said this.

“You know, that city accent you got is gunna break soon.” The man said as he laughed.

Joan smiled and sipped down her beer. She wasn’t a drunk; she usually had a beer or two and tried to figure it out. She tried figuring everything out. Her parents, her kid brother Hudson, whatever happened to her that made her who she was today. Today seemed different though, today she had a good feeling her time travelling was finally paying off.

“Well hello there.” A much older, and significantly shorter, man said as he plopped down next to Joan at the bar. He wore a worn down brown coat and had all sorts of watches and clocks on him. A homeless person was the last thing Joan needed right now.

“Listen, I ain’t got no money for you pops.” She stopped. “Damn, I am turning into one of these southerners after all.”

“I’m not here for your money, just your time. In a manner of speaking of course.” He said in a very smooth tone. He wasn’t a local, and he wasn’t from the city, Joan was sure of that. He seemed well educated.

“For what? I don’t have time for this.” Joan didn’t like talking much, especially to creeps like this guy. He looked like he collected every watch made in the last century. He ticked and tocked constantly.

“You will. I have a proposal.”

“I’m not in the marrying mood.” She responded immediately.

“No, of course not. Silly of me to say it like that.” He blushed and took a deep breath, either this guy was professional creep or he had something real to tell me.

“Say what?” She took another sip and wondered why she didn’t just walk out of the bar. She remembered that everything had a reason to it and well, this guy had a odd charm to him. Not the romantic charm, it was more like the welcoming charm to it.

“You did a good job of running Joan. It was very hard finding you after that little stint in New York. You started running fast.”

“What are you talking about?” Her mind started to run as fast as her words. What happened in New York was a freak accident. Something she couldn’t control. Part of the reason she was running. She grazed her dark red hair out of habit.

“Oh Joan, it’s not hard to find someone with….the skills you have possess.” He seemed to stress possess. She just seemed stressed.

“What skills? It was a freaking accident.” A freak accident was the most logical explanation for whatever happened. It was a mental cover up so Joan didn’t think about it that often. Partially the reason why she started to drink on occasion.

“If you want to call your unique power an accident, go ahead.”

---

“Hey you, stay here.”

“Get off me Luke.” She pleaded. Her blue eyes focused in on her assailant.

“It’s my birthday.” The man smirked and pinned her against a wall.

“Please-” Joan said as she tried valiantly to resist.

“I just want-” The man went in for a kiss and with one hand tried to get his “present.”

“-STOP.” The red head grabbed the man as a reflex as he tried to unclothe her. She felt angry, she felt hopeless, and she felt rage. She felt herself become hotter, she felt angrier as the seconds passed.

The man’s coat sleeves started to steam, and the man started to winch. He dropped her and fell back in the hall. Joan looked at her hands as they felt extraordinary hot. They started to look hot as well.

“I…I…” She was speechless.

“You bitch.” He hastily stood up and approached her to hit her. She slapped him in a quick move as she stood up. The left side of the man’s face burned instantly. He stayed on the ground. Joan stood motionlessly as she looked at her now glowing hands.

“What the hell is happening to me?” She said aloud. She backed up against the wall. Her instincts had told her this little outing was a bad idea. She felt it, yet something told her to go on.

“Oh Joany girl, I’m going to teach you a lesson. You don’t have your pussy of a brother Hudson to take care of you now.” The man said, and he ran at her.

“I took care of him you dick.” Joan gave a menacing grin and ran towards him, hands up.

---

“I don’t know what to call it. It happened so fast.” She let down her “I’m a bitch, don’t mess with my attitude and slumped in her stool as she faced the bar.

“It’s okay.”

“I…I had to run away. After what I did, I had to get away. I couldn’t let Hudson take the blame. He has enough problems going on. I packed my bags and went and here I am.” She said and then thought about what she just said. She had just let this old man on everything that happened to her in the last few weeks. She was speechless.

“Joan-”

“And how the hell do you know my name?” So many questions, so little room to say them all. As if she didn’t have enough on her plate with everything that happened. Her new “gift”, her fugitive status, her not explaining to her brother what had happened and now this old watch guy who knew more about her than she did. She was running out of time.

“Well Joan. I know more than enough about you. I know about your brother, Hudson. I know about your parents. I know about your ability to “heat things up” if you will. I know that you came here searching for something. And you found it.” The old man said as he smiled and took out one of his older watches.

“Okay, first question. Who the hell are you?” She responded as any fugitive on the run with strange powers asking someone who knew about her would.

“You are going to laugh but. My name is the Watchmaker.” He said proudly.

“The what?” She laughed. His name sounded like something Hudson would read on during his comic convention or something. He was the nerd of the two, she was the fighter.

“You think you are the only one with a gift? Mine well, mine is a bit harder to explain than yours.” He paused as he fiddled with one of his antique pocket watches.

“Try me.”

“These watches, I make them and set them to a certain time. When that time comes, I see part of the future.” He looked at Joan to prove that he wasn’t lying.

‘The future huh? How’s that looking?”

“Not good.”

“No shit, haven’t you seen any of those films about how we are destroying the world?” She said. One of the few channels she had on the television at home was the Discovery Channel. Hudson and her would watch it after work sometimes.

“They had that much right. We do destroy it.”

“Who’s we?” She questioned.

“One of us.”

“Like me or you?”

“No, one of us ‘gifted’” He said sternly, his comical tone seem to disappear quickly.

“Great.”

“And as for you. Well, you have to stop it.”

“Stop what, the end of the world? On my own?”

“No. There are others.”

“And what happens if we don’t stop whatever we are going to do?” She put her drink down on the table and looked at the old man. She began to think of all those terrible comic book heroes with absurd powers. She seemed as serious as he was. The Watchmaker took out a newly crafted watch.

“Why don’t you find out?”

---

She blinked and it was a different place, a different time. She sure wasn’t in Kansas anymore that’s for sure. She was in the smoky ruins of somewhere. The only movement was the wind. She continued walking past old heaps of cars and trucks. Some were military jeeps and she came across a tank, or the remains of a tank. Everything seemed ruined and abandoned. She didn’t find any people. She just walked and pondered on what could have possibly happened here. As far as she could see it was all like this. Everywhere. She found a newspaper with the heading “JUDGEMENT DAY?”

“What happened here?” She said with no response. She continued onward as she held tightly onto the watch.

Joan tripped and fell as she was looking around her at the broken buildings around her. This could be New York she said. It had an eerily feeling about it.

“No….no….” She dropped to her knees and buried her head in her hands. This was, or had been, the city she once lived in.

---

She opened her teary eyes and was back in Kansas. There was movement and sound all around her. No silent wind, no barrenness, no ruins. She looks up at the Watchmaker who was sipping down a cold glass of milk. At this time a few more people entered the bar and gave weird looks toward Joan and the Watchmaker and continued on to their usual boring routine.

“What the hell…..was that?” She summoned up the energy to say. Seeing a vision of a ruined and destroyed world wasn’t exactly what she was looking for. In the midst of all this, she felt like the Watchmaker was exactly what she was looking for.

“Our world, if we don’t stop what is going to happen. It started off as a freak accident and eventually it began a chain reaction that brought the world back to the stone age.”

“How do we stop it?” She couldn’t believe what she was saying. Saving the world? Hudson would love this, him and his comic book obsession. She couldn’t wait to tell him about all of this.

“We will know when it happens. The details are scarce. For now, we must find others like us to help us in the coming days.” He said this like he had a plan or something, like he knew what was going to happen.

“Like us? You have a phone book of people like us that you just search?” She said sarcastically but felt like he didn’t get her tone.

“Well, it’s kind of easy to see things where they go. The apple doesn’t fall fare from the tree.”

“What are you saying?” She questioned even though she knew the answer already.

“Didn’t you ever wonder what happened to your-”

“Don’t. Don’t say it.” She softly said as she watched him finish the sentence.

---

“Lizzie, thank you so much for taking care of the kids. I know its short notice, but something came up.” A middle aged man says as he shuffles a hand in his back pocket. His blue eyes made the man look tired and exhausted.

“No problem, is everything alright?” A young girl with braces says as she stands at the front door. She was young enough not to drink yet old enough to wish she could.

“Yeah....just a minor emergency. We’ll be back in a few hours. Are you sure it’s okay?” The man said calmly. His wife knew that he was not as calm as he looked but he was great at playing it cool. Tonight was a serious night, a night that they would have to be cautious about.

“Of course, anything for you guys.” Lizzie replied as she looked at the two kids in the living room resting on the couch. A woman rushes around the house packing a small bag. The man is dressed in a casual like business suit and gives her a crisp bill.

“Here is a twenty for you. We’ll be back around eleven or so. I’ll drive you home personally alright?” The man said as he looked at his wife. The wife nodded as she finished getting her stuff together.

“I’m ready.” The woman says as she looks at the kids for a moment. Before leaving for the car, she walks over and hugs them both. “I love you both.”

“Take care of Joan and Hudson for us.” The man says as he takes out the keys for their own station wagon.

The pair exchanges solemn looks as they leave the house. Hudson and Joan sit near the window and watch their parents leave in the car. The two adults get into the car and quickly get on the road, obviously in a hurry.

“Don’t worry; your parents will be home soon.”

---

“-parents?” He finished.

Joan looked away. She pushed her glass away and sulked in her stool.

“Your parents were great people Joan. They would be proud of what you and Hudson have become.” He said in a solemn yet understanding tone. Speaking of the dead wasn’t the best of topics to talk about, especially in a bar, in Kansas of all places.

“What would you know? What would you fucking know?” She coldly said as she tried to keep her hands cool and not heat up. She hadn’t practiced using her hands yet and felt a need to use them soon.

“I would know Joan. I was there the day that they passed away. You were too young to understand.”

“Too young to understand? Too fucking young to understand? Try me. Fucking tell me what happened.” She was nearly yelling. The few actual drinkers at the small bar noticed this argument and kept their distance.

“You will get all the answers you need, I promise that. I would rather get your brother too so I don’t have to explain this story twice.” He casually says, with no effort.

“Wait, Hudson is coming too?”

“Of course, your brother has his own special power.” He explains.

“Being a lazy bum?” She mocks as the conversation goes on.

“No, he can read minds. He plays a big part in this. You do too.” He says as he gives a reassuring smile, the kind of smile Joan believes in. She checks her own watch.

“Alright. Let’s go.” She stands up and readies herself.

“We have a long ways in front of us Joan, are you sure you want to do this?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be pleading me to go, making sure I go at any cost?”

“No, the future is bound to happen anyway, if it changes it does. I do with what I have.” He complies as he stands up as well and heads for the door. Joan pauses.

“Wait.”

“What? Got cold feet?” The Watchmaker says as he opens the door from the bar.

Joan stands there and thinks. One moment she was just enjoying a drink in the middle of Kansas and the next she founds out half the answers she was looking for. Then again, her life has been changing the moment she realized it was. One moment her parents were alive, one moment she was normal, one moment she was looking for something. Well, she found it.

“No. Let’s go. Time’s a wasting.” She gives a smirk and pats the Watchmaker on the back as they both leave the bar.

Poems from Poetry Workshop

noreply@blogger.com (Sarah Holmes) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 13:32:00 +0000

Here are two poems: the first one is the original, which is basically as I wrote it when I wrote it, and the second was the final revision of it for Lea Graham's Poetry Workshop that used the structure of "i am new york" by Jane Cortez.

Rhythmic Rant

Here is an order of stupidity and mediocrity

with a heap indulgences on the side

chicken wings and salty fries

thick bacon upon turkey upon ham upon beef

fast cars and diamond rings that are slowly

but spontaneously (which doesn’t mean immediately,

scientifically speaking) turning into graphite

and were mined by minors

in a country many probably can’t place on a map

but who cares about that?

As long as we’ve got our purified water

shipped over salty oceans, miles and gallons

of oil, pulled up from countries in another part

of the world map, where the names aren’t familiar

to anyone. And nobody cares what they’re called

as long as our cars still drive fast

and we don’t have to pay that much for the speed

that rush, to get everywhere, and to taste

what you think is healthy and high-class

yet purity doesn’t mean it’s good for you

pious bishops in Brazil say it’s okay to kill

a 9-year-old girl raped by her step father

just so the twin fetuses can come to term

because “every life is precious”

and distilled water would wipe

out your electrolytes

but that’s okay because we’ve got Gatorade

to fill you up on those busy days

when you sit on your ass and watch reality TV

maybe check a few emails, Facebook, Twitter

and type up some reports

report on numbers and figures that stopped meaning

anything, and you can’t figure out if they should

since you’ve forgotten anything you ever learned

in statistics at least, and probably history

and biology as well. Evolution’s just a theory

as are atoms and gravity

who needs them anyway? Science won’t save you

never mind medicine and agriculture

advancement that feeds our hungry mouths

and cleans our water so the tap is safe

creating plastics, vaccinations, building houses

and the polyester blend in your

designer threads, synthetics for your Nike treads

sewn by children who won’t get the chance

to ever learn about everything you forget.

I Am America

i am america

with my soggy-thin bible paper brain

my rotting teeth my

ashtray of lottery tickets and bubblegum

stuck to converse, nike, air force ones

fighting war overseas

finger pointing at supposed haters of freedom

my freedom to expose my legs

look at my tan lines fading

i am america in need of more

artificial sun, hair color, flavoring

i conquer nature by cutting it down

and forgetting that I once was part of it my birthplace

my pesticide sprayed waves of grain

my bare topped mined purple mountain majesty

these are my riches between my thighs of

sparkling ocean and off-shore drilling

i answer to no one

i am america

of the brand names and gas guzzlers

give me my melting pot of flesh

my marquee of false nipples

my storefront of ED drugs

in my nose of carbon emissions

in my worldblind eyes

in my ear of reality tv bitch fights

i eat twinkies and diet coke

i am america

never change never sleep never budge

my shoes are made in china

corpses grow where my hand reaches

look i shine with cells phones with diamonds

my nickname is so sue-me

take my face of botox and rogain

my star spangled banner of whoppers

take my beer can high ways

my congested cities and sinuses

and approach me through seaports

approach me through border fences

approach me through my spare tire

my blackened lungs my

nicotine craved pleas approach me

through my online profile

half fiction half documentary

massage me with your analgesic sweat

salute hot blacktops and concrete

of my synthetic plastic skin

face up knees down piss

into the clammy insincerity of our handshake

i am america

my faith based friend

my indulgent comrade

legal immigrants

break laws with me

Place Sketch

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Sommer) — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 03:51:00 +0000

So I forgot my pass and have been busy and quite uninspired but here's something old that I write in Creative Writing spring of freshmen year...its just a place sketch. We had to take a place/moment we vividly remembered a write about it:

I can still feel the softness of the blankets surrounding me. I brush the last remnants of sleep out of my eyes and sink back into the comfort of my pillow. I am in the living room of my grandparents’ house in Florida. I can be found tucked into between the blankets and couch cushions in the 90s modern living room, full of black furniture with gold trim and a rose pink carpet that stretches its way across the small apartment. My eyes follow the flow of the pink carpeting to where it sweeps into the white metal door frame that encases the sliding glass doors that lead out on to the closed in patio. Outside I can see the first signs of the early morning hours. I can see the first shards of sunlight sweeping away the darkness.

I quietly push off the covers, slowly creep towards the front door, and carefully click the golden lock open. Soon I am outside. No longer can I hear the rhythmic sounds of my grandparents’ snoring or the tick of the clock that hangs over their dining room table. I am alone as my bare feet move across the Astroturf. The small pieces of plastic compound cut to look like grass are rough on my feet but I continue to move forward, to the steps that lead to the ground floor.

The fresh humid Florida air catches in my nostrils as I sit down on the top step and look out on to the lake. It is surrounded by the familiar Pepto-Bismol pink buildings. My brown eyes take in the scene, absorbing everything about this moment. As the sun begins to rise over the tops of the buildings, its rays kiss the sides and slide across the glassy surface of the lake. For a moment the colors overtake the darkness; pinks, red, oranges, and yellows fill up the sky. These colors cleanse the world of darkness and make room for the bright blue that will soon take their place. I take it all in; internalize the moment as though it were crafted just for me. I feel as though I am the only person awake in the world but I do not feel fear. I only feel at home.

p.s. I miss you guys and marist. hope you're all having wonderful summers and if any of you were wondering I have mosaics and you will all get them next year. The publisher screwed up and despite much yelling did not get it done in time. sorry, don't be mad at me and holmes...we did everything we could

The Great Beginning of Summer

nicholas.sweeney1@marist.edu (Nick Sweeney) — Thu, 28 May 2009 18:37:00 +0000

Hey Writers!

I hope everyone is enjoying their summer, reading some good books and writing some good stories. I'm working on a big project now but I just wanted to post a little poem I did for the "Fantasy Writer's League" that was slowly growing near the end of the year is LAS.

Wood Kingdom

I remember the long ride,
the anxiousness of being the birthday boy,
and the special feeling that came along with it.

I remember the smell,
the man-made wood jungle,
and the air conditioning.

I remember being young and innocent,
The scars of growing up still few,
And I remember the cake, vanilla of course.

I remember when Clinton went into office,
Even at the scowling of my father,
And how I wished for Bill to win.

I remember the boat,
The castle and the fire truck,
And how the wood sets never changed.

I remember the treasure hunt,
The countless birthday parties,
And that shirt that barely fits that I have to this day.

And the friends now are gone,
The wood smell still comes and goes but still,
I remember Wood Kingdom.

Two shorties and an intro

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly Davis) — Fri, 01 May 2009 02:42:00 +0000

Hello all =]

So I haven't posted here yet, but I just wrote two new little short stories so I figured I should throw them up here....the first was a challenge piece, I was told to write a short story about writing ... the second is this idea i've been fooling around with and I plan on elongating it, but this is just the first rough draft and I hopefully will have time soon to tear it all up ... okay ... enjoy ... comments welcome <3

Challenge:: Write a short story about writing
“I said nothing and that means nothing!”
Jackson McGuff slammed the dark wood door to his study and let out a wild aggravated huff as he marched further into the room, his cane unsteady, as if shaking with an anger all its own. He loved Martha, he truly did – she had always been the only one for him. But god damn it that woman did not know when to stop questioning!

“What do you do in there, Jackie?” She would ask. “Why won’t you tell me?”

He had told that woman every detail about himself for the past fifty-nine years; no question of hers had ever gone unanswered. She wanted to know what type of underwear he preferred, he told her. She wanted to know why he no longer spoke to his brother, he told her. She wanted to know if he thought Grace Kelly was prettier than she was, he told her…well, sort of at least. Either way her questions were always answered. So when it came to this room, this eight foot by ten foot mecca of solidarity, he felt every bit justified in keeping his little secret safe. It wasn’t as though he were surfing porn or chatting to another woman on-line, oh no it was nothing scandalous like that.

Jackson shrugged off his overcoat and released his cane, which he had jokingly dubbed his third leg, hanging both on the back of an extra chair. He waddled over to his desk, pulling his pants up and cursing under his breath about how his shabby suspenders were no longer doing their job. He made a note to tell Martha to buy him some new ones the next time she was out. After taking a seat his hand found the computer mouse and he opened up a document titled Raquel. He scrolled down a few pages and finally found where he had left off. “Ah yes,” he muttered vaguely, reaching into his mouth and pulling his teeth out. For whatever reason, he hated to write with his teeth in and so he plopped them down into the glass of water beside his computer.

Fingers found familiar keys and soon Jackson was in his element. In all his years of baseball, football, the police academy and marriage – nothing felt more natural to him then when he was writing. The only experience comparable was probably when him and Chuck had finally caught Snaggletooth Stan, but even that single day seemed to pale in comparison to the hours upon hours he could spend in front of his Mac.

There had been a time, a few years ago, when Jackson had tried to tell Martha about his passion. “What do you think of writing?” He asked one day.

“Like authors and stuff?” She had responded. “I like ‘em I guess…do you wanna be a writer, Jackie? Oh your cop stories would make the greatest books – murder mysteries and steak outs, you could be like…um…who’s that writer who does that? Um…I don’t know, but you could be like him.”

The conversation hadn’t exactly gone in the direction he had planned it to and so Jackson stopped trying after that. Sure his memoirs might make a pretty interesting book, but he wasn’t into writing for publication. He did it for himself and he had already lived his own life, so he saw no point in retelling it. No, what Jackson liked to write about was a little bit different.

As his hands touched the silk of her blouse, a rosy red coloured her cheeks and her breath quickened… He typed, smiling a toothless grin as the black lettering appeared across the white screen.

That’s right, Jackson McGuff, the Irish-Italian ex-cop, former resident of the Bronx and macho-man extraordinaire wrote romance novels. It was smut, it was fluff, he would be mocked into submission should any of his old buddies find out. And so Jackson kept it to himself. He was on his third story, this time between Raquel and Joaquin, two Spanish lovers attempting to escape from the vicious and wicked dictator that was Joaquin’s uncle.

Suddenly, just as Raquel was about to confess her love to Joaquin, Martha called from the other side of the door, “Jackie! Jackson you in there? Is your hearing aid on? Jackie, Adele is on the phone, she and Frank want to know when we’re heading down to Florida.”

Jackson sighed and stopped typing. Of coarse, just as these two lovers were about to finally consummate their forbidden relationship he was interrupted. “Hang on, hang on!” He called, saving the document quickly and then shutting down the computer. His writing would have to wait for another day.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He didn’t listen to them at first. “I’m sharp as ever,” he said. “Sharp as a tack.” He ignored their worried looks, he brushed off their cautious comments and he continued on as if everything were normal. But it wasn’t normal and finally, he couldn’t ignore the truth any longer.

It was a Sunday, the fourth of May to be exact. How he remembered that was beyond him, though he did find that dates were somehow easier to recall than anything else. He supposed being a History major in college had paid off in that regard. Either way one moment he was apparently aware of what he was doing and the next…well, he just wasn’t.

~ * ~

Chuck opened his eyes, feeling as though he were being pulled from deepest slumbers into the waking world. Florescent lights blinded him momentarily and he heard a faint cough as the images around him began to focus. Bright purple banners, light spring flowers and row upon row of clean wood benches. No wait, not benches pews, they were pews. He wondered when he had arrived at church.

He turned his head to the side and nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized that he was standing in front of the alter. “Sweet Jesus,” he muttered, walking down the three steps towards the crowd of people who filled the building, all seated and all staring at him. He felt embarrassed, though wasn’t sure why. Chuck tried to reason with himself as he walked, he must’ve been the last person to accept communion and everyone was simply waiting for him to move along so that the priest could continue with the mass. Yes, that sounded about right.

He found an empty seat near the fourth row and took his place in it. His eyes focused in on the alter and he waited patiently for either music or a prayer to begin. He still felt eyes on him and shot a silent prayer to God for people to quit being so rude. Sure, sometimes he lost track of himself, but he was old for Christ’s-sake, he had ever right to be a little slow.

“Excuse me,” a young girl dressed in white robes suddenly was at his side. Chuck wondered if she was supposed to be an alter boy. He wondered when girls had started being involved and if that was even allowed.

“Yes?” He responded curiously, unsure of what to expect.

She looked nervous and seemed to be hoping that he would catch onto her thought process before she spoke. “Are you not going to finish your sermon?”

Chuck laughed, a deep and hearty laugh that echoed in the hollow space. “Me? Oh dear girl, you must have the wrong fellow. I don’t give sermons.”

Every eye surely was poised on them now, but Chuck felt rather relaxed. After all it was this silly child who should be embarrassed, not him.

“But Father Chuck…” she protested. “you were in the middle of the Easter Liturgy when you sat down here, you have to continue.”

Chuck didn’t know how to respond. Was he dreaming? This girl thought he was a priest, it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard of. He opened his mouth slowly, he had to correct her, but something caught his eye. Looking down he finally noticed that he was wearing vestments, a flowing white alb and a purple and gold stole – how did he know these words? He wasn’t a priest, he wasn’t.

He stood up. “Oh no…there must be…oh no…” He shook his head, his breath suddenly tight in his throat. What was happening? Then the world went black.

~ * ~

Patrick was there when he finally came to and he explained everything. Chuck was no longer aloud to preside over mass and no matter how much he fought it, the church wouldn’t relent. They couldn’t afford him having one of his ‘episodes’ again, not when it meant they could lose followers. “I’m fine,” Chuck insisted. “I am.” But even he no longer believed it. The words dementia and alzheimers were thrown around a lot. Neither seemed to fit, but there was no other answer. What else could be the cause of his loss of memory? His disorientation? Chuck felt helpless. He was a preacher at heart, he lived to spread the Word. If he couldn’t do that, what would become of him?

Hope you enjoyed

=]

Thanks a million to Nick for creating this blog and for the reading tonight...writers unite!! lol

Sempre, <3
Kelly Davis

Student Reading

nicholas.sweeney1@marist.edu (Nick Sweeney) — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 22:55:00 +0000

Hey Writers!

Have something you want to read aloud in front of fellow writers?
Want to see what works and what doesn't in your poem?
Want to be part of the growing writing community here at Marist?

Then maybe you should stop by the "CRUELEST MONTH STUDENT READING".

When: Thursday, April 30th, 9-10:15
Where: Henry Hudson Room, 3rd floor Fontanine
Who: You!

It's a first come, first read event. This is a chance for writers to come out
and talk about their writing outside the classroom. Sign up at the door!

If you have any questions, email Nicholas.Sweeney1@marist.edu

My Allusive as hell poem

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Cresci) — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 04:38:00 +0000

The Monsters Are Due On Maple Street

Rod Serling crooned “There are weapons
that are simply thoughts, attitudes,
prejudices to be found only in the minds of men.”
While his space invaders plotted,
“Their world is full of Maple Streets.
And we'll go from one to the other and
let them destroy themselves.”

It reminded you of Mavis,
the sweet old British woman
who lived next door since you were young.
When she came back from her much anticipated
Las Vegas trip covered in casts.
She got into an elevator and the man
inside beat and robbed her.
Mavis who’s first husband
Accidentally backed over
their youngest son in the driveway
when he ran after a ball.
Mavis who’s first husband drank
himself to death.

After that your family went to
Salem for Halloween.
You went to museums dedicated
To the burning and hanging
of people who’d done nothing
but make the unfortunate mistake of
being born.
You read the words,
“I want the light of God, I want the sweet love of Jesus!
I danced for the Devil; I saw him,
I wrote in his book.
I saw Sarah Good with the Devil!
I saw Goody Osborne with the Devil!“

You once wrote a paper attempting to discover why Germany’s poverty
made everyone hive minded
and turned them on the Jews.
Turned them on their neighbors.
You once read about Atticus Finch
Spending his night outside of a jailhouse
Pleasantly addressing the lynch mob
And explaining to Scout,“A mob’s always made up of people.”

So you sit under the stars each night
fearing the loss of common sense
Because the monsters all live on Maple Street
each behind a white picket fence.

As Birds Fly

nicholas.sweeney1@marist.edu (Nick Sweeney) — Sun, 12 Apr 2009 00:11:00 +0000

This piece is something I wrote about a year ago or so about the end of the world and the last man who is obsessed with birds. I was trying to aim (if anyone knows my style, I like making more questions than answers) for the piece to force the readers to make their own answers instead of reading mine. In that regard I would love feedback if anyone could help me out there. Thanks! And I just want to say that I'm so glad we are doing this, thank you for everyone who posted a story or left comments!

"As Birds Fly"

Silence. That is what has plagued Doctor Hitchcock for some time now. The silence of it all. Time after time he thinks to himself what if. What if he has just been normal and went home every once in a while and not constantly work with his birds. He had been obsessed with his work. He had been obsessed with his life. London hadn’t been the same since the plague hit. People started to die, then order was broken, and finally all civilization finally collapsed. But not Hitchcock, he had been in his bird cage of a lab doing studies of birds and such. He had been in his lab for nearly two weeks straight and when he finally did enter the real world, it just wasn’t there. It had taken nearly two weeks for the whole world to end, and Hitchcock knew nothing of it. He didn’t look for survivors, or look around; he just went back to work. The isolation had gotten to Hitchcock way before the world took a turn for the worse. But now, he had room, he did not condemn himself to the lowly basement in which he worked, but he choose to move his entire lab to a roof of a very high building. Better for the birds he thought.

“Alright Winston, it’s your day to fly.” The Doctor said as he carefully and slowly put his hand into one of the numerous small cages on his roof top sanctuary.

He called it “The Nest” but nobody knew it but him, he was the only survivor of what seemed to be a huge mistake on the part of mankind. The dear doctor didn’t just go crazy, he went full delusional. In love with birds since the early beginning of his childhood, the doctor went to college to become an ornithologist to work with that he loved. When the plague it, it seemed like Doctor Hitchcock was aging near fifty, but in reality he was only in his mid-twenties, stress and knowledge had aged him without remorse. Once a young and fit adventurous man, Doctor Hitchcock had begun to show signs of old age and an uncleanly look to him. Food and sleep were minimal and showers were none existent. The smell of the birds soon became the smell of the man and one became the other.

“Remember to flap my young son, and you will go far in this world.” The doctor said as he petted the small bird and held it in both hands before soon throwing his hands up and letting the bird fly free.

As the bird flies away, the doctor looks over the abandoned city in which he knew little of. He had no family, they had left him. He had no friends, only the birds were his friends. He had made his decision to live among the birds, and one day he was to do just that. The perks of being the only person in the city are that there is nearly an unlimited amount of resources, and for Hitchcock this was good. He had over two hundred birds in his care and took care of each and every one as if they were his own. Sometimes he thought he was their own too. He sometimes read them stories, and other times entertain them, when he wasn’t working on his most profound creation: his own pair of wings.

The fascination of flying was the reason that Hitchcock wanted to study birds. He studied everything he could on them, how their wings developed, their flying patterns, and after careful observation, the matter in which their wings were formed. This coupled with research dating from Galileo and further in history helped to the creation of Hitchcock’s own pair of wings. For years he had planned it out. Now was even a better time to complete this goal as there were very few obstacles in his way. The city was essentially his, and he would have all the time in the world to create the perfect nest for his flock of birds.

“Today, we all learn to fly.” Hitchcock said to his flock of birds. His small birds all had their cages open, ready to fly away from the small nest together. The air was just right. Hitchcock adjusted his wings and his small bag he has which has some necessary goods for any journey.

The fine doctor looked out on the horizon of a city, a city once bustling with people is now barren. He strapped on his goggles so he can see more clearly. He took a deep breath and walked closer to the edge of “The Nest”.

“Today, we fly.” And with this, Doctor Hitchcock jumped from the edge.

And Maybe We'll See Fireworks

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Sommer) — Fri, 10 Apr 2009 23:31:00 +0000

Okay so yay for first posts. This is a random flash fiction piece that came out of my zero journal....its really rough and I'd like to know what you guys think so please let me know, thanks :)

It was just like any other Fourth of July; James held my hand as we walked the familiar streets back to his house. He tugged me along, desperate to make it in time for the fireworks this year. We never did. We’d always sit by the creek, sharing secrets, and holding hands until the sun began to dip below the horizon. Then James would try to hurry me along in hopes that this year we’d make it in time.

I allowed him to pull me forward as he talked about random things my ears refused to listen to. I was too focused on my tongue; it felt like a wad of cotton balls in my mouth and all I could think of was James’s mom’s lemonade. It would be sitting in the refrigerator waiting for us when we got back while James’s mother sat in an old beach chair with the other adults and drank wine from a Dixie cup.

This is how it had been every Fourth of July since I moved. James’s family would have a big barbeque during which we’d both gorge ourselves on hotdogs and other festive treats. Then we’d walk down to the nearby creek and sit there losing track of time. It was the one day of the year we always got to spend together. It had been like this forever and now we were sixteen and still acting out the same play.

When we were younger, before the move, everyone had said that James and I would get married someday. I don’t know about that but I look forward to every Fourth of July with excitement, hoping something will be different this year. I hope James won’t just hold my hand but instead he’ll pull me close, kiss me softly, and we’ll both see fireworks. Maybe we won’t get married, James will never kiss me, and we’ll never be on time to see the fireworks. The only thing I’m certain of is that I’ll drive to his house every Fourth of July praying this one will be different—praying we’ll make it in time to see the fireworks.

Something I'd like feedback on

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Cresci) — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 21:40:00 +0000

I wrote this for a class and never got around to workshopping it. It's one of the more random essays I've ever written so I'm not sure if it works.

Solace in the Absent Minded Middle

The question is not what you look at, but what you see.
-Henry David Thoreau

We all know the end already. Regardless of the middle we all know what the last chapter entails. We die. I could publish a million books, steal a million dollars, or have a millions kids but the ending won’t change. The homeless and the rich and the giraffes are all getting off at the same stop. This thought is consuming me from a balcony somewhere in the Dominican Republic. It’s some real fancy place which gives off the illusion of the country being a desirable place to live. A dome of pleasure on an island of pain and strife. I’m in the center of hypocrisy but in reality it’s hard to care when the food’s included and the alcohol is plentiful. The Dominicans and I are getting off at the same stop, after all.
I once thought that I had gotten my younger brother to the final stop earlier than fate (or chance) intended. Brandon and I were playing basketball in our driveway and decided the only way to have a civilized game was to mercilessly trash talk the other. Back then trash talking consisted of calling each other “retarded” and occasionally calling out each other’s manhood. Neither of us had any manhood to speak of, so the whole thing was a bit futile. After a particularly angry moment he hit me and, being much smaller, ran into the house for safety. I threw the ball at him but he managed to get behind the safety of our glass porch door. Apparently the outrage of having a basketball thrown at him was too much so he turned to come back after me. Maybe if I had looked a bit closer I would have seen the cracks left in the glass, but in my rage all I saw was red. He didn’t have time to notice the spider webs that the basketball had lovingly placed in the glass. He led with his hand to open the door and the glass exploded. It almost looked like someone splashing water and, I imagine, the reflection of the sun through the shards was quite beautiful. In slow motion he fell onto the door frame which swung open and propelled him on the glass covered lawn. My youngest brother, Kyle, began to scream “you killed Brandon!” And, for a moment, looking at him lying there in the grass I really believed I had.
Back on the balcony, in the Dominican, I can’t help but look at the stars. They aren’t what people think they are. We’re just seeing a picture of something millions of years old. They’re just old light. Proof that the present is out of reach. They are reminders that we can only live with what has happened or what will happen. The exception of course being escalators. They are a rare time when one can simply exist. Escalators are mankind’s most precious invention and every day the majority of people misuse them. Never, and I mean never, walk once you’re on an escalator. Where you are coming from and where you are going doesn’t matter for a brief instant. Escalators are the transition between past and future. The ever elusive present. They are the absent minded middle between two periods where you can merely be in peace.

The balcony gives me a view of anything I need to see and all the answers hidden behind the most trivial of things-like escalators. And before I leave to dodge the rain I notice that the resort has a tiny chapel where people can go ponder why they’re on earth or in the universe at all. If aliens exist, and know of Earth then I like to imagine they’ll one day tell their children parables about us. Here’s how one would go: “Somewhere in the infinity of space, a tiny rock floated around a tiny star. People lived there for a short time. They spent most of their time wondering why they were on the rock instead of enjoying their brief time there. Everyone made up a bunch of stories to explain it but no one really knew for sure. In the end they destroyed the rock and themselves.” I’ve come to realize that if mankind could ask the universe the question it is always moaning about: Why am I here? The universe would answer, “Oh hello. I didn’t notice you there. Have you been here long?” And everyone would be a bit offended but have to answer, “No, not really.”

transparent

noreply@blogger.com (Christa Strobino) — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 03:01:00 +0000

something i wrote for one of my classes

“Transparent”

If I could write anybody a letter and be completely honest with them about how I feel it would be to my brothers and sisters. I would tell them that they mean the world to me. I love how one can eat a bowl of ketchup, while the other can only fall asleep on the couch. I would tell them that I never meant to hurt them when I left. I would tell them that not only did I take the memories, but a necessary guilt that haunts me everyday. I would tell my brother to stop smoking and tell my sister to date someone younger, ten years younger. I would tell them I care. More than they ever know.

I watch as my mother purses her lips, a perfect, tender, circle. She inhales deeply, allowing the smoke to fill her lungs. She closes her eyes, savoring the sweet moment. Exhale. Perfect ringlets collide into my face. I inhale deeply; the sweet menthol is ecstasy to me.Her beautiful scent burns my insides, but I crave more. When I was 9, I used to roll up pieces of paper between my palms and then pretend to smoke them. My dad caught me and made me stay in my room all night. I cried and cried, I could barely catch my breath. “But mommy does it, I’m sorry.” I didn’t look him in the eye for two and a half days.

This fall I spent three glorified days in Munich, Germany… while partaking in the most famous drinking festivities known to man, Oktoberfest. The tents were packed to capacity. My friends danced while I stumbled on top of the wooden tables. The air thick with roasted almonds and body odor swirled around us as we sang along to the song, “New York, New York.” It could have been the beer or it could have been the company, but my mind was on an eternal high. The images crisp and the feelings real. This is exactly where I am suppose to be.

Smoking kills; even worse, so does second hand smoking. Of course the scent I crave would be detrimental to my health. How can someone love something so much even when you know its so bad? I breathe it in anyway. It doesn’t matter where. It could be underground on the subway, the raw sewage and the lingering mold make most people squirm- I don’t even notice it. I sit myself next to the milk-chocolate man. His skin burns with stale beer and old McDonalds fries. His breath smells of sweet menthol. I inhale him. I inhale the guilt. Instantly, I am on my way to the place where I want to be, I am back in your memory.

Three weeks ago, I stopped by for dinner. I hadn’t seen the kids in awhile and you said you would make something special, like the old days. It was the eight of us again. Did you ever notice how if you turn an eight on its side, it’s the infinity sign? I like that. I walk into the house to find everyone crammed on the couch, six little bodies with eyes fixated on the television. The girls run toward me and jump into my arms, all eager to tell me about soccer or about acting. The boys are not as visibily enthuisastic but their awkward hugs last a little longer than most. Why is it so hard to come back here? The dining room, kitchen, and television all reside in the same room. Five burnt chicken breasts lay across the long table; the lack of food only emphasizes how empty the table is. The mashed potatoes smell like cardboard and the corn has freezer burn. We all mask the terrible taste with mounds of butter and salt. My mother doesn’t say hello, or goodbye. The kids don’t stop talking to me about their lives. And I chew, relentlessly on the chicken.I read somewhere once that smell is linked to memory. A certain scent can trigger a memory you may never thought you had. Stale piss transports me back to my thumb sucking days in pre-school. Ciggerate smoke takes me to my mom. The smell lingers there, like her, a hovering cloud. It’s transparent, her love. It fills me up with emptiness. Sometimes I try catching it in the palm of my hand. I always thought I could make it stay inside my palm, but then I would open my hand and it’d be gone. I tried so hard to keep it there, but it would just slip right through my fingers. My sister always asks where I am going and why can’t I stay. I never know the answer, but I wish I did.