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day 17: novel excerpt

I’ve never felt as though I properly understood holidays. Either you're happy about your current life, and you should be celebrating that fact already -- not waiting for the holiday season to be an excuse to make that abundantly clear -- or you aren’t and then a holiday represents something slightly more bitter. In this likey case, seeing everyone suddenly teeming with joy may piss you off, or it may read ‘hey! Look at us! We’re joyful and find incredible pleasure in shoving fistfuls of that down your throat!’ Anyways, it’s Christmas time on campus, and I’m ‘thankful for’ and ‘joyous for’ the fact that campus is quiet for once, and I can spend my time in peace.

[note: For context, this novel is about a 17-year-old boy whose father abandoned him by leaving him at a boarding school when he was a boy. I love the holidays...]

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day 16: more old poetry revisited! Float (level with)

In a way, I felt I was wrong

unforgiving and so absurd.

pressing and holding my thoughts

Just to wait for the slight softening.

You found it easy to stay solid rock in Thought.

hard and cold and feign composed

I reached I thought — you wade into the breach

once more

and blind me back into the ebb and flow.

I find beauty in stranger things

A misplaced fear or a strong interest

One of the same in many ways

I sat alone staring at silence where I wait

for the cast of a Die

[In a way this feels a bit unfair, but I’m having fun revisiting poems I wrote (potentially) years ago, and touching them up with smaller changes. I’d love all feedback and criticism. I have no idea if this is even thought-provoking. Let me know what you think!]

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day 15: older poem revisited [How elusive a game...]

How elusive a game time plays

making sure to leave a trail of breadcrumbs we can follow.

Leaving hope of ‘seizing’ and ‘capturing’ the moment.

Of ‘transcendence.’

It passes

Swiftly and perfectly, because

The orchestrator of the symphony defines four walls

a Floor and a Ceiling.

And we play our instruments

hoping to impress and stand out

hoping to evoke an encore; to showcase

for longer --

but every performance has its Start and

Finish

regardless.

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day 14: short story excerpt

Only after doing these tasks will Elton step on the square carpet surrounding his desk. The carpet is a deep blue and is furry enough to be pushed in particular directions. When flying over the Atlantic, at a certain height you can see the ocean as a patch, quilted with different shades of blue throughout. As you descend, you can see the ripples and disruptions caused by the waves. Smoothing out this carpet to be flat isn’t much easier. And with every step Elton takes, he carefully squats down without moving his feet, leaning backward and turns, and flattens the carpet where he stepped last. 

This process of traversing the deep blue sea that separates the study entrance and his desk takes about 23 minutes; Elton doesn’t write these numbers down but does measure how long it takes using his pocket watch. Elton’s study is a relatively small room with a small, waist-high bookshelf as you walk in, and with a long bookshelf that spreads along the wall behind. Once Elton sits at his desk, the process of cementing that day into his existence begins. For him, it feels as vital to him as drinking water. He has no choice but to drink water every day; anatomy drives that -- this is no different.

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day 13: short story excerpt

[Going into more detail about the book Elton uses to keep track of the day to day times].

When Elton gets home at the end of each day, he sits down in his study and performs the same sequence of tasks every day. This sequence never varies; the order never changes; he performs the task every day with the zeal of a student attending his first day of school -- eager to impress. With Elton, however, his motivation isn’t recognization but rather pursuit of complete control.

He enters his study and removes first his gold-link bracelet from his left hand, placing it on top of the stained wood bookcase to the left of the entrance. He then removes each of his rings, starting from his left most pinky and moving to the right. He places the 2 rings from his left hand in the left stone bowl and the single ring from his right hand in the right bowl. He then takes off his loafers, shines them with a small linen rag that hangs on the right side of the bookshelf by an iron hook, and then presses them tightly by the door side by side.

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day 12: Two ‘Heads’ and a Tail

Every day, they leave at sunrise

after allowing me to evacuate my bowels.

And each day, I search for an escape

only to find I can’t get past the kitchen gate.

They leave, and I explore for freedom’s sake

until fatigue takes over and I succumb to slumber.

They return in the evening, smug in their victory;

they rub it in my face with some kind of twisted affection.

At least they take pity –  I get a bowl of food.

--

Every day I love my best friends, I’ve surmised  

We journey outside for my body’s sake -- I stall to extend time. 

And each day, I yearn for their love until they return

only to find I can do nothing but lay in wait.

They leave, and I mourn in their wake

I slip into sleep; I push toys around to pass the time

They return in the evening, a beacon of light in my darkness;

they show me an abundance of affection -- a fortunate twist of fate.

At last I’m with them again -- nothing else resurrects my mood.

[let me know what you think this is. I want to see if it’s clear or if I need to do better on that front (not to mention others I’m sure)]

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day 11: Two ‘Heads’ and a Tail

Every day, they leave at sunrise

after allowing me to evacuate my bowels.

And each day, I search for an escape

only to find I can’t get past the kitchen gate.

They leave, and I explore for freedom’s sake

until fatigue takes over and I succumb to slumber.

They return in the evening, smug in their victory; 

they rub it in my face with some kind of twisted affection.

At least they take pity --  I get a bowl of food.

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day 10: short story completed (first draft)

As the day has gone on, Elton has slowly waded deeper into a dark pool. A dark cove with only light seeping in from the entrance around the corner. A natural pool with smooth, flat rocks surrounding the water in a crescent. Elton is now waist-deep with his arms out ahead of him. He can't see very clearly through the darkness, but he can feel the coldness seeping through to his core, cooling him. He welcomes this coldness; running for so long has left him feeling fatigued and unclean. Elton feels the water swirl around him slowly, offering to accompany him if he were to dive deeper. At first he elects to decline politely this offer, but thinking about running again down that road, he reconsiders. Maybe it's better just to wade deeper. Elton is tired of running. A sharp, and powerful succession of knocks on the door brings Elton back to reality. Marta shouts angrily and with worry in her voice. "Elton! Elton! Are you doing all right? You've been in the meat freezer for about 30 minutes now. Come out and warm up." The door to the freezer room is thick and pure steel. It locks from the inside, but there is a small circular window about 3/4 up from the floor. As Marta is shouting into the glass, some of the ice defrosts and she can now see Elton. "You're not even wearing the freezer gloves or parka. It's OK, Elton. We can figure out what's missing as you warm up. It's too cold to be in there like that." At this point, Elton realizes where he is and turns around to obey her verbal commands. He hears the concern in Marta's voice but leaves the room to quiet the noise. After leaving the room, he can feel his face, hands, and arm start to burn as they readjust to normal temperatures, but he feels nothing. Marta tosses the over-sized parka over his shoulders, starting to worry about Elton's strange behavior. Elton never addressed her, now attending to his business duties diligently once again. 6:54 pm. There are still 3 more stops that he must get to today; he's behind schedule. 

Elton is barely blinking now as he pulls into his driveway. Having completed his usual routine, he now can complete this final task. He is fiercely focused; he barely even blinks. He walks briskly to the garage and grabs the handle, pulling the door up most of the way. Elton bends under the door as its rising to the ceiling. He grabs the door and sends it back to the floor before it even ceases upward movement. When Elton was a younger boy his father forced him to be a boy scout. His father believed that his son ought to have a similar childhood. To do that, he must participate in similar activities. And so it goes. Elton enrolled and rose quickly through the ranks. Boy Scout School involves many repetitive, mechanical tasks: Elton's specialty. Setting up tents, whittling wooden figurines, catching fish, climbing trees, tying knots. These are all things he took a liking to immediately. He was mostly the same type of person even as a young boy. 

At this time, Elton briefly thinks of these memories before muscle memory kicks in. On his workbench, he rapidly constructs and alphabetically organizes each of the knots he knows -- from left to right: the Anchor Bend, the Prusik Hitch, the Reef Knot, Sheet bend, and the Trucker's Hitch. Gazing intensely, he stares at his collection for what feels like days. The Anchor Bend is the strongest, so that’s his choice. Elton then places the wood stool equidistant from the bench and his wife’s car and takes a deep breath. He steps on the ledge before taking the plunge. The Anchor Bend now holds Elton Conway in perfect suspension. His last task of the day. 

[Danny and I were working towards a self-imposed deadline of today for this endeavor, so please treat this as a work in progress -- as we all have been with each other's works -- as I may have even rushed to the ending in order to accommodate the deadline. Anyways, looking forward to criticism.]

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day 9: short story cont.

As Elton walks into the Subway, the bell above the door rings. Marta is at the cash register counting large bills from under the bill tray; her glasses cling precariously to the lower part of her nose. She doesn’t look up immediately but is expecting Elton at around this time. On this day, she has a few logistics questions regarding the previous delivery of frozen meats. Having worked with Elton for 19 years, she knows better than to ask Elton to check for delivery mismatches (where the expected amount of a product doesn’t align with how much is actually delivered) without good reason. When asked about this problem, Elton recounts everything in the store. Mention to him that there are 84 bags of Fritos instead of 85, and he will go into the back room and recount every item. Then he will compare all quantities and find the error himself. It’s just how he is.

Well, today, Marta noticed a rather large discrepancy. Almost two and a half containers of meat for the freezer room were not delivered. Usually, if she finds a small discrepancy she’ll resolve it herself as it’s not always necessary to unleash Hurricane Conway on the storage room. But today was too substantial. Since it will affect the next couple weeks of supply, she reports it to Elton. 

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day 8: short story cont.

The manager of the 8th Subway is a woman by the name of Marta. She’s about 5′8′‘, a few inches shorter than Elton. She’s quite lanky, though. She possesses a build that makes ever seem taller than she is; long legs that seemingly start halfway up her torso. Marta has short blond hair that points upwards and forwards like there’s a constant wind blowing over her shoulder.  She’s in good shape, and has a nice body, although she couldn’t care much about that. Being perceived as beautiful is low on Marta’s priority list. It’s just not what she cares about, although most would probably say she is in fact pretty, even if it’s in a coarse way. She never raises her voice or barks orders. She also rarely smiles -- her “smile” is a twinkle in her eye and a slight pursing of the lips. 

Before managing a Subway, Marta spent a few years working at her uncle’s auto body shop. From this, she took two things: knowledge of cars, and rough, calloused hands. She often shares a couple words with Elton on his stops, but rarely more than that. It’s been that way for as long as they’ve known each other, which has been for most of Elton’s career.  

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day 7: short story cont.

Most of the next stops pass Elton in a blur. Drive here, drive there, perform tasks. It’s just like shoveling snow. It’s neither glamorous nor exciting, but it's useful and must be done. It involves the hands and enough of your focus to allow your mind to go on strolls. It’s now 4 o’clock, and Elton arrives at stop 8 of 11. The heat of the day has subsided a fair bit but the asphalt still emanates warmth. An afterglow of a long day battling the sun.

For all the thinking Elton does, he really doesn’t contemplate much. He busies himself day to day with work, with cost-benefit calculations of how to manage his business, budget his time perfectly, and keep his mental checklist of features perfectly organized. It’s like there’s an ever-growing stack of papers that Elton cares for, alphabetizing and shuffling to align every edge. But the stack grows heavy and unwieldy with time. 

Elton continues his race down the country road. At this point, he is panting heavily and his shirt is plastered to his skin from sweat. His hair now falls forward onto his forehead, resting in place. Some of the jewelry he wears fallen off; his get-up has transformed into that which speaks of exertion and fatigue. His glasses have tumbled off his face a while ago -- but he keeps moving forward frantically. It now feels like there’s a bundle of goods that Elton must carry. A heavy wooden box with leather straps tied around it that drape over Elton’s shoulders. Elton grips each strap. Grimacing in pain now, he keeps running as fast he can. The wind from the east blows stronger. A chilling feeling: cold wind striking against a soaked shirt and a battered sense of self. He keeps running.

Elton is a very determined sort of person. Tell him to perform a task, and consider it done. It’s as though every time he decides there’s a task that needs to be done there’s someone behind him with a stopwatch that taps him on the shoulder the instant he falls behind the perfect execution of said task. This is the kind of determination that allowed Elton to prosper into a business owner and the kind of person that can financially support himself and his family without fail. More directly, Elton could be the kind of person that can do whatever they want because of the financial independence they’ve obtained -- completely free. But Elton feels entangled.

The manager of the 8th Subway is a woman by the name of Marta.

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day 6: short story cont.

Naturally, some of the locations are far from each other and require decent treks on the highway through the city. Driving can be like sleeping. When you’ve driven the same roads at the same times for years, sometimes it feels like it just happens. That being said, sometimes it’s impractical: too much traffic, slippery roads, fog, or too tired, and driving becomes like walking on a frozen-over pond with dress shoes -- you need to pay attention to every move you make.

Anyways, on this day, driving was a mindless task. 102-degree heat makes for some sticky asphalt; clear skies; fully awake and relaxed. Elton’s mind takes a stroll. The idea of sleep becomes mouth-watering if you’ve stayed up long enough. It can overpower any other desire effortlessly -- in the right context. Even without this feeling, the act of sleeping can have cerebral appeal. For some, this sentiment stems from the fact that the day is full of work, responsibilities, or some kind of task that seems burdensome or draining. Although Elton works nonstop -- most would be driven to exhaustion from working all day, 7 days a week -- sleep doesn’t appeal to him for those reasons. Sleeping gives way to some kind of illusion that can feel like freedom. In a world where he craves for order, it’s intriguing to walk around and not have that goal in everything you see and do. Elton may have more feelings about this but doesn’t seem to share them even with himself. His car takes him off of I-35 and into the downtown district. 

Stop 4 of 11. This location is much smaller as it is squeezed between two taller buildings. On the left of the Subway is a 12 story complex called “Easy Living” that was built two and a half years ago. It is mostly occupied by young professionals in the corporate banking industry; most of the office space in the downtown district focuses on this type of work. Each unit is the kind of living space that tells you nothing about the inhabitant. Somehow, the owners of Easy Living have achieved perfect homogeneity in each of their units, down to the bowl of plastic acorns and miniature pine trees on the small table outside of the bathroom in the living room to the blank and white photo of Michael Jackson smiling on the kitchen wall. There’s nothing especially wrong with the decor, but it gives off a strikingly sterile character.

To the right of the Subway is a set of offices. The outside of the building is a rundown, light, seafoam green. It’s one of the only pieces of architecture that Elton has ever really noticed and has an opinion of -- and just because of the hideous color. Aside from that feature, the offices are shockingly pedestrian. A match made in heaven with Easy Living. Elton enters the Subway, and sharply whistles. A whistle so brief and just loud enough to raise an eyebrow slightly; not a sound to have people at the fountain drink dispenser jolt wildly and spill on themselves or for a dramatic teenage girl to squeal (for attention). The manager appears from the back room, gives Elton a quick nod, and heads to the back to fetch his notes on last quarter’s financial performance. The left wall of the Subway has rows of tiles on the bottom half. Elton loves counting each of the rows; he notices that the thirteenth tile in the top row is slightly crooked every time. He performs his usual inspections, collects the notes from the manager, and leaves the Subway.

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day 5: Just kind of felt like doing something different today

 small hands rest in a larger human’s, cupped                                                     so tender, clear, trusting                                                                                   with no cause for fear.

 rose petals on the sidewalk connect with each other in bunches. a change of   seasons, or a symbol of --                                                                                       Together they float down an aisle, and then                                                           suddenly                                                                                                                   poised across it, sitting with eyes locked straight on your Honor.                     Fragile and Quick                                                                                                     Unpredictable and Brittle.

 Refusing to bend imparts stress. 

 a rupture:                                                                                                               who to blame? I told you on whom to rely                                                           Me? don’t look at Me.                                                                                               My interests are mine and don’t jump in between                                               what I am and what I want, or what                                                                       I want to convince you I am                                                                                     or what                                                                                                               truths I want to shroud from my reality.

 A trumpeter who hates the touch of metal.

--

[I a lot of this wrote this while ago now. I haven’t honestly read this in a while and would love some feedback. I also haven’t read or studied poetry much, so please point out small mistakes or quirks you want to question. Some I did by design, some I’m sure can be done better.

Interesting aside, I had a particular motivation when I wrote this poem, and now I look back and feel like it ‘says’ something slightly different than how I felt. I don’t mean to say it misrepresents how I felt, but just take it has taken a different form. Interesting how that can happen just with changing perspective over time. ]

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While proximity didn’t really factor into his purchases, Elton has carefully constructed his loop from his to home to each of the storefronts and back to his home. Everday, he writes the length from one store to the next and from that calculates the total time of that day’s loop. He keeps track of this information on his clipboard during the day, and when he gets home he goes into his study and transcribes the data into a large, elegant book with padded covers, thick parchment paper, and a large, golden medallion on the spine. Although Elton really isn’t particularly intelligent or mathematical, he likes keeping this information to quell curiosities about traffic at certain times of the day, and because he cannot help but place everything around him in perfect order. This book helps him make sure he wastes no time in his daily rituals.

Naturally, some of the locations are far from each other and require decent treks on the highway through the city. 

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day 4: short story cont.

Stop 3 of 11. On Daytona Drive. Usually, Elton is hyperfocused. He pulls himself out of his car, grabs his clipboard and pen, and walks with purpose towards the next stop. Today, though, he moves at the same speed but is less directed. He spends time gazing at the clear, blank sky. He does things like count the number of leaves he steps on while walking along the sidewalk, or think about how long a block of ice the size of a barbecue would take to melt in this heat. A normal day still -- the routine remains intact.

--

Stop 4 of 11. 

--

Stop 8 of 11. 

--

Stop 9 of 11.

--

Stop 10 of 11.

--

Stop 11 of 11. 

END.

Note: I now have a plan for the rest of this short story. I will refrain from explaining before trying to get the ideas across because I want to see what does/doesn’t get across in the first full attempt. Also, I didn’t write much today because I have an exam tomorrow! Will pick it up tomorrow after the suffering subsides...

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day 3: short story cont.

The floor has a mind of its own; with every step he takes, the floor lunges upwards, grabbing at his ankles and slowing him down. Running at full speed, he feels like he’s in slow motion -- he can’t seem to gain any sort of traction. He is running on a gravel country road with a wheat field on the left, and a row of white oak trees on the right. It’s the time in the morning on the cusp of sunrise, where the whole world is bathed in a faint glow. There is a soft wind passing eastward that sways the wispy strands of wheat, and blow his hair out of its controlled position; he doesn’t care to rectify this mishap. Elton is wearing he usual get-up, except he has completely sweat through his undershirt, and his shirt is untucked. It trails behind him wildly as he runs feverishly down this long, narrow path. 

There are certain powers in the world that can completely grab hold of you and shake you to your very core. Experiences like these can make your head swim in such a way that makes it hard to string together emotions with any lasting conviction. It’s as though your idea of ‘self’ gets launched into a pitch-black room of file cabinets, leaving you with the daunting task of sifting through the papers to retrieve it. Does it want to be found? Do you even know what you’re looking for? You may find it and be displeased with your discoveries. Perhaps it’s easier to sit down in this dark room and orbit this void that seems to be pulling everything around it inward. Or perhaps it’s best to keep on running. 

Every day, without fail, Elton wakes up at 4:45 AM. He sometimes wakes up a few minutes before his alarm clock and stares in bed at the LED digits of the alarm clock that pierce through the peaceful veil of darkness until the digits change to signal ‘go.’ Mechanically, he quietly gets out of bed and puts on his daily attire, which he curates and lays out the night before. He fries two eggs, slices a banana into a bowl of oats, and eats breakfast while reading the newspaper. Not a groundbreaking routine, but a ritual he has followed for over two decades. 

It’s not to say that Elton is altogether displeased with his life in one sense -- there’s nothing for him to want for. He has all the money he desires, has the all the possessions he desires, and to his knowledge, the same is true for his wife and children. If you asked Elton if he were happy with his life, he’d probably say something like: ‘I have what I need and what I would. What else is there?’ His answer and his emotions, maybe without his knowledge, strain for a stronger form of resolution. Elton the practical thinker.

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day 2: short story cont.

Today is like any other. Days in Kansas City, Missouri are hot, long, and routine for Elton. He travels to 11 Subway locations throughout the city, and a couple others in surrounding suburbs, although those are only on occasion. Elton is the owner of these Subways; it’s how he has afforded the best school for 2 children, the best jewelry for his wife Clara, the best cars, the best homes -- he owns a summer home in addition to his 7 bedroom home 15 minutes outside of Kansas City -- and everything else that resides in his life. 

Having said that, he works tirelessly and meticulously. Every day, he drives to each of the 11 store locations and speaks with the manager. He inspects every detail: he watches sandwich preparation, cleans and reorganizes the store in the back, sorts the chips in the counters by color either before or after hours, and makes sure everything is flawlessly in place. He leaves his home in the suburbs before sunrise and returns after sunset. Anyone in the community knows -- rather, they think they know -- why he works so hard even after achieving success by most metrics. To them, he works to provide for himself and his family. To Elton, however, the reason bears a slightly more bitter taste.

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day 1: beginning of short story

Prompt: A middle-aged man who owns a chain of subways in the bible belt

The 6th of June; summer of 1988. It’s the kind of day that feels like on fire. It’s as though everyone on earth is an ingredient in a kitchen for an enormous individual, and today, everyone is being tossed into a crockpot to cook evenly and intensely. Imagine 5 billion people piled together with proportionally sized beans, browned beef, and sauteed vegetables as what will soon be a hearty meal. That’s how hot today is.

A freshly polished and waxed  -- but unimposing --  charcoal-grey sedan pulls into a strip mall on Daytona Drive. Parking right in front of Subway, Elton puts the car in park and pulls up the handbrake. His gold chain-link bracelets, necklaces, and yellow gold rings hug tightly onto his inflated wrists and fingers as he unbuckles his seatbelt, takes a sip from his watered down fountain soda, and slowly gathers the energy to step out of the car. 

Elton always dresses cleanly and professionally. His mahogany penny loafers match perfectly with his leather belt; he has a collection of 21 short-sleeved button-down shirts that vary in pastel colors -- his favorite is the salmon pink. His shirt is always tucked tightly into khakis, and he always wears an undershirt. He has a large belly that flops over his waistline, but he wears it nicely -- he tucks so tightly that he’s more like a slick seal than a man who has lost control of his weight. 

His grey-speckled hair is slicked backward onto his scalp with not a hair out of place. Aviator-framed glasses (with clear lenses) are meticulously polished with a pocket handkerchief every hour on the hour, and in his left pocket resides his ever-present pocket watch. Time is a valuable resource for Elton Conway.

Today is like any other. Days in Kansas City, Missouri are hot, long, and routine for Elton. He travels to 11 Subway locations throughout the city, and a couple others in surrounding suburbs, although those are only on occasion.