There's Nothing Wrong With That

I touched on a topic on Wednesday that I feel I should explain further. My daily writing, as I said, doesn't always have to be good, and this is one of the things that very much helps me to keep doing it. But this raises the question, I suppose, on whether or not that's a good thing. Does writing then become something I do to maintain a schedule or a habit? Is that the only benefit I gain from those days where no ideas come?

The reason why many people often don't like putting out sub-par work is probably related to the belief that writing without substance isn't truly practice. Certainly in the past I, too, have held this view. Something should be done right or it shouldn't be done at all. How can you practice if you don't practice doing something well? Why bother writing if you cannot show it to someone else? Why would you ever work on something that won't come to anything?

But the thing is that, as a writer, any writing I do helps. Every time I put my thoughts down in words, I am honing this ability in a certain way. Certainly, not all work is equal or produces the same effect. Writing a novel helps you in a different way from drafting an essay, and both of those produce a much different effect from everyday journaling.

But the point is that every type of writing that you do is helpful. Writing frequently in a number of styles allows you to experiment in order to find what works and what doesn't. The book Composition in Four Keys contains an essay by James Moffett called “I, You, and It”. In this essay, Moffett discusses the differences in various types of writing, as well as how ideas evolve alongside considerations for audience and the amount of thought and reflection that has gone into them. The argument continues by stating that if he were to teach a writing course, it would cover all sorts of different genre work before ever approaching argumentative essays. He probably says this far more eloquently than I could:

Many teachers may feel that such a program slights exposition in favor of so-called personal or creative writing. In the first place, one doesn't learn exposition just by writing it all the time. An enormous amount of other learning must take place before one can write worthwhile essays of ideas; that is in the nature of the whole abstraction process. All writing teaches exposition.(Moffett 27)

This is an important thing to keep in mind because it is something that so many people will judge you for. A lot of literary study seems all wrapped up in itself, arguments about the literary canon, this belief that there is a set collection of works that should be deemed literature and that nothing else contains any value. I have heard of creative writing professors who will severely downgrade students who write anything that is not strictly realistic fiction. I may be only a student, but as a writer, I have to say this is nonsense. The only thing you will learn by just reading the literary canon is how to be narrow minded and unoriginal. The only thing you will learn never challenging your writing style is how to get stuck in a self-recursive rut.

I myself feel inadequate a lot about the things I read. If you look at my summer reading list, there are some classics, but there are also a lot of young adult, fantasy, and humor books in there too. When I got back to school, I was discussing books with a classmate only to find out that the reading he did included Vonnegut, Cormac McCarthy, and a number of other things that were intensely cerebral and highly regarded. I honestly felt embarrassed, and I changed the subject.

But the thing is, I shouldn't have felt that way. There is a time and a place for everything you will read, from modern masters to literary classics to groundbreaking science fiction to erotic fanfiction to bad novelizations of blockbusters. Everything you read can influence you or inspire you in some way. My challenge to you this year, for every book you read for either fun or for classes, is to find something that really stuck out to you either as a good idea for later use or a bad idea to be avoided. Approach everything you read and write with the knowledge that it's a good decision.

If I Could Write a Jazz Etude

First published in The Catalyst Online Volume 6

If I could write a jazz etude
And play it Kind of Blue,
I’d spend A Night in Tunisia
With Plenty of Money and You.

Van Morrison would sing a song
As we would go Moon Dance,
And Django would play Nuages
When we arrive in France

We’d spend our April in Paris,
We'd Stomp at the Savoy,
We'd walk like Basie – Straight Ahead
In Autumn Leaves of joy.

We’d see the American Patrol
When we finally come home.
You’d show your Bossa Nova Soul,
But In a Mellow Tone

You’re the Girl from Ipanema,
My Funny Valentine.
I’m a Boogie Bugle Boy
who wants you to be mine.

I’d say that I am In the Mood
to Sing, Sing, Sing some more,
but I can’t write a jazz etude.
You’ve heard it all before.

If you want to make a blues song

The first thing you must do

is get up this mornin'.

And if you get up this mornin',

it will probably be like

You can't hardly get out of your bed.

That could just be because

sleepin' ain't been easy,

but it is best if, perhaps,

you feel as if you were dead.

Now once you drag your self

out of your bed,

you have to pack your things and go.

This is the most important thing,

to pack your things and go,

because without doing this,

You won't be able to walk on out the door.

Once you pack and go and walk out the door,

you have a number of options.

You can leave your home

and never come back no more

or you can go back home

to where the people all love you so

Or you can go down to the crossroads

and make the devil give back your soul

Or you can go out and find that

low-down, dirty-rotten, no-good,

not-worth-a-damn son-of-a-bitch man,

and you can finally tell him no.

No Age Limit

"Aren't we a little old to be playing in the ball pit?"

"The fact that you phrased that as a question means you do not know the answer.  And if you don't know the answer, then to me that means the answer is no."

"Jackson Craine, I am serious."

"You're always serious, Steve.  That's the problem.  You need to learn to be less serious sometimes."

"Jackson, people are going to stare at us."

"I should hope so, it would be a shame for them to miss out on our combined attractiveness."

"Jack..."

"Steve, listen.  If people stare at us, that is their business.  And that's something that they are going to do no matter what.  This is a ball pit.  This is a safe space.  This is harmless, innocent fun."

"I don't understand."

"Look, I can't even hold your hand in public if you're afraid of people looking at us funny.  Because unfortunately, that's the way it's going to be.  So you have to get used to people looking at us.  And I can't think of a better way than this."

"So this is what, immersion therapy?"

"Think of it like a vaccine.  A vaccine exposes you to the problem - such as people staring - in a harmless form - such as having a blast while playing in the greatest invention of humankind, the plastic ball pit – and builds up your defenses so that the time the real issues begin, you'll be ready for it."

"I don't know about this, Jackson..."

"Of course you don't, you're always worried about what people will think so you never let yourself play in a ball pit."

"I thought this wasn't about the ball pit."

"Are you kidding me? Everything is about the ball pit!"

The World Was Made

They say that ages ago, before the world was made, before the people walked and ran and danced upon the earth, Maple stood by herself on the bare earth.  There was nothing by her, there was no one anywhere, and all she could do was just stand there, for there was no where to go and no one to know and no thing to see.

Tired of her isolation, she reached into her branches and broke off a bud and held it tightly in her hands until it formed hard and smooth.  She took a leaf and wrapped it around the top and she blew on it to dry it and make a cap.  She then took the acorn and pressed it gently into the ground not far away.  

Time went on, and soon Oak sprang from where the acorn had been placed.

Brother Oak, Maple had said, it is good that you have come to join me.  For I have been alone and now have a brother.

Sister Maple, said Oak who recognized Maple, I am glad to join you. But why are there no others?

Maple told him, There have never been any others. I have been alone. Now I have a brother and my brother has me. Is this not enough?

Oak pondered. No it is not enough. It is good, but it is not enough.

What then? Maple asked him.

There should be things on the ground, Oak told her. More like us. And some should also walk from place to place and some should dig into the earth.

Yes, said Maple. And there should be things in the sky as well. Creatures that soar and take rest in our branches and creatures that hover and dart between us.

Oak agreed with his sister, but he wondered how this could be.  The sun shines and all day, and nothing keeps the sky in place.

Maple worried about this and told him, Nothing holds the earth in place either.  If you could hold the earth in place, I could hold the sky in place.

So Oak took many of his leaves, tore them up and threw them into the air.  They scattered and came to rest on the ground, where they sprang up plants and grasses and flowers to hold the earth in place.

Satisfied that the ground would stay, Maple reached her arms to the sky and molded the air into giants.

Giants of air, she told the giants, you must hold the sky in place.  You must reprimand the sun when it is too hot and you must bring the oceans to the earth when it is too dry.

And the giants held the sky and the grasses held the ground.

And Maple threw her seeds to the winds where they grew wings of feathers to soar through the sky and wings of glass to dart between the trees.  And Oak dropped his seeds to the ground where they grew legs to walk from place to place and claws to dig into the earth.

And from these all creatures great and small and all plants of every color grew and were born.

The Poet's Diary

7:00 am: Woke up. Brushed teeth, shaved.

7:05 am: Fell back asleep.

8:14 am: Woke up. Showered, put on bathrobe. Went downstairs. Brewed coffee. Waited.

8:29 am: Poured coffee, sat down in chair on the porch.  Watched the birds.

8:34 am: Saw a cardinal. Bright red, bigger than some of the others.  It's a very lovely color.

8:35 am: Realized that 'cardinal' both describes the bird and the color. Wondered for a while which terminology came first.  Both seem equally likely.  The vivid hue would be the perfect way to describe the bird, despite the females not sharing it.  But the bird would also be the perfect way to describe the color, since nature makes it almost unique to the bird.  An interesting question indeed.

8:38 am: Prominent bishops in the Catholic church are also called Cardinals.  This is getting confusing.

8:40 am: A gold finch flew by.  I don't see many of those out here any more.

8:45 am: Cardinal can also refer to directions and numbers. Threw coffee mug at bird in frustration.

8:46 am: Went inside to get more coffee in a different mug.  Made note to buy another.

8:50 am: Got dressed in comfortable working clothes. Dark to hide ink stains.

9:00 am: Sat down to write first poem of the day.

9:30 am: The paper is blank. Can't stop thinking about cardinal.

9:33 am: Found cardinal in dictionary.  "of prime importance; chief; principle." That doesn't help at all.

10:03 am: Gave up on both poem and cardinal.  Needed inspiration.  Put on hat and jacket, walked to library.

10:44 am: Found book by Billy Collins. Good poet. Writes very naturally.

11:30 am: Read entire book.  Very short.  Very depressing.  Not used to Collins being so sad, not that you could often describe him as happy.  Still can't think of poem.

11:40 am: Went for walk to be inspired or to clear my head.  Honestly, either works.

11:45 am: Saw a cardinal. Now they're just mocking me.

12:15 pm: Stopped at a cafe for a scone and some black tea. The poet's natural habitat.

12:22 pm: Inspiration strikes.  Wrote poem.  Page and a half long.  Kept writing and writing.

12:24 pm: Put away notebook. Kept thinking about poem. Finished my scone.  Cinnamon Chip.  Delicious, but dry.

12:29 pm: Left cafe. Something nagging mind.

12:35 pm: Decided to have second look at poem.  Took out notebook.  It's bright red.  Contemplated.

12:37 pm: Decided it was not quite the right shade of red to be Cardinal.  Opened notebook.

12:40 pm: Read and reread poem.  Not so sure about it now.  Put notebook away.
12:44 pm: Headed home.
12:46 pm: Stopped at a pond on the way.  Admired its natural beauty. Thought about poem.

12:54 pm: Took out notebook again.

1:04 pm: I hate this poem.

1:05 pm: Tore out of notebook. Crumpled. Lit crumple on fire. Threw in pond. Headed home.

1:29 pm: Got home, sat down in front of paper.

1:30 pm: Previous poem was a masterpiece. What was I thinking.

1:34 pm: Tried to remember it and rewrite it.

1:46 pm: Wrote this instead.  

On Dreams

"I had a dream about you this morning," I told you as I peeled an orange carefully above the sink.

You raised your eyebrows at me over your tea.  "Did you? What sort of dream?"

"It was the sort of dream where you're half awake and half asleep and occasionally wake up during it only to fall asleep again and continue." I broke off a bit of the rind, sniffed it, and put it in my mouth to chew.  "You know that sort of dream, right?"

You smirked. "No, no no. I mean, what sort of dream nudge wink."

I spat the chewed rind into the sink and finished peeling the rest. "No, it was not that sort of dream." I put the peeled orange in a bowl and washed my hands.  "A one track mind, I tell you."

"Mm, that's a pity," you said, laughing softly as you took another long sip of tea.  "Well then, what was this dream about?"

"I don't recall," I said, and I moved around the counter to sit down next to you at the table.

"You don't recall?"

"No, I don't recall."

"Uh huh." You nodded abstractly.  "Well this has been an enlightening conversation and I am better for having it."

"Well, bits and pieces here and there." I pulled off a piece of the orange, ate it in one bite and wiped my hands on my pants.

"Go on," you urged.

"Well," I said after swallowing another piece.  "There's not much.  There might have been police.  Or a building, maybe a house? The color blue."

"You're right, that's not much."

"But I think I remember this bit with a photograph.  You were showing me this photograph, and I asked you who was in it.  And you said you were in it, but I couldn't see you, or really anyone in it.  Then you showed me another and said you were in it, but there were two people in it, and I couldn't figure out who either of them were, but I was too embarrassed to ask which was you." I put two more pieces of orange in my mouth and chewed them with more attention than I would have given them individually.

"I see," you said. "I wonder what it means."

"I dunno," I told you. "Been thinking about that.  Maybe it means that I really don't know a single thing about you."

You drained the rest of your tea, a sizable amount. "Ahh, everyone puts too much stock in dreams and their meanings. Don't think too much about that."

I looked at you, taking in your features.  "Well, you asked."

You looked at me, your eyes flashing into mine. "You love me, don't you?"

"W-well of course I do," I stammered.

You kissed my cheek. "Then that's all that matters, isn't it?" You stood up and put on your jacket. "I'll see you tonight?"

"Yeah," I said, not sure what to feel.

"Hey, smile!" you told me.  "You could stop traffic with that smile, you know.  I'll see you tonight." And you walked out the door.

An Ode to a Computer

Hail to the computer!

Your screen, it shines night and day

A beacon of yellow and bluish light

That strains the eyes

And draws the mind

And tells us,

“I will never leave you,

And you should never leave me.”

O computer, of thee we sing!

We sing praises to your processor,

Dual-core and contained inside.

We raise toasts to your memory,

Only read and randomly accessed,

Without which we would be lost

And confused

And unable to play Starcraft

Or make spreadsheets.

We dance the foxtrot to your modem.

Computer, thy star shines bright!

Oh how we gaze upon your browser

That helps us explore the internet,

That chrome-colored opera of fire and foxes on safari

That leads us to greener pastures of

Electronic mail and electronic commerce

To tumble and stumble upon

Forums and Facebooks

Where the virtues of nettiquette are extolled

And then ignored.

Tell, O Muse, of the wonders of computer!

Without thee we could never do our work.

Without thee our work could finally get done.

Without thee how else would we watch Avengers

Without paying fourteen bucks in a smelly theater

I mean I'm not made of money and it made

Like a zillion dollars I mean come on

Who's gonna care if I just open up Pirate Bay

Or U Torrent for just a moment

Seriously dude how bad could it be.

Sins and Stages

On Monday, I woke up without you. I showered, running the water a little bit because I remembered you didn’t like to go in unless it had warmed up enough. I made breakfast and set two places. I read all day, looking up every time I thought I heard someone pass the door. Dinner was for two, romantic, candle-lit, rigatoni in meat sauce with sauteed pea pods and an unopened bottle of 2005 Merlot. I went to bed and fell asleep waiting for you. I dreamed myself in your arms with nothing between us.

On Tuesday, I couldn’t stand the thought of you. I picked up all the pictures I had of us, stuffed them into a mason jar and lit the crumpled mess on fire. As it burned, I just kept thinking how much better off I was, how I never needed you. I told myself that you held me back and now that you were gone I could finally prove how great I was and how everybody loved me and you just prevented me from shining and them from getting closer to me. When the flames settled down, I picked up the jar of ashes and melted plastic and threw it at the television. I sat down and cried until I passed out.

On Wednesday, I tried to think of how to change things. How it could have been different. I wished I had your grace and your charm. I resented that you had been so good at everything and so good to me while I was awful and spiteful to you. I wondered if I might have been half the person you were, might I have been able to keep this from happening. And then I looked through all the things you left behind. I watched your movies, hoping something could take my mind off of this. I put your Nintendo up for sale online.

On Thursday, I didn’t get up at all. I hardly moved all day, not leaving the bed, looking up at the ceiling, wishing for the cold or the numbness of death. I didn’t care that I stained the pillows as I drank the rest of the Merlot by myself. I didn’t check to see if anyone bid because I didn’t really care if they had. I drifted in and out of sleep. The awful dreams weren’t enough to make me get up.

On Friday, I waited an acceptance that will never come.

Every Day's the Fourth of July

Sometimes I wonder what people think of me as they pass by. I wonder what that little child with his ice cream pop thinks I am doing. I wonder what thoughts I cause in the people who speed swiftly down the street on bicycles, coupes, inline skates, what images I conjure in the minds of poets who might be strolling down the street, looking for a muse, a simple idea or picture or comment that might place one word firmly behind the next, and then more words following in a line or a stanza or a battalion of rhetorical soldiers.

Perhaps they look at me and see me at face value, just a frail old man sitting on a bench, jotting in a notebook while feeding pigeons on the sidewalk that leads into the entrance of the park. Perhaps they try to suppose my life story, my circumstances, maybe thinking my wife could have died years ago from terminal brain cancer, my children moved away to the corners of the world, the notebook filled with all the words I would have said to my wife, the pigeons filled with all the bread I would have given to my children.

I look at the pigeons, I look at the people, and I can't help but smile a bit. And I look down into my notebook, and my smile turns to a grin as I write the words I've been waiting my whole life to put down:

“Phase One Complete.”

“Delta Strike is Go.”

The Magic of Childhood

Like most people my age, my childhood ended when I found out Santa Claus was real.  I think it hit me harder than it hit most people I knew.  Maybe because I was the youngest of my friends.  I just wasn’t equipped to handle the harsh truth of Santa Claus and what that means.

It happened when I was six years old.  I woke up in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve to hear a loud clatter rising from the rooftop.  More sounds followed: my parents shuffling from their room, scraping from the chimney, a heavy thud from the fireplace, and the muffled tone of my mother and father talking.  You’re just dreaming, I told myself. Go back to sleep.  And I would have, but then I realized mother and father’s voices were accompanied by a third.  It was deep… almost downright jolly.  I knew right away that I had to investigate.

When I climbed downstairs I could hardly believe my eyes.  My own parents, who had for years told me that they bought me all of my presents every single year, stood helping an enormous man in a red suit unload a bag full of boxes. I wasn’t upset because mother and father had lied to me. Well, maybe a little bit, but for me, the hardest part was that I finally knew we didn't live in a world governed by observable laws.

I burst into tears, and the adults turned to look. My mother gasped, my father shook his head, and Santa looked away, as if he had seen this too many times.  Mother softly tried to comfort me, but the questions I kept asking just got harder and harder for her to answer.

I suppose I was being naïve to believe that matter could neither be created nor destroyed, or that the earth orbited the sun due to the sun's greater mass and gravitational pull. But when she told me that the stories were true, even all powerful genies and the chariot that towed the sun, I cried for hours. It was childish, sure, but I just wasn't ready to learn that I could save the life of a fairy just by believing in it enough, and if it touched me I could just think happy thoughts and fly through the stars and straight on until morning.

But again, I was only six years old. Mother made me swear not to tell my brothers about Jack Frost and wood nymphs until they were old enough to find out for themselves.  It’s for their own good, she’d told me. And she was probably right.  How could a three-year-old sleep if he knew about the boogeyman or alien abductions. These things are big, and children are impressionable. So you tell a kid that a rainbow is just an illusion created by refracted sunlight to keep him from searching for gold and getting mauled by a leprechaun.

When I have kids, I'm sure I'll take great lengths to hide the magic beans that grow stalks high above the clouds to the land of giants. But their questions won’t be easy. I don't know how I'll explain thunder without telling them about the angels going bowling or lightning without worrying them about Zeus or Thor striking them down at the slightest provocation. Life would just be simpler without them having to use mirrors to check around corners for basilisks or gorgons. I wish that could be the case.

I wonder if I could use this to my advantage. If I envisioned it hard enough, who knows? I could be able to create a new world for them. A new world where the things I believed in as a child were true - conversion and conservation of energy, a light speed that nothing could surpass, a recordable cause for every effect. Maybe, just maybe, somewhere there could be a universe where life finds a way to adapt and change and pass on traits in response to natural causes rather than the inscrutable whims of  jealous and petty gods.  Somewhere out there is a world that is billions of years old instead of a mere six thousand, in a universe that can be explored and known through careful study and reason.

Heh, listen to me, I must sound like a little kid with a storybook, don't I?  Sorry, I guess all that stuff is still pretty fantastical.  Wishful thinking.  I guess I get carried away with my imagination sometimes, just wishing that the world was a little less magical.

Growing Up Happens

Don't let anyone fool you: you don't magically become an adult at 18.  Anyone who's 19 understands that, anyone who's 24 laughs at that, and anyone who's 17 distinctly hopes it's not true.  But if you're 18 around a bunch of 21 year-olds, you feel the same as you did at 15.  And when you're a 21 year old on just any normal day, it feels an awful lot similar to 20, which in turn always feels like 19, but with added amounts of confusion.

Your friends will be getting married while your other friends talk about how ridiculous it is to get married at this age and while other friends talk about never wanting to get married at all.  In fact, you'll probably never heard a friend of yours say, “I want to get married” when they weren't already engaged.  And then these people who previously never mentioned marriage all of a sudden come back from a vacation saying they proposed and the other said yes and they're either setting a date or just going to wait until graduation but they'll still be engaged.

And these things won't make sense because you don't really want to think about the fact that you're an adult, because you never felt like an adult and nobody ever walked up to you on your 18th birthday and handed you your Adult League Membership Card. Maybe you expected it would come with confirmation of your Selective Service registry.  Be glad it didn't.

But if and when it does happen that you find yourself to be considered an adult in the eyes of the law, the change is subtle.  Of course you'll start getting credit card offers and bills and things that are responsibilities and all.  But those won't feel like tickets into adulthood.  Those will feel like things they threw at you when you weren't looking and they expect you to deal with them even though you're still pretty sure you've only been alive a little more than a decade.

No, the clues to adulthood are different.  Like meeting friends to hang out and ending up talking rather than seeing a movie or playing video games.  Not that you'll stop seeing movies or playing video games – adult life without movies or games is no life at all.  But you'll realize that the people you know are suddenly so much more interesting than they used to be.  They'll have things to say.  They'll listen to things you'll have to say.  You'll stop just talking at people and start conversing with people.

And you'll love it, hopefully.  You'll find that people are, as a whole, so much more interesting and so much less of a waste than you thought they were when you were a kid.  You'll stop saying that everyone sucks and start noticing that there are some people that genuinely interest you.  And you'll find out that you can surround yourself with these people.  Yes, you can be around people you want to be around.  And anyone over 30 will tell you this isn't news and that that's not really a revelation, but you'll know that it's groundbreaking, and it was probably groundbreaking for them when they first figured it out.

That's not to say you'll like everybody.  There will always be jerks.  That's not to say everybody will be interesting.  There will always be genuine bores.  But you'll find that most people generally are less awful than you assumed they were as a teenager.  And those people will realize it too.  And this won't be accompanied by bells on the hill or a five piece jazz combo playing Come Fly With Me, but it will be no less important.  You'll figure it out in the middle of a five-hour-long conversation that should have ended two hours ago because you are all so unbelievably tired but you won't stop talking because this whole discussion thing is just way too much fun to stop.

Maybe.  I hope.  Because if I just spent the past 600 words completely generalizing a reaction that you'll never have, I'll look like an idiot.  But I honestly do hope this is what happens, because the moment that you realize that being an adult is actually really cool is a spectacular moment.  And someone like you deserves that feeling.

A Valuable Lesson - based on a true false story

“When I was a little boy,” my gravel-throated, slasher-grinning English teacher began one class – another seemingly endless fifty-two minutes regarding a lesser-known work by Cormac McCarthy – in his trademark tone somewhere between Jack Torrance and The Joker, “I used to have seizures.”

An uneasy silence fell upon the room like an upturned pot of chili: in tremendous, unsettling drips.

“I had seizures all the time,” he continued menacingly, none of us having the faintest clue where he was going with this.  “The kids were really mean to me.  They used to call me seizure boy.”

It's not that this had never happened before, because it had.  He would tell stories like this all the time.  About Stewie, his frog, who wouldn't come out from under the rock in his tank to look at him anymore, and how that made him unreasonably sad.  About the years back when the school would burned its garbage and how he would put starter blanks in trash bins so that when the janitor ran the incinerator, they would go off and he would think someone was shooting at him.  About his wife or his colleagues or his cross country team, really about anything.  Whether or not we liked it, we were very familiar with the man's tangents.  The problem was that we just never knew what they would be, how insane they would get, or if they even had a point relevant to class.

“And the doctor told my parents that unless the seizures would stop, I would die.”

I suppressed a shudder as the story went on in that voice that would make the Black Tongue of Mordor sound like a concert aria in comparison.

“This of course was bad news, but the doctor said he had a solution,” he said, getting to what we assumed, or at least hoped, would be the crux of the story.  “He said that there was a pill I could take.  And it would stop my seizures and save my life.  But there was a problem.”

Ah, now this must be the point.  A story about a choice where neither option presents a victory.  This would be a perfect way to discuss the unfortunate choices that John Grady, our book's code hero, would have to make.  A few of us straightened up, sensing the importance of what was to come.

“If I took the pill,” he said, looking us dead in the eyes, “it could have the side effect of rotting the bones in my jaw off.”

Macabre? Of course it was.  But anyone would come to expect that sort of thing from a teacher who decorated his desk with a replica of the possessed doll from Child's Play.  We knew that wasn't the point of the story.

“So I could either lose my jaw, or I could die.  Obviously, I didn't want to die.  But I was a teenager.  I wanted to suck face.”

By this point, another teacher appeared in the door, listening, not speaking, and carrying a sizable roll of CAUTION-printed Police line.

“So I didn't take the pill.”

We waited.

“And I died.”

There wasn't a sound in the room.  None of us knew what to think, much less what to say.  We wondered if we should have seen that ending coming.

“Hey Dom,” he said, looking up as the other teacher laughed and started adhering the caution tape to the door frame for unknown reasons.  “You'll never guess what I got these kids to believe.”

Nocturne

I miss the nights. I miss the nights as they used to be. Night was my time. There was nothing quite like it. Ever go outside at night? No, no no no, I don't mean like this. I know we're outside, but this? This? This isn't night. As long as there's still cars driving and crowds out, this isn't night. There's no real night in the city.

Though I guess it has its own beauty too. The signals flashing. The soft rush of the occasional car. I suppose that under the city lights, in this pale yellow light, everything seems... crisp. Dramatic. Highly defined. When there's not a soul around. When you can look down the street and not see a single car anywhere, that's nice, I guess. It has its moments. But it's so empty. You look at the sky and see nothing. Absolutely nothing. Here in the city, you can't see a goddamn thing. The sky is just this dull, hazy gray.

It wasn't like this when I was a kid. Away from the city? Out in the hills where I lived? Oh man, going outside at night, that was something special. You could leave the house, wander wherever you wanted, and just lie down and look at the sky. And it was nothing like it is here. There's nothing like it anywhere. Stars. Millions of stars. Bright ones, small ones, stars, planets, galaxies, stretching on forever in every conceivable direction. It was so incredible.

And the moon. Oh my God, the moon. That was the best part, because no matter what, it was always gorgeous. On nights when there wasn't a cloud in the sky, it was so bright, so clear, so... striking. You couldn't look away from the thing. When it was full, you could see every detail on its surface. Just this bright, solid circle, so intricate in its design and yet so simple. When I was a kid, I would spend ages staring at it, memorizing its features. I stared at it like some kids stared at their girlfriends' pictures in the yearbooks. Even on cloudy nights, when its light would outline the clouds, it was the greatest thing.

It didn't matter if it was summer or winter, the nights were my favorite part. And a couple nights even, I was so lucky, I saw those lights in the sky. The... whattaya call 'em, the Aurora... the Aurora something. Those nights, I was so enthralled, I was speechless for days. I stared at them entranced, just stare at the shifting colors in the air. Borealis. Aurora Borealis, that was it. Man, I bet you've never seen those in your life. I mean there are no words to describe what I would feel when I saw those. You know how some people say looking at the night sky makes them feel small, insignificant? Not me. It always made me feel amazing. Like... like I was swelling up inside. You wouldn't believe how amazing it was, but my God... it was such an experience. 

You know, someday I'd like to get out of this city, away from the lights that never stop and the people who never leave. Get out by myself again, me on my own with the solitude of the night sky, be underneath that transparent canopy... I would love that. Maybe that's what I really need. I haven't felt right in years. I think it's about time I did.

From the larger work Life, Love and the Fourth Wall by David M. Briggs, 2011.  Based on an earlier draft published in The Catalyst Online Vol. 2 (The Catalyst Literary Magazine Vol. 32 Issue 2)

Brazen Silver Memories

Did I ever tell you I used to play the trumpet?

I did, it's true.

Now you might not think the trumpet is

a very cool instrument,

but I assure you, back in the day,

I was quite good.

I played for years, you know.

I played all sorts of music

for all sorts of people.

I screamed on high B's

when the music would burn.

I tore through the scales

and I shouted for more.

I pondered the blues

when my heart was in tune.

I brooded and crafted

and sang through the brass

like a lovelorn vagrant.

I wrote in the air

with invisible ink

that could be seen for miles

if you cared to listen for it.

I played galas and galleries,

dances and dinners,

basements and theaters,

ballparks and bars.

Life was my music

and music was life

and one could not exist on its own.

To me,

those times are the fondest of memories,

though I frequently wish they were not.

For who can give up their life and soul

and not feel a little wistful at its passing?

Written by David Briggs, 2011.  First published in The Catalyst Online Vol. 5 (The Catalyst Literary Magazine Vol. 35 Issue 1)

Eleven O'Clock Penalty Flags

It is eleven o'clock

And I sit in my room

In front of a computer

And wait for a video to load

It is eleven o'clock

And in the football field

Across from my room

(and five stories down)

Groups of people

Throw penalty flags

At no one at all

Three large groups of people

At eleven o'clock

Decided this evening

That they should go down

To the football field

Across from my room

Turn on the lights

And throw penalty flags

There are no footballs

There are no frisbees

No soccer

No lacrosse

No baseball bat swinging

Just three groups of people

At eleven o'clock

Throwing an oddly large number

Of penalty flags

Sometimes to each other

Sometimes in the air

Sometimes they even run as they throw them

But none of this changes

That all they are doing

Is throwing penalty flags

At eleven o'clock

Without any players

To make penalties

And I sit in my room

And look at the field

That is five stories down

And I laugh at them

While my video loads

And I call them weird.

I think maybe my priorities are out of order.

Written by David Briggs, 2012.  Edited from an earlier draft published in The Catalyst Online Vol. 5 (The Catalyst Literary Magazine Vol. 35 Issue 1)