tcreativewriting

[tcreativewriting]

Make It Fit

That was the third time the man had contacted me. The first time I had just arrived back from a vacation in Spain and the voicemail left me flummoxed. He had a strange accent that I couldn't quite identify. In the message he kept going on and on about some chrysanthemum and always ended his sentences with a whisper-like "Aight!". But this most recent message was even stranger; he said he had found a loophole in the indelible contract we had signed. His stern, hard speaking was juxtaposed by the man giggling after whispering bubbles. I have since changed my number, and switched phone services, but the calls don't stop, and now the letters have started.

[tcreativewriting]

Epitaph

This ground holds Ty;

However not hallowed but visited none the less.

A man who’s kindness was his life.

Through comedy and pain,

Against odds and for others,

A live lived for others, a life of a friend.

Though he is gone now,

The stories live on and the remembrance is strong.

Farewell now, Ty. Farewell but never goodbye.

[tcreativewriting]

Where I’m From

I'm from freshly-cut grass and dragged dirt,

From towering bushes encompassing a hiding place.

I'm from tattered playing cards and card tables,

From late night and early morning laughter.

I'm from spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread

From tradition that we keep.

I'm from dugouts and pitchers mounds;

I'm from concession stands and press-boxes

I'm from skinned knees and rugged clothes,

From long days of playing and short nights of sleeping.

I'm from monkey bars and metal slides

From gaga ball pits and whiffle-ball fields

I'm from holidays and get-togethers being common

I'm from everyone is family.

I am from home.

[tcreativewriting]

As You Wish You Were

Hello, my names Jackson but you can call me Jack for short. What I do might be a little hard to believe, but trust me, it is. I am the equivalent of a "treasure hunter", no I don't find old, tattered maps in attics or fight pirates and search for treasure chests. I'm an explorer, I go out to the still unidentified corners of the globe and search them for indigenous peoples, lost civilizations, or any artifacts that may be left behind. Despite the use of satellite and all the technology we have today, there are still areas undiscovered to humans. My team and I go out and find these places, we have discovered Angkor artifacts, Roanoke documents and even a lost city which we dated to be a Mayan base. I am the "leader" of my team but we all play a huge role, my specialty is navigator and history expert. My dad was a cartographer, so i have a knack for reading maps, also navigating includes deciding whether scaling the face of the mountain free-hand is quicker than walking through a valley and a river. Though there is a lot of places left to be discovered, places are running out and we are a dying breed.

[tcreativewriting]

Six Word Stories

We locked the coffin this time.

What do you mean he’s dead?

[tcreativewriting]

Why I Write

I started writing, like really writing, my freshman year for my first Creative Writing class. I write for the benefit of myself and others, I write to bring joy and excitement to other people's lives. I don't write simply for my own benefit or to make myself seem smarter or better than others but I write because I like to make other people feel something that excites them. My main goal when I write is to create a world, a visual scene in the mind that forces you to see every action as it unfolds on the paper. With my writing I also hope to inspire other people to write and do the same things that I tried to do. Writing is something that everyone can benefit from whether its for knowledge, entertainment, or just interest; when I write I try to do everything I can to make the reader and myself enjoy the world they're being submersed in.

[tcreativewriting]

Poetry

The Taker

Bodies arrive whenever they see fit,

Charging me with their needs and wants.

They never ask if I want to do it,

But they threaten me with years of haunts.

They speak to each other like birds in the trees.

They whisper and sing of things I don’t know;

I listen, but their voices mix with the breeze.

But once I heard them wishing they didn’t have to go.

When they call upon me, I take them away,

Out to the field where many are.

I lower them down, to the hole; freshly made.

They are still close but now seem far.

They sit up and mock me

As if I was below them

But only if they knew they would soon be

6 feet below me.

Voodoo

It sits motionless, taunting you, begging you for interaction,

Its button eyes stare you down blankly as you pass by.

It shifts, trying to grab your attention, testing your reaction,

You try not to give it power, because then no one can die.

It mocks your fear by overwhelming stillness, driving you mad,

It knows you can’t move it, that power remains within it.

It’s now begging for your touch, wanting you to add

Another name to its power, as large as a bottomless pit.

You find yourself only inches away from it now, hypnotizing you.

You try to break eye contact but the button-hole pupils hold you steady.

You plead for its mercy, the horror it can release you very well knew.

The voice starts penetrating your skull, asking if you’re ready.

You lose all hope of escaping, your mind now captive by fear.

You slowly grab it and turn its head to its back, still whispering “No”.

You hear the voices stop and the trance be broken, still in tears.

You drop the doll as you hear the loud scream from the busy street below.

60 feet 6 inches

My hand tightly grips the red stitching

I stand up straight, adjusting my posture

Everyone wants my job, but I’m the one pitching.

The batter strolls up to plate, bat in hand, looking cocky.

He thinks he can hit me, but he is just another name on the roster

He digs his foot in, eyes locked on mine

I give him a smirk and nod my head to the catcher

My left foot slides off the mound and the right turns to its side,

I turn my body and kick my leg up high, the ball hidden.

I lean forward and whip the ball, he wanted it, he was nicknamed The Basher.

My leg planted hard and threw my weight forward,

The red yarn roughly rolled off my fingers.

My eyes fixed on the thick glove I threw the ball toward,

The sound of wsssh the ball made as it flew off my hands and hurdled at him.

I threw the fastball with all I had, and the dirt from it still lingers.

His eyes were trained on the spinning orb of white.

The crowd was silent in the second of time between the ball’s position switch,

He lifted his foot, and squeezed the bat tight, he was going to swing with all his might.

As my other foot landed my glove dropped in preparation to field;

But he swung and missed, 0 and 1 on the batter, next pitch.

I have the advantage now, I have the upper hand,

His grip tightens and his cleats dig further into the dirt.

He slams his bat on home plate, hoping to not get fanned.

I scan the catchers fingers for the pitch nod my head in agreement.

I position my fingers correctly and grip the ball till they hurt.

The catcher had flashed a two, the curveball was coming,

My fingers slide next to the laces and my thumb secures the bottom.

I could see in his eyes he wanted the fastball, he wanted it humming.

He waved the bat back and forth, swaying hypnotically,

I go through my motion, kick my leg high, knowing in my mind that I got ‘em.

The ball is flung from my hand dragged down by my fingers,

The red dot of the laces forms and the ball shoots down.

He swings early, right over the top of it, a real big swinger.

The catcher drops to his knees to secure the tumbling pitch,

He exhales sharply, he was tired of me making him look like a clown.

He chokes up on the bat, rhythmically swaying it back and forth,

I reset on the mound and come set with my pitch ready.

The heater was coming, this was the last pitch, there wouldn’t be a fourth.

I push the ball deep into my glove as I turn and throw my knee up high ,

The seams fly off my fingertips as the ball barrels home steadily.

His eyes lit up, this was the payoff pitch, right in the sweet spot,

My right leg came down as I squared myself to the plate, thinking strikeout,

He smirked back, thinking he beat me, like he ever had a shot

He lifts his foot off the ground and shoots his hands at the ball seaming

He swings right through it, the umpire through his hand up, strike three, you're out.

[tcreativewriting]

Short Story

Ty Overhiser

Creative Writing - 4

February 5, 2018

Beer, Wine, and Spirits

The night ended late again, Wesley wandered out of the bar, lightly staggering to his car parked adjacent to the pub. He climbed in his car, thinking slowly as ever about if he should drive home. Impaired thoughts and the one-o’clock time slot mixed to form a wavering decision to make the five minute drive home. He drove off, the dimly lit bar fading in the distance, arriving home to quickly fall asleep as he barely managed to make it to the couch.

Hours later Wesley shot awake, the headache pierced all throughout his brain. He forgot he had to go in to the office on Saturday with his friend Jackson; Jackson joined the front office of the Middleville Attackers last year as a base-level recruiter, paired with Wesley’s three year “veteran” experience, they made a great recruiting team. At the time the Attackers were an astounding 13-32 baseball team for an independent league, and Wesley, the longest tenured employee of the front office, was the head recruiter. During the season was a dead period for recruiters, only having to prepare for the off-season, so the six hour days and four day weeks meant for many trips to his favorite pub, 88’s. Wesley left his house at 9:06 for his job at 8:30, he arrived at work and slipped by the manager to get to his office where Jackson was waiting.

“You look like shit.” Jackson scoffed as he sipped his grande coffee.

“Thanks for the reminder, what do we got today?” Wesley replied still half-awake.

“Planning recruiting trips and — ” Jackson was interrupted by Eric Johnson, the manager, as he threw down a folder on the desk.

“Get this done by the end of the day guys, thanks.” He quickly jutted out as he passed by, taking off to the elevator.

“And—” Jackson continued.

“And whatever the hell that is.” Wesley sighed with a smile. He proceeded to grab the envelope and sliced it open with his pocket knife, and pulled out the slim stack of papers.

“Always giving us his work.” Jackson groaned, finishing off his coffee, and pitching in the nearby trash can.

“Eh, give ‘em a break, he’s getting a divorce.” Wesley replied, scanning the papers.

“Well you think he’d be a pro at that by now.” Jackson shot back, expecting a laugh by his partner, but only got silence.

“Speaking of “pro’s” this is a trade proposal he wants us to review.” both men groaned at the amount of thinking and time that ‘Eric Johnson, manager of the Attackers’ would put into this, which is what the final report would say. Wesley let out a big yawn as their project neared its end.

“Man what did you do last night?” Jackson asked.

“Ah yea-” Wesley laughed “just another night down at my favorite bar.” Wesley continued.

“Oh nice, was it Ziggy’s or that new place, um, um Ray Ray’s?” Jackson asked as they walked to leave, the office dead, the team practiced outside, turning no heads.

“Naw , just ole 88’s.” Wesley responded following by the thud of the heavy door.

“No, come on seriously, which one, I might wanna join you?”

“I’m serious, 88’s is a good little place.” Wesley insisted. They both stood by their cars respectively, next to each other in the small 30-space parking lot. Jackson spoke again, “Dude come on, you know that place burned down over 5 years ago.”

Wesley froze, making sure he heard correctly, “What?” he asked.

“Man you musta been hammered at-- well wherever you went, anyways, see you tomorrow.” Jackson closed his door and peeled out of the parking lot as dusk was beginning to fall. Wesley stood there froze still thinking about the words that were said to him, his hand stuck on the door handle that was pulled, but not enough to unclasp the lock. He shook his head and climbed in his car, driving straight home and having to pull his attention off of his confusion to prevent crashing. He pulled in his driveway, the same quizzical look still on his face. He walked up to his house spotting his neighbor, Josh across the way, in desperate need of sane human contact, he shouted out to him, “Hey Josh.”

“Oh, hey Wes, what’s happening?” Josh asked surprised.

“Not much, hey, you know the bar 88’s, down on 5th?” Wesley asked eagerly.

“Yea I know the place, I been there a few times.” Josh replied.

“Oh good,” Wesley said, relieved. “Cause my friend was sayi--”

“Shame what happened though…” Josh interjected, causing Wesley’s stomach to do flips in frightful anticipation of the rest of his sentence.

“W-What?” is all Wesley could muster.

“You know the fire, completely wrecked the place, like 14 people died.” Josh sighed. Wesley couldn’t formulate a response, he quickly turned back to his car even more confused, confused with fear. Josh spoke up, “Well good talking to ya… I guess?”

Wesley got into his car, threw the gear-shift in reverse, and clipped the fence-post on his way out, he sped down the road, driving becoming nearly subconscious to him. He drifted into a final few turns as he zoomed down 5th. He reached 88’s by the time it was completely dark, he recalled that he’d never actually seen the place during the day. It still looked as lively as ever, the same 8 cars parked in what seemed like the same 8 spots. Wesley called up Jackson and told him he was at 88’s, “Wait what? Why are you down there? It’s an empty lot.” Jackson laughed in response.

“No dude I’m telling you, it’s right here, old 88’s, good as ever.” Wesley pleaded.

“You’re either drunk or really trying to pull my leg, but I got a date tonight man, I’ll see you tomorrow…”

“No, Jack wait!” Wesley yelled.

“...crazy kid....” Jackson said as he trailed off and hung up the phone. Leaving Wesley alone with his crazy thoughts, and forcing him to face the fact he’s been putting off entering the bar. Wesley built up the courage to open the door and walk to the bar. 32 steps, each one creating a new fear or worry. He reached the door staring through the tinted, smudged glass and rowdy bar inside. He placed his hand on the door and pushed, immediately being hit with the scent of beer and wings, the sound of “Honky Tonkin’” by Hank Williams pierced the air, and the taste of thick air pursed his mouth. He inhaled deeply, not knowing what to expect tonight; he’s been going to this bar for around 8 years now and he’s gone really close with all the regulars and bartenders, he even knows some of their drinks. Wesley slowly entered the dingy room, Gerald was over in the corner as usual, drinking a beer. Tom and Martin were in a high intense game of pool with at least three rounds of drinks on that single game. Stacy and her sister, Mary, were at a table talking with Rick and John, the only uncomfortable part of the night was having to mutter through there insufferable flirting. Ace and Marianne were behind the bar as usual, drinking as customers, but the best servers in town. Wesley continued forward, only a few steps from the bar, to his usual seat next to Roger and a few stools down from Avery. He glanced one more time behind him and saw Mark, the owner, coming in from a smoke, followed by Sherri and Steve, the couple who always came in after him. He plopped down in his spot, only having to acknowledge Ace to get his drink going, Roger coughed into a greeting, “Hey kid, ‘bout time you got here.”

Wesley was hesitant to respond, “I don’t want to offend anybody...” he thought, “wait, offend them of being dead, they’ll just laugh at me...but these guys don’t take kindly to crazy, I don’t wanna get kicked out either.” Wesley finally spoke up, “Hey Roge, does today feel a little weird to you?”

“No,” Roger replied, not taking his eyes off the T.V. “just a regular day, how ‘bout ya self?”

“Eh, pretty weird, my friend told me something crazy…” Wesley continued, relieved but cautious, “he said that this place went down in a fire like 5 years ago, ha.”

The bar went silent, even Hank Williams stopped for the audacity of Wesley, he dared not move but he felt all 28 eyes on him, even Roger-- who didn’t move his eyes.

“What the hell did you just say boy?” Roger said sternly. Wesley finished off his fourth drink, with Ace’s signature hint of lime, wasn’t a refill coming, no sound at all except the light static murmur of the T.V.

“He said uh...that this place...burned down around 5 years ago.” Wesley spat out. Roger, followed by the rest of the bar erupted into laughter, Wesley was so confused and frustrated he just grabbed the refill Ace finally gave him and chugged it. The laughter died down, and Roger spoke up, “I guess it was only a matter of time till you found out kid.”

Wesley’s heart sank, “What?”

“Yeah. good old 88’s here has been rubble for years, along with us, its regulars, who are now its ‘permanent’-ers.” Which led to bits of laughter. “It ain't surprising you don’t remember, the fire started cause of all this old neon and wiring, it lit all the walls up right off the bat, heh, we never had a chance kid. But you were in the bathroom and musta crawled out the window when you saw the smoke, you must’ve been so smashed that when you finally got to your car, you were passed out, and slept till morning. When morning came you couldn’t remember anything and the bar looked ordinary, you came back the next night.” Roger spoke so passionately when he wanted to, along with what could be a tear forming in his eye. Wesley was speechless, the alcohol in his system wasn’t helping process this either.

“You better get home kid, it was nice knowing ya Wes.” Ace said with a smile. The first time anyone called him by his name instead of the usual ‘bud’, ‘kid’ or occasional ‘honey’ by Marianne. Wesley staggered out to his car and drove home, never saying or really thinking anything, just replaying Roger’s words.

Wesley woke up, only Jackson’s words were on his mind. He got in his car and drove straight to 88’s, needing some closure on this chaos. He pulled into the lot, no cars, no signs, no building; only ash, dirt, and rubble was left. Wesley was overwhelmed with so many emotions he didn’t know what to feel, until a flash of light caught his eye and he looked over to see a whiskey glass with Captain Morgan, his favorite. He quickly gulped it down, as he finished the drink he  tasted one thing; a small hint of lime.

[tcreativewriting]

Personal Narrative

Ty Overhiser

Creative Writing EFA

March 30, 2018

Holidays, But No Vacation

The house where our family holidays are spent has a lot of memories and adventures within it. Built by my grandfather, lived in by my grandma and aunt, and visited by, well, pretty much everyone. Christmas, Easter, New Year’s Day and Eve, Fourth of July, all delegated to the place we simply call “The House”. Each holiday uses a different facet of the house, Christmas is downstairs in the forever-decorated basement coupled with New Year’s Day. New Year’s Eve in the living room for New Year's Rockin’ Eve and Easter as well for the first baseball games of the season also with the patio and kitchen. The Fourth is cast out to the fire pit and backyard, with no cover from fireworks. Each holiday brings a new joy and experience to me, some life-altering, some miniscule but memorable. There’s a long and hilarious list of Deviled Egg mishaps and Christmas Present capers, but I’ll just narrow in on one Christmas Day to try and give you some insight on the pure… nuttiness of my family.

The day starts out hectic, but it only grows more so. Dinner time is set at 1 p.m. but that time is a tentative hard-lock, because after we have our own Christmas morning at home and we have to get ready to bring the Santa-sized bag of gifts over along with the trays of food. So, yes, dinner is happening at 1, unless of course it doesn't. On average the Christmas-basement will hold 11 people, but in this particular case, the “Ultimate Christmas” was in full effect, which means nearly 20 people will be attending with gifts, food, and appetites. The chaos that ensues is all pure fun and family-loving right? Excessively inaccurate actually, even the happiest and most joyous occasions can cause breakdowns in the family. Our classic Christmas dish, spaghetti and meatballs (and potatoes, and eggs, and bread; which they don’t care to mention in the recipe), is made in the late morning. The sauce, homemade from tomato paste and tupperware-contained spices, is concocted in a large crockpot with eggs, potatoes, and self-rolled meatballs, usually done by yours truly, added later. Noodles are discussed heavily, whether Al Dente or fully cooked, and which noodle, spaghetti or rigatoni, should get smothered in sauce first. As Italians, food is our roots; it’s what brings us together regardless of what ethnicity the food is prepared, and there’s always a lot.

My grandpa, on my moms side, is the deliverer of this tradition and heritage; 100% Italian. Though he passed before me, his traditions and values are strongly felt throughout our family. One tradition that has been carried out for 40+ years is “Friday Night”. It started as a trip with him and grandma and the five kids to get burgers, fries, and chocolate shakes and expanded to a way to celebrate birthdays, get food, and play games. My grandma Joanne “Joanie” insists on having true, homemade spaghetti dinner for her birthday which is January 1st but is delegated to Christmas. She also whips up batch after batch of completely homemade Christmas cookies; frosted snowmen and sprinkled Santa’s. My aunt Linda lives with my grandma in the same house she grew up in, she is the kind of person that has a place for everything and everything has its place, along with a label-maker. She is usually the ring-leader and hostess to our circus-like gatherings. Making the eggs and noodles is her decorated position, she has a process that is true and thorough, usually the last one down the stairs not due to her age, well mostly, but making sure the upstairs has passed inspection before descending to Holiday City in the basement. The madness of the holiday stretch between Thanksgiving and Christmas posed an idea, just keep the basement in Christmas decorum all year long, the crisp air down there contributes to the mindset.

Along with the aforementioned members of the family, three or four families of sons, daughters, and cousins join us. My dad is in charge of getting a good seat, making sure the pop is cold,  the TV is on and, most importantly, making people laugh, the appetizer to the Italian feast. My brother, now married, usually supplies my grandma’s cheese-bread, passing the recipe to him for a special occasion and even if he slips up and forgets, there is probably a loaf in the freezer from 2005. My mom, much to the detest of the family, has decided to bring Deviled eggs, the ��classic’ Christmas dish, these past few years. Before that questionable decision, she came strong with garlic bread prep and supervision. The next family, travels from Vicksburg littered with gifts, electronics, and spaghetti expertise.

One of the most interesting family members who makes it extra special is my uncle Steve, coming up from Texas usually with his son and daughter. Steve is the kind of uncle who has story after story usually including hilarity mixed with life-threatening situations and ridiculous positions such as a metal fishing boat in the lake during a severe thunderstorm with a broken engine. He not only brings comedy, fun, excitement but also mischief and trouble; whether it’s a small thing like leaving the milk out, or large one like treating a “No Trespassing” sign as a suggestion. Coupled with his brother Dan, who makes the 5 hour journey south and the main chef of the spaghetti. They can create a lot of fun and mischief all with a few words and looks.

This large, Italian, dysfunctionally hilarious family makes any gathering interesting and loving. I feel very blessed to be included in this heap of family and cherish every gathering as they are the few times the whole family comes together. Home-invented card games of Nertz and 13, and board games like Monopoly and scategory are the main pastimes. Pizza King pizza, Root Beer Stand hot dogs, Joanie’s Christmas cookies and baked beans the main delicacies of the Guarisco name. Late nights of stories and early mornings of breakfast and shopping, snowball fights breaking out randomly, needing extra chairs almost regularly all encompass our gatherings. This family has been like this for as long as I know and any of my family does, they have shaped who I am as a person and what I believe is right. Though the Italian blood may have Mafia ties and late nights with Steve and Dan may cause trouble, the family will always make it through.