12.16.08
52_TxtFile: “The Art of Creative Nonfiction”
_Another creative writing class come and gone. They’re sorta like one night stands. They don’t really last that long, you don’t really learn anything while your involved, but when you come out of it, you think of all the things you’ll do better next time.
_So, in honor of another creative writing class come and gone, I’m posting the story I wrote and read aloud to said class earlier this week.
The Art of Creative Nonfiction
By: Kid Brother_Here is the apartment. You have to admit, it’s not much. But the carpet still springs beneath your feet a little and you can’t see any embarrassing stains on the furniture, so the fact that it’s the same as every other suburban apartment and completely lacking in personality can be excused. There is even a small, lush and green yard outside the basement’s sliding glass doors, manicured weekly by the development’s administration. Out the front door, on the other side of the parking lot, traffic passes through Joppatown.
_They are in the backyard, tossing a football back and forth. You’ll have to excuse their jeans and t-shirts, but it is a mild August Saturday and they do not care. Now, bear with me for a second here because I’m about to tell you that they’re dating and that he is 37 and she is 19. almost 20. The age difference, appalling at first, does not seem so extreme if you’d only look closer. You see, when you look, the childish enthusiasm in his eyes, the calm maturity in hers. You realize, as the pigskin sails through the air, that he is much too young for his age and she is much too old for hers. They even each other out. Read the rest of this entry »
12.10.08
51_Terrorist Demands
_I’m not sure if you all are aware of this, but recently, our good friend Lindsay from The New Glitterati has been wondering about the lack of a link to her site on my blogroll. I had no idea the social implications of being on another person’s blogroll. Aparantly it’s right up there with being Facebook friends: you can’t be friends in real life until it happens.
_So, Lindsay may have a point that for us to be a socially accepted pair of friends/coworkers her link needs to appear on my blogroll. But, as time progressed and she kept wondering, I kept forgetting and laughing at the persistence Lindsay would ask and the severity in which she painted it. Apparently, this needs to happen.
_With a comment Lindsay posted yesterday on my latest post, her demand of blogroll inclusion has reached terrorist demand levels. She may kidnap my guitar next. But should I give in to terrorist demands? I, as an American, feel a genetic inability to negotiate or give in to such terroristic wishes. I will retain my moral high ground. I will not give in nor
_Sorry. I was in the middle of a sentence and then actually started reading The New Glitterati and after about an hour or so of trying not to embarass myself by laughing out loud in my school’s library decided that Lindsay deserves inclusion on my blogroll.
_So much for moral high ground.
- Kid
12.08.08
50_TxtFile: “Pseudocide”
_Alright, so you might enjoy reading through Word Riot as much as I do, but you gotta admit, it’s a bit of a hit and miss. The hits are real hits, but the misses are real misses. It kinda makes me wonder about their catch phrase: “Good Writing. No Remorse.” Maybe they mean that their selections are either “good” or that they have “no remorse” for the reader…
_Anyway, I’m telling you all this because aspiring writer and good friend to the Scene Melissa Ruby was on Word Riot for her short piece “Pseudocide.” I’m posting it here so that you get the full benefit of a Word Riot hit, without the inconvenience of slogging through their misses. Enjoy!
Pseudocide
By: Melissa Ruby_I see her jump from the Golden Gate and fall in slow motion, float into the gray waters of the bay, the churning chop of waves and boat wake engulfs her body and she is gone, disappearing beneath the frothy sea. It almost seems as ordinary as the seagull perched on the orange cable suspension.
_Unusually clear skies and a warm sun grace the day, and from the Headlands through my camera’s telephoto lens I see her falling and I cry out to no one, for no one is around me. I race to my knapsack and search frantically for my cell phone but it’s useless on this remote cliff; I’m useless and helpless and she is already in the water, the freezing water. I sit and watch but no one knows what has happened. No cars stop, no passers-by walking along the bridge gather, and I wonder how unhappy she must have been, if she felt as alone in life as she must have felt in those moments right before she jumped, completely alone, reasoning to herself that no one will notice, no one will care. No one has noticed. No one but me, and there is nothing I can do.
_I’m at home that evening, watching the news, waiting for word that a woman committed suicide today by jumping from the Golden Gate. When I was finally able to call 911 I couldn’t tell them much and the lack of urgency in the operator’s voice made me wonder if she even believed me. No news channels report the occurrence. I feel even more unsettled about the lack of acknowledgment as I try to sleep that night, tossing and turning with the image of her floating and falling in my head.
_A week later the news channels report a missing woman who might have committed suicide by jumping from the Golden Gate. No body has been recovered but a stranded bicycle was found on the bridge’s West sidewalk. I watch the news in horror as I learn about her life, her family, and I know it is her. I know it. I do not recognize the picture of her face, her toothy smile, but I know it is her. I may be the only one who knows.
_The picture of her face on the news haunts me, and I often dream of her floating body, falling into the bay.
_Two years later, I’m sitting in a cafe in the Marina on a sunny morning, reading a book and spooning the foam out of my cappuccino. I glance up at a woman shuffling through a newspaper, sitting at the table across from me and it is her. It is her and I try not to stare but all I can do is stare as I think of her jumping, falling from the bridge. She sees me staring and smiles, a wide toothy grin, but I cannot smile back. I ask if she has a sister, or had a sister, and her smile fades. She looks at me for a moment before she shakes her head to say no, and I’m staring at her as she stands and smiles her toothy smile once again, says good-bye and walks quickly down the street.
_I drive to the bridge later that day and park and walk on the East sidewalk since I am not on a bicycle. I walk to the middle of the bridge and look down into the gray water. The wind is furious and the water choppy and I wonder how. How she could have jumped. How she could have survived the fall; and the water, the freezing water.
_Most of all, I wonder if she is happy.
- Kid
