Thus it continues

Well, the story of Frankie is still a work in progress. I'm not sure where it is taking me. More of the story, picking up from the last post.

And there he was at Homecoming. He stood the side, alone. Frankie had on a pinstriped suit, a good looking suit, but it was just a size too big and hung askew on his thin shoulders. He wore a Fedora, like one the Rat Pack might have worn. It was a classy hat, that be sure. In his hand he clutched a gorgeous red rose, a perfect, gorgeous red rose.

“Frankie! Looking sharp!” I said by way of greeting.

He gave his peculiar grin, a thin lipped half smile.

“Whose the rose for?” my date asked him.

“She’s on her way,” said Frankie, the smile widening just a little.

“Well cool!” was my response.

We exchanged a few more words and my date and I headed out to the dance floor leaving Frankie alone on the side.

*

I had two classes with Frankie. I was a peer tutor for another student in the same Special Ed class as Frankie, and he sat in front of me in Choir. I would like to say I knew him better than the others. We had had a few conversations and I always had a smile for him in the halls. But, the truth of the matter is I knew nothing about him. Looking back now, I am filled with a strange curiosity for his life; his passions, dreams, pet peeves, hobbies, and habits, all of which I don’t know now because I never asked then.

I think back to the faces I passed every day in the halls of my high school. The faces and the routines of the faces were familiar. Every day, I knew whom I’d see with whom, and where they’d be. The drama nerds, the band geeks, the emos, the cowboys, the jocks, the well liked, the disliked, the popular, and the outcasts, all were familiar to me. And yet, how little I knew. I had my cliques, they had theirs. We stuck to our own kind. Sad and strange as the years fall away how much we are alone.

Frankie ate lunch on a table with the Special Ed class. It was the table closest to the lunch line and closest to the library. Jokes, conversation, and food were shared at their table, the same as any other. What, I wonder, was often the topic of conversation?

*

Instant Wisdom

Well... let's just say my writing was "off" for this assignment, but I'll post what I can.
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First of all, we needed to rewrite two proverbs:
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The original: "A scalded dog fears cold water."
Mine: "We fear even the good when we truly have experienced the bad."
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The original: "If everyone swept in front of his house, the whole world would be clean."
Mine: "We need only do a little to do enough if everyone does just that little."
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Hmmm... lame. I'll admit.
Next, we had to write our own proverbs of sorts based on a word.
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On bad drivers: "It's always the other guy."
On computers: "We spend more time fixing their problems than they do ours."
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I have come to the conclusion I probably shouldn't quit my day job any time soon to take up writing proverbs, if I had a day job that is. Is anyone hiring?

Something more

Stories have a funny way of taking on a life of their own. There comes a point where the writer is captive to what needs to be written. The task is never easy and the writer is never satisfied. Such is the case with my creative nonfiction piece. I started pulling a thread and before I knew it, I was unraveling a sweater. The piece has become a little too large to post, I think, so we'll see what I decide to do with the finished work when it gets there, if it ever does. Tonight I'd like to post the first paragraphs, with an open invitation to constructive criticism.

The student government roped off Main Street for the Homecoming dance that year. They strung white lights from the saplings that lined the streets. And from the lights, they hung white Chinese lanterns. In the September evening, the lighting was a beautiful sight. The dance had been long anticipated, heightened by the gossip and drama that come with all high school dances. Practically everyone was going, myself included. I don’t know why then, I was surprised to see Frankie there too.

Frankie wasn’t his real name. How strange and sad I can’t recall his name. In my mind he was always Frankie. I had to correct this idea every time I had a conversation with him, which wasn’t often, and now I’ve forgotten entirely. I’ll likely never have another conversation with him again. He was just another student, another face in a class of over four hundred.

Frankie-- if it is alright that I refer to him as such-- was not like the rest of us. Everything about him was crooked: his stance was slanted, his smile lopsided, and his gaze cockeyed. The baggy clothes he wore hung awkwardly on his wiry body, never fitting just right. His mannerisms were peculiar, alienating him from the mainstream crowd. He didn’t say much-- or maybe I just wasn’t listening.

And there he was at Homecoming. He stood the side, alone. Frankie had on a pinstriped suit, a good looking suit, but it was just a size too big and hung askew on his thin shoulders. He wore a Fedora, like one the Rat Pack might have worn. It was a classy hat, that be sure. In his hand he clutched a gorgeous red rose, a perfect, gorgeous red rose.

Glandular Fever

This is merely a blog to plot what shall be written next...

What?
Prom. A handicapped kid, waiting with a rose for a girl who never arrives, and how cruelly insensitive this world can be...

Why?
I tried writing the same story in poetry and I couldn't find the words. I'd like to develop the story into something more, especially before the memory fades.

And random words to incorporate:

Glandule: A small gland. How do you use that? I felt as though I'd been hit with a bout of glandular fever. That sounds a like a personal problem to me.

Slant: Be, or set something at an angle. He had a slanted stance. Or... I'd never realized how slanted my view of things were.

Run of the mill: Ordinary, average. It was a run of the mill music lineup. Or... He wasn't your run of the mill kid.

Thunk

A practice in storytelling...

THUNK

Five batches of laundry, and thankfully she was now loading the last batch, towels, into the dryer. The phone rang, interrupting her half way through. Lousy telemarketers. After hanging up the phone, she returned to the laundry, hastily threw in the last towels, and started the dryer. Then, into the kitchen with the intention of finishing the stack of breakfast dishes. She had hardly reached the kitchen sink, when she heard the most peculiar noise coming from the laundry room, a heavy thunk, thunk, thunk, followed by the most bloodcurdling screech that had ever reached her ears. Then again; thunk, thunk, thunk, and that egregious noise again. It was the sort of sound that draws to the imagination thoughts of torture. Thunk, thunk, thunk, and the same ululation. What in the world could make such an horrific noise? She bolted into the laundry room, flung open the dryer, and, out jumped one very warm-- and very cantankerous --pet cat.

Dash!

For sometime now my writing has been in a rut. Everything I write sounds the same. My writing has seized to be a source of personal excitement. I thought it was word choice that was leaving my writing lifeless, or perhaps lack of creativity. I realized this was not necessarily the case. Currently, I am reading A Dash Of Style, by Noah Lukeman. In the midst of my reading, I have come to the revelation that it could be punctuation, misuse and lack thereof, that has left my writing bland. Punctuation, of all things! My work thus far is entirely devoid of punctuation marks such as the dash, the semicolon, and the colon. I rarely use the comma for that matter. I've always shied away from such marks for fear of using them incorrectly.

I feel like a submissive child given a variety of paints and told to decorate the walls. The first question being, naturally; can I really? A few tentative and nervous strokes are made against the bright white expanse. The moves are slow and slight, in case the work must be undone later. Then, a nominally bolder stroke, and another, each stroke increasing in brazenness. The realization dawns: it really is okay. Conform no longer! With this liberated outlook, a brush is taken in both hands and the child really starts going at it. The only danger now is too much paint and no one to say stop. But, that is half the adventure.

So, I am dragging you along with me as I tinker with these newly discovered mechanisms. I cannot wait! There will be hiccups along the way to be sure. I apologize for such, but I hope you enjoy the ride.

Cold Waffles and # 19

As I write this, I am eating a cold three-day-old waffle of a formerly delicious nature. Elton John's "Tiny Dancer" is playing on shuffle, which, by the by, the original is better than any cover, though Tim McGraw's does come in a close second.

But neither weak waffles or wonderful music is the topic of this post.

Today's Topic: Creepy houses that should be avoided at all cost.


Across the street from my humble abode is a dilapidated dwelling of such deplorable conditions I shudder just thinking about it. The wooden house's white coat of paint is peeling, revealing the bare planks beneath. A brick chimney, likely once stately, is crumbling away one brick at a time. The whole house seems to sag, as though weary with time. The glass windows, that is those that remain intact, are thin, suggesting glass of a different era. Most of the windows, however, are cracked or shattered. Beside a broken window near the door, one can still clearly make out the house number, 19; a number ominous enough for any horror flick. There isn't really a lawn to speak of, just a weed patch in front of the house. To the weed's credit, they are fine weeds indeed. Two overgrown trees stand on each side of the house, casting an eerie shadow over the dwelling. The tar shingled roof is the only thing about the place with some respectability.

The basement is of most peculiar nature. A small hole has been dug in the dirt; a crude crawlspace of sorts, that leads directly into the basement. Perhaps someone was once locked out of the house one night and needed a way in... Or there could be a stash of booze lurking the corners, the hole dug by some bootlegging college kid. Whatever the original purpose it is odd indeed.

Behind the house, if you could call it that, sits a crazed sort of shed constructed of a patchwork of aluminum. It is the sort of shed one imagines serial killers sleep in at night, knife in hand, as the next murder is plotted. However, little can be said on the shed as I chose not to investigate it further. I shall instead allow the reader's imagination to run rampant, as I have full faith and confidence in my reader's phantasms.

So, as established, the exterior alone of the house makes it a worthy subject for blogging, but it is the quirky details that capture my attention. Cases of Campbell's Tomato Soup are stacked haphazardly near the open hole to the basement. If tomato isn't your preference, there are stacks of chicken noodle in the backyard. Peering in through the broken glass reveals a most puzzling interior. Food is stacked on the shelves, the labels faded and long outdated; yet why do they remain? I picture a nuclear bomb scare, early 1970's, frightening away the tenants, leaving no time to grab up the food. The house is perhaps a time capsule to an era gone by. Yet, the container of Raid in the corner looks brand new, and so does another can here, and a bottle here. Puzzling. Trash is strewn casually across the floor; maybe remnants of a recent kegger?

If I was brave enough, I'd walk right through the screen door that's hanging by one hinge, and I'd see what there was to see. If I survived the tour, perhaps then I'd have more concrete details to share, a factual account to give. But, I rather enjoy the mystery that now remains, giving ample room for my imagination to play freely. Fiction, I've found, is often more enjoyable than reality.

And, I should really stop eating this cold waffle.

Photograph by Valerie Owens

Welcome World!

What to say to begin a blog? It it a Wednesday, deliciously sunny outside, and I wish I was running beneath the cloudless sky instead of sitting in front a computer screen. But, nonetheless, here I am. This happy blog will be a place to post work for a creative writing class. This could be boring, but then again, maybe not! Isn't that the way everything in life is? So... hope you enjoy!