First Draft; Story for 408: A Yellow Submarine

Comments, criticisms, anything in general are always appreciated. Don't steal. I worked hard.

"A Yellow Submarine"

His jeans are crispy. He doesn’t use fabric softener. He lifts my favorite powder blue cami over my head. Did I shave my pits? I hope they don’t smell. He doesn’t look repulsed, so maybe I’m okay. I don’t know why he thinks I like it when he kisses my neck. It is a snail slithering its slimy, snot-covered body on my skin, leaving a sticky trail behind it. It is marking its path and its territory, wondering which flower in the garden it can terrorize next.

He has amazing hands, though. He knows how to use them; he knows how to flutter his fingers just the right way that sets the bumps on my skin rising to the height of a skyscraper. If I could only have his hands, the two faceless, lifeless servants then I’d be eternally satisfied. I like it when he leaves the TV on in his bedroom whenever we fool around. I always get so bored with his incessant tonguing, but at least I’m caught up on episodes of Lost.

He’s fiddling with my bra; he’s clumsy. I reach around behind me and unhook the clasps for him, then throw the white lace cups at his face. He thinks it’s playful and endearing, but I roll my eyes with indifference. I lie on my back, on top of the sheets of his double bed, with my breasts bare and all he can do is stare at them. It always seems to be a sub zero temperature in his room and now I’m shivering. I try pulling his arms towards me, but he’s too stiff and won’t budge. Maybe he doesn’t want to get too close for fear that I’ll gouge out his chestnut eyes with the shriveled and taut raisins on my chest. I wish he would just man up, grab a hold of them, and conquer me like a Viking brute, but he’s more like a Victorian gentleman steeped with brandy after a cocktail party.


On our first date, he suggested that we play an icebreaker game. I was mousy and so quiet that he might have been losing his patience trying to strike up a conversation with me. The game was to tell one another a vulnerable secret or experience from our past. I scanned my brain and examined all the events of my youth, which raced through in microsecond flashes of images. When I didn’t say anything right away, he cleared his throat and began to talk.

There was an insecure girl and she began with occasional slaps to the face. He couldn’t always physically be there for her, and she resented that. Then she became violent. She swung right hooks to his jaw. Her elbows dug into his ribs. He was too ashamed to call the police and believed all dignity and manhood relied on his ability to handle her, but she overpowered him. So he walked away beaten and broken-hearted, reluctant to touch and to love, and she quickly found someone else to happily drown with her fears.

When he was through, he was red in the face and stared blankly into space. I didn’t know him that well, yet, and I wasn’t sure how to console him. So I blurted out my icebreaker.

“I first masturbated to orgasm when I was 13,” I said, darting my eyes to him. “I felt so ashamed of myself that I actually prayed to God, asking for forgiveness after I did it.”

I was expecting an eruption of laughter, but his beautiful browns only looked into mine with an amused smile. He patted my arm tenderly and said, “That’s very cute.”

We had planned for the simple dinner and a movie date that evening, but we sat in his jalopy canary yellow Volkswagen. We went nowhere. We remained huddled close together, unveiling confessions and submersed under the protection of our solitude.


Now as I lay topless on his bed and he loosens the buttons on his crispy jeans, I start to have jitters coupled with nervous girlish giggles. He pulls off the blue jeans, followed by his heather gray boxer briefs. Oh Jesus—it’s like a rifle. I cover my mouth, hoping he doesn’t see the abject horror splayed upon my face. I feel like I’m about to meet my impending doom, like the crew aboard U-47. He starts to work on my jeans and successfully pulls them off, along with my bikini panties.

I reach to my right to his bed stand and reluctantly grab a box of condoms. I hand him one from the package and as he is rolling the slippery latex on himself, I fight the urge to laugh in his face. It is utterly ridiculous. It’s a submarine, gearing up to plunge into the deep caverns of uncharted waters. His body looms over me and he supports himself on his knees and arms. When our eyes connect, there is a moment of clarity, like a sip of red wine paired to accent a meaty meal. I see his face, an old soul marred by a lifetime of feeling inadequate. I can’t laugh at him; I shouldn’t. He smiles and lays a kiss on my lips so powerful that dozens of colors dance behind my closed eyelids. I brace my hands on the top of his broad shoulders and right before we take the plunge, I ask him to turn the television off. He returns to me and his hips meet mine. I am no longer laughing or afraid. Down, down we go.

Dystopic Observation (updated to include reading)

I spent about an hour on Sunday afternoon, driving around my neighborhood in Eagle Rock. I stopped at a red light, just a mere half a block away from my apartment. I was in the middle lane and there were a few cars in the right lane. When the light turned green, the first car wasn’t moving, so the driver behind honked their horn, probably thinking they didn’t see that the light had turned green. The driver signaled for them to go on ahead. So the first car stayed stuck there at the light and turned on their emergency lights while everyone behind them passed by.

We have all had instances where we’ve passed someone who has car trouble and/or is stuck on the side of the road. What I think is dystopian about the actions of the drivers, and the point that I am trying to make is that here is just one example of our society. We can be more or less selfish; and care about our own actions and our individual selves—not necessarily a Good Samaritan type of world. I know that we’ve been talking about socialism and the egalitarian types of societies in dystopia, but this is the opposite of that. No one is really equal. Some people can afford to have their cars running in tip top shape. Some can’t afford to keep their cars reliable.

In a true dystopian society, I think that’s citizens might be; in fact, they may be even worse tenfold because under a totalitarian government, you would do everything you can to stay on the good side of the law, and disregard everyone else. There’s no equal ground. You’re out to save yourself from getting chained and to achieve your own individual success.

This is related to our reading in 1984, particularly the portions that describe the citizens of Oceania. They watch the beheadings and are completely desensitized by it. It's more like sport or entertainment. That's how we react to traffic accidents on the side of the freeway. It's just another thing that makes us spectators.

Fiction in Bits: ENGL 408

Fiction in bits...I think that's rather self-explanatory. The bare bones of it means that a story is written in fragments that the reader is meant to piece together. To some, this might seem a very disjointed and disruptive way of reading a story, but this is something that we are looking at and discovering in my 408 class. So here's a story, using pictures provided by our professor. We were to create a story using the pictures. I am not going to post the pictures here because they are not my property, nor am I entirely sure if my professor would want others seeing the photos. With that said, I hope that my story is informative enough where you don't need the photos to see it.

"The Chicken or the Egg"

17 06 2005 12:17
Stanley Theotokis stands before his late father’s old grocer mart on the exit Razor Rd, off the 15 Highway. It is the last day of business before he closes up for good at 4 p.m.

Stan had just put out the last of a cigarette butt, from the last carton sold in the store. He squashed the paper and ash mess with the bottom of his sneaker, erasing with it the years that had faded into a garbled mix of highs and lows, but mostly middle at best. He didn’t want to live with regret or sorrow but felt little inspiration to pursue anything else except to wallow in his own sweat on the dusty stoop of the abandoned mart.

Anatole “Arnold” Theotokis came from Greece thirty five years ago and only brought with him a taste for Ouzo and a baby named Stamitos Theotokis.

“I insist on Stanley now,” he always told strangers when asked about his real name. “Or Stan. Some people call me Stan.”

Two hours before closing, Stan realized that no one else was coming to see the last few moments of Arnold’s Market. He had not bothered to tell people about it, anyway. One customer had come in, named Bud, and he purchased the last bags of old sunflower seeds and a 9V battery. He was a scraggly character, with a few stray gray hairs in his curly mane and his navy blue T-shirt was riding up and exposed a furry, tanned belly button. It appeared to be dry and encrusted with dead skin all over the hair.

“Shoulda sold gas!” he said to Stan, busting over a few chuckles before ending abruptly to cough out phlegm shots. “Yeah, yep. Gas is good money right there. I predict it’ll one day come up to four dollars per gallon. Yes, I am not a good-lookin’ feller, but I’m smart and I get NPR on my little radio.”

His breath was rank when he spoke, and Stanley did his best to hold his head back and hold his breath peacefully. The disheveled man reached into his back pocket, not for his wallet, but for a beat-up handheld radio, stained with black grime in the little crevices and oily streaks all along the back of it. It was once canary yellow, but looked like a light orange to Stan’s eyes. Bud pulled out the antenna swiftly and it was long and rusted. He nearly punched Stan when he did that.

“Heh, see this here’s my radio,” he gleamed with pride. “I get the Vegas radio stations, too. Heh! Give it a listen!”

Bud began to roll the dial through stations, static giving way to static with each and every notch he fiddled. He kept reassuring Stan that he indeed could hear NPR, but was only met with the scratchy dead air.

18 06 2005 3:03
Lizzy Gordon takes Stanley on a hike through the Las Vegas desert. She is pointing to the massive mountain on her right, suggesting that they climb it. Stanley would rather jump off that mountain.

Lizzy spent three years of grad school with Stan, collectively drudging over thesis proposals and hunched over late into the night researching in the dusty aisles of library stacks. He always closed himself off never revealing himself, raising a wall of concrete slabs and stiffening when she started to delve into his feelings. He would brush her off nonchalantly when she did, by a subtle change of the subject, or lapsing in a moment of clumsiness to distract her. Lizzy’s years of tapping his egg shell never produced a single yolk. Stanley was hard-boiled and an impenetrable ghost.

After Arnold’s Mart closed, Lizzy invited Stan for a walk through a hiking trail she frequented. He was reluctant at first, but followed along. She noticed his awkward silence and sensed something wasn’t settling with him. She stopped hiking and outstretched her long arms to embrace her best friend, but he shied away, pulling her shoulders off of him and continued to walk forward without saying a word. She skipped her feet to catch up to him and yelled to his turned back.

“What’s the matter with you!”

He faced her, and suddenly the years began to fill his throat, choking him into the same feelings of vulnerability he never wanted her to witness.

“Talk to me, Stanley,” she said, trying to coax him into her confidence.

He shook his head and muttered a few coarse words under his breath.

18 06 2005 5:42
Bud takes a drink from a tiny pool of water on the ground, a Vegas Oasis or God’s gift to desert scumbags.

“Good. Clean. Natural. Heh!” He chuckled to himself once more.

Along their trail, Stan and Lizzy vowed a semblance of silence between them. She was afraid to say anything and he was afraid of lashing out at his only friend. Then he saw Bud, the NPR guy from yesterday, and he actually felt comforted in seeing a familiar face. It was an unpleasant face, but a familiar one at that. About forty feet away, Stan saw his head bent down sucking the ground.

“Stanley, I don’t want to walk that way. That guy is a Charles Manson crony, or something,” Lizzy said, holding her arms in front of her chest protectively.

“It’s okay. That’s Bud. He was my last customer yesterday,” Stan said with a big grin overcoming his face. “Hey Bud! Bud!”

Bud looked up from his desert oral and the water dripped from his chin. He looked forward, right into the sun’s rays and was blinded for a second. Then he saw the curly-headed boy with the funny name he remembered from yesterday.

“STAMITOS!” he cried out excitedly. “Stamitos Ryokos Papabaklakavich!”

Stan furrowed his brow at Bud’s bizarre attempt to pronounce the Greek names. Then his core began to fill with worry when Bud came forward, unkempt and with an ogling stare at Lizzy.

18 06 2005 6:10
Lizzy and Stan stop at Love’s gas station and marvel at the intermittent cumulus clouds in the sky. They are floating so low to the ground, Stan feels that if they had climbed that mountain, he would be able to touch the clouds.

Bud yelped, from the backseat of Lizzy’s Cavalier. He rapped on Stan’s shoulder repeatedly, pointing to the gasoline price sign.

“Heh! Toldja ya should’ve sold gasoline! Lotsa money, see. And you get pretty girls coming in here. Mmm! See you could’ve made a fortune. If I’da known you were gonna close, I’da helped you with yer business. I know a thing’r two about it. I listen to NPR! So is she your girlfriend?”

Stan shook his head no, then retracted his statement with a gutteral yelp, then shook his head again. His final answer was a shrug. Out of the corner of his eye, he angled his head to glimpse at Lizzy leaning against her car and watching the numbers scrolling rapidly on the gas pumper.

“Don’t matter! I’ll have ‘er if you don’t want ‘er.” Bud said, also leaning over to leer at Lizzy.

18 06 2005 8:28
Just outside of the Circus Circus hotel, Lizzy and Stan spot the billboard for free chips and salsa, and half off a pitcher of margarita.

The two of them caroused with Bud and humor his somewhat witty conversation at the bar in the Blue Iguana restaurant. They treat him to the beer, the pitcher of margaritas, the chips and salsa, while he yammered on about how he invented pencil sharpeners. Bud pats Stan on the shoulder, again very roughly. His already foul breath began to merge with the cheap beer and he was like a dragon, firing off dank and heavy shots of slurred speech laced with foul fire breath.

Bud, caustic and babbling, became completely incoherent and Lizzy and Stan used this as an opportunity to slip away from the table, leaving behind a wad of cash for the drinks. Bud’s head was down, buried in his shoulders, and Stan prodded him on the shoulders the same way Bud did.

“You’re a true pal,” he said smiling, though Bud didn’t bother to look at his fleeing friend.

18 06 2005 10:22
Lizzy and Stan have a moment on the escalator outside of Bally’s hotel. She budgets herself to an evening of gambling only five dollars.

Lizzy never had the chance to gamble her five dollars. They both realized they had filled up on the chips and alcohol and began to exchange lusty looks before locking lips in lime and salt-flavored kisses.

Late into the evening, long after Stan had fallen asleep on his belly, Lizzy was burning and crawled out of bed to blast the air conditioning. She noticed that Stan had left his rolling suitcase open, revealing his personal items. Her eyes darted to Stan, sound asleep. She could make out the curves of his behind using the dim light that seeped through from the Strip through the eggshell curtains. Then she fell back to the suitcase, and in a backhanded attempt to understand her friend, she began to search through the contents.

She could barely see the paper from the sparse light in the room, but noticed a document, and discovered the death certificate of Anatole Theotokis, claiming the cause of death was by natural causes. She dug deeper, moving aside T-shirts and cargo shorts and then discovered a note written in Stanley’s mangled cursive handwriting. It was a lengthy wad of papers, front and back, with ink blotches dotting the pages sporadically.

She began to read, scrunching her eyes together closely to make out the scribble of letters on the blemished and stained pages. In the letter, she finally discovered the person inside of Stanley Theotokis and it was a detestable soul, full of self-loathing and hurtful language. He spoke of wanting to kill his father, but the stroke beat him to it. He hated his friends, and felt all people were vapid and superficial, and no one wanted real substance to any relationship. She resented his resistance and hated him back, if his words were truly his because all the years of trying to crack his shell were for nothing and ended on that night. Lizzy could have killed him there in his sleep, but didn’t want to deprive him the pleasure of doing it himself.

“Sure, jump off that mountain, Stanley,” she uttered with contempt. “And fly with the wings of a chicken.”

ENGL 312: WebCT post due 9/11

Note: This was posted on WebCT discussion board for my ENGL 312: Film & Literature. We are required to do weekly WebCT posts to explore a topic discussed in class. I am speaking in reference to George Orwell's novel, 1984, so if you aren't familiar with it, it might be confusing. However, it's also very relevant to modern pop culture.

Internet & 1984

First off, I just wanted to point out something that had occurred to me
last night. 1984 deals with these issues of Big Brother. He is always
watching you. In that world, someone is always watching your every move
and even your "comrades" are watching you. Children are trained from a
young to spy on their parents. It's a world that wants to create a state
of fear, or we talked about a state of war, to keep every single person
on an even playing field.

Last night, my friend encouraged me to join this network called Twitter.
(http://www.twitter.com). It's a website where you basically type in
your status update, like the status updates you might find on Facebook
or Myspace, but it's simply only a status update. They had told me a
story of a guy who was in prison abroad somewhere. He had his mobile
phone and used Twitter to send a message to all his friends that he was
in jail. He was able to get the American Embassy to intervene and he was
eventually freed from jail.

I joined Twitter. I did it possibly out of curiosity, boredom, or maybe
because of the fact that it's a way to let my friends know what I'm
doing. I think this relates to 1984 because it's basically a website
that lets your friends know what is going on in your life, especially
when you can't see or speak to them on an average basis. On social
networks like Myspace and Facebook, you usually add someone to your
Friends list to branch out your network. I was trying to figure out how
to befriend people on Twitter, when I realized that they didn't call
friends "friends." They are called followers. People who follow you are
your friends, and they can see your updates. You can also be followed so
that other people see your own updates.

I know this sounds like a bit of a stretch, but I thought it was somehow
connected to 1984. I said to my friend that it was a "sad world when
friendship was synonymous with following.' To me, "following," doesn't
sound like a quality of friendship. It sounds more like suspicion,
stalking, and just general insecurity of another person. This is exactly
the type of world that we see in 1984. Nobody has real friends. They're
all just followers or followed.

Why I Like and Don't Like Hooters

I will say I don't like Hooters because of reasons that aren't so obvious. I'm not bothered by busty women clad in short shorts and tennis shoes serving sallivating men. I have a lot of respect for those women. Being a server is hard enough, so that can't be an easy job and I'm sure it's taxing not only physically, but mentally as well. I can't imagine having to sit down and flirt with men I'm not particularly fond of, or find attractive.

With that said, I am going to start with why I do enjoy Hooters. I don't eat at Hooters often. In fact, I have only sat down to eat there once. I enjoy chicken wings. I enjoy that man food. I enjoy that greasy, salty, cholesterol saturated mess because it's damn delicious and my tongue sings when I taste it. I don't care that it's deep fried in oil chicken wings, smothered in a mixture of hot sauce and butter. God, that's good. I digress...the point is that that is a delicious wing and though I don't eat it often, it is a sure treat when I do.

I wouldn't say the atmosphere at Hooters is too cozy. It's reminiscent of what would happen if a women's gym met a sports bar and bore a love child. It will do, though. I went there a whole year ago with a friend of mine and we shared a plate of wings and fries. She ordered a beer to wash it all down. I had water, *sigh*. Unfortunately, I hadn't reached the grand ol' age of 21 yet.

Our server was a beautiful brunette lady, buxom and spry. I am confident enough with my sexuality to say that yes she was beautiful, buxom, and spry. She was very nice, and it didn't seem forced, superficial, or fake at all. I can usually see right through superficiality, too. Either that, or she's a pretty damn good actress. I think for her, serving my friend and I was a nice break because she didn't have to go into flirt mode. She could be one of the girls for just a short moment in time. When we left, she even told us that we should come back on Sunday, for a football game.

"All these young, hot boys will be there," she said excitedly. Now this really tickled my fancy and titillated my hormonal insides. How else is a young, single gal in L.A. supposed to react to a statement like that? So it was nice that our server was relatable, she felt human, and she felt, well...almost like a friend.

Here's the real downside. After our nice meal, my friend and I decided to top off the meal and buy Hooters shirts, because we were so impressed with our experience. I decided to buy a T-shirt that was on sale for $9.99. Normally, the shirts cost $23.99, A week later, I looked at my bank statement and noticed that I had been charged $35.00 at Hooters for my T-shirt! I knew it wasn't from my meal, because I had paid for it in cash. They had basically charged me the sale price in addition to the normal price, which is why it cost $35.

I went back to the store to take it up with a manger. She took my name down and said that she would send it over to corporate and that they would give me a call. They never did call me and I never did get a chance to go back to that Hooters.

What could have been a 5-star experience for me turned out to be merely a 2.5. I had had all faith in Hooters, but it was slashed when I never got my money back. The shirt I own is now tainted with the memory. It doesn't say Hooters to me. It says $35 T-shirt. Maybe I'll come back again when I'm not a poor college student and money is no object.

Movie Review: Smart People (2008)

Here's the basic jist of this film: We have a douchebag English professor (oh gee, I don't know what that is!), played by Dennis Quaid and his dysfunctional family. There's his neglected poetry-writing son (Ashton Holmes), his no-good adopted brother (Thomas Haden Church), and his overbearingly smart Republican daughter (Ellen Page, of Juno fame). Sarah Jessica Parker also contributes as the love interest of Dennis Quaid.

I have been craving offbeat, out-of-the-ordinary films because I find the mainstream blockbusters to just be terribly blasé and the same old clichéd shit. This is not to say that I don't enjoy them. I just search for something a little more cerebral, something to tickle my fancy.

So I wanted to like this movie, truly. There's an English professor, there's a lot of talk about literature, the guy's wife died, leaving a young daughter and a son, who are both messed up. It relates to me a on a personal level. The problem with this movie is that it really lacks substance. This movie fails to connect with its audience, even myself, who can relate to the premise of the film. Dennis Quaid's character, for lack of a better term, is an asshole from start to finish. He finds a love interest and that's the part of the movie where you see the character's evolution from ass to class. He never goes through that--he stays the same very unattractive person and only gains a fraction of heart through his love with Sarah Jessica Parker's character.

Another thing I had a problem with was Ellen Page's character. I've got to admit, I enjoyed watching her in Juno. She plays this character the same way she played Juno, with that smart tongue and know-it-all bravado. She's a conservative Republican and it is apparent that she is very scarred by her mother's death but hides it. She never does what she wants, always inhibits herself. By the end of the film, we see her wanting to break out of her self-imposed shell but still...we as an audience feel absolutely no sympathy for her. There is no character evolution.

Finally, the film itself is pretentious. The title, Smart People, suggests a very holier-than-thou attitude right off the bat. Yes, I picked up the movie because I was drawn to the holier-than-thou title, but like I said, I wanted to see smart people. These were not smart people. These were bland characters that spouted off intelligent words and phrases to sound smart. The writers liberally sprinkled the script with these "smart" words to make it stand out but it fails miserably because it sounds so forced and unnatural.

Like I said, I wanted to like this movie. The soundtrack fit the scenes well and sounded solid, like Juno's soundtrack. So if you're thinking, "well it's an indie film. Of course it's not going to be all roses and candy." A successful story has to relate to the audience, it has to stir the audience to elicit sympathy or some type of emotion, be it fear, happiness, love, sadness, whatever it is. But it's such a slow-paced film, with nothing endearing that I have to give it a big thumbs down. Now I kind of feel like watching Juno.

Temporality: Second Story for ENGL 408

Another story I have written for my ENGL 408 class, focusing on temporality of time. Please read, enjoy, (not enjoy), comment, criticize. I'd love it.


"Cheat Fate"

Jane doesn’t know it, but she hasn’t seen Adrien Lynch in years. She sits in a stiff, plastic leather chair, at a lonesome gray terminal at the Dallas/Fort Worth airport, waiting for her connecting flight to LAX. The minute the plane touches down she knows she has to rush and be ready to meet with Mr. Adrien Lynch for a senior copywriter position at 3 p.m PST in Santa Monica. It is 11 a.m. CT in Dallas. Jane has a boarding time of 11:45. She stands up from the plastic leather chair and feels it prying away from her skin in a quick ripping swipe. Appearing embarrassed, she checks the faces around her, hoping none of them think that she has broken wind. Jane quickly walks off, rolling her suitcase behind her, and humming a tune to herself. She stops into a souvenir store and decides to buy a half-liter of Arrowhead, two postcards, a hot pink T-shirt with an Etch-A-Sketch-like drawing of downtown Dallas, and a Danielle Steele novel. No one has ever complimented her on her taste.

She returns to Gate 27 at Terminal C and sits down in the very same plastic leather chair that clung to her things. It is uncomfortably moist and warm and she hopes it was from her own body heat. The ringer on her cell phone then starts to go off, the phone vibrating violently against the side of her purse. She fumbles around, searching for the noise and manages to find her old Nokia two rings before the voicemail answers. Then the phone fumbles out of her slippery fingers and under the seat. The message left in her voice mailbox:

“Hi, is this Jane? This is Mr. Lynch’s assistant. He just called the office and informed me that he will be running a little late this afternoon. I’m calling all of his appointments to push them back a half an hour. Your appointment now will be at 3:30. Thanks, bye bye.”

***

Adrien Lynch was feeling self-important the morning he nearly cancelled his appointments. He rolled over in bed and the cotton sheets twisted around his ankles. He accidentally elbowed his companion in the small of her back. She groans with discomfort, but otherwise doesn’t awaken from her deep sleep. Adrien pushed his disheveled blonde hair back, and fiddled around looking for a clock or his Blackberry, anything that told time. His eyes were clouded and his head felt heavy. He blinked his eyes around the room, trying to orient himself. The clock read 10 a.m. PST on his Blackberry. He recalled he had made a phone call about an hour ago to his office in Santa Monica. Terry answered the phone. Terry took down his messages. He was in the clear for a few more hours.

The girl lying next to him in bed began to wriggle, feeling Adrien’s shuffling movements. She twisted around to face him and smiled. She perched her head onto his chest and pressed her body against his. Adrien felt the soft breaths escape from her body as they grazed the lumpy expanse of his stomach.

“Did you think about what we talked about last night?” she asked him, with a soft, sleepy voice.

“About what?” he asked.

“The divorce. Are you going through with it or not?”

“Carol, it’s a little early in the morning for this,” he said, slightly irritated. He was gently trying to pull her body away from his. She giggled again, through a breathy voice, thinking that he was trying to tickle her. She hoped he was going to change his mind.

“Right. I’ll make some coffee and then we can come back here and talk about it,” she said, flashing a bright, cheeky smile. Adrien shook his head, brushing her off. He tossed the blankets off of him and knelt down to gather his clothes. He started to dress with his back turned to her, quickly pulling on all of his clothes.

“You already know what my answer is, Carol. I’m not going to repeat it.” He turned to face her, hurriedly buttoning his baby blue collared shirt. He shook his head once again. He picked up his wedding ring from the night stand and put it on in front of her. Then he slid it off again and tossed onto the bed I front of her.

“Look honey,” he began to say. “I love … what we’ve got right now, but I think you’re getting your hopes up a little too high right now. I think it’s best that we just break it off. Think of me as being a good guy, saving you all the misery before it gets way too complicated.”

Carol pursed her lips together, in an effort to keep her lips stiff. She tried to fight the heavy lead feeling in her throat and forced her eyes close together. Realizing that she had left herself completely bare for him to see all of her, she no longer felt safe with him. Instinctively, she brought the sheet over her body, modestly covering herself. She pushed her long, chestnut hair back and solemnly looked down, not wanting to face him. She wanted him to take his ring off. She knew he didn’t mean any of it.

“Just leave, Adrien. Before I start saying things I never mean to say to you, because I love you that much, leave now.”

“I’m sorry--”

“--I hope you find the woman who’s worth leaving your wife,” she added, wanting the final word.
***
Jane’s mind is a racecar track, constant circuits of thoughts breezing by, preoccupying her mind on the drive from LAX to home. She wants to see her mother, but she’s at tea. She wants to see her brother, but he’s at work. She passes by the McDonald’s on Colorado in Glendale, where she remembers playing in the playground. A boy, a year or two older than she, had hazel eyes and blonde hair with a rat’s tail, and wore untied BK Lights shoes. He tried to show her all his secret passageways and all the different tunnels that were like mysteries yet to be untapped. All Jane could say to him was: “You shouldn’t be wearing your shoes in the playground.”

She freshens up and makes a cross-town trek to Santa Monica, just in time for her 3:30 with Adrien Lynch. She enters the room and sits across from him. To Jane, Adrien is neither intimidating nor a friendly face. She spots a 32-ounce cup of soda from McDonald’s, condensing on his desk. This, she figures, is probably why he was late for the appointment.

Through the interview, Adrien fiddles with his golden wedding ring, pulling it on and off. He is immediately taken by Jane, who seems like a stiff, but a stiff he’d like to break. Then he finally leaves the ring on his left finger, letting it glimmer against the harsh lights of the office. No woman, he thinks to himself, is worth leaving Carol.

(End note: Do not steal! I am not Maya Angelou or Stephen King.)

Swindled! Hustled!

Here's a fancy pants trick to pull a fast one on your schoolmate brethren. Watch how a girl wins back her money, preying on the weak and cloudy-headed.

If you go to a commuter school, (which I do), you know that finding a parking spot is an elusive treasure hunt. It's a touch and go situation, where timing, strategy, and hunting, are used to track down a wary student and follow them to their car. Sometimes they'll catch your eye and tell you exactly where their car is, everything down to the type, color, maybe even year (from the car enthusiasts). Or if they're not leaving, just going to the car to refresh themselves, some are courteous enough to wave away the "I'm not leaving finger." Some understand that just a shake of the head means that the student is not leaving.

Conversely, some students will downright give you an evil eye. They might not acknowledge you. They press their greasy ears against cell phones to appear to look busy just so they can avoid you and your anxious need for a parking spot. Or as I see it these days, they talk into bluetooth devices now, which just makes you look crazy, in addition to being slightly bitchy. I've seen all and more of these types of things.

Yesterday morning, I was rushing to school. I had a family emergency to take care of and I left my home a little later than I needed to get to class on time. At my school, parking on the street is available, but there are zones that prohibit parking for more than few hours. So if you need to stay on campus for a long time, you have to park several blocks away. I decided to bypass parking on the street and to pay the ripoff price of $5 for a day permit on campus.

The problem with that was the fact that there was a gigantic car pileup so it was difficult to efficiently drive onto campus without long waiting times. I was already late by the time I arrived at the parking lot. Luckily, I tracked down a girl who was leaving. One of those "on-the-cell-I'm-busy-types" but I really didn't care. When I parked, I ran out of the car to a ticket vending machine to buy a permit when I hear "hey!"

After a few moments, I realized it was that same girl whose spot I had taken. She offered to let me buy her parking permit because she wasn't going to use it. I was already late, I was having trouble with my personal problems at home, I wasn't thinking straight. I decided to take her up on the offer. I only had a $5 bill but I said, brushing her off "Just keep it. I was going to pay five bucks anyway." She just let me have it for $4, so I received $1. As she pilfered through her powder blue wallet for change, I spotted a bulging amount of twenty-dollar bills. I guess it was a win-win situation, but in retrospect, that girl hustled and her win was greater. She basically got her money back for the permit she bought and I was down $4. What a smart bitch! This is an example of how the rich get richer and the poor stay poor in our so-called advanced and capitalist society. I was played like a fool. I have got to work on my hustling skills. I'll bet you're really loving capitalism now.

First story for ENGL 408: Advanced Narrative Writing

All right, this is my sort-of final draft for a story I was assigned to write in my ENGL 408 class. The name of the exercise was called "Constraint Writing." Basically, you are to write a story with certain restrictions.

1) Either omitting the use of the letter "e" or "o"

2) Every word must contain the same letter.

3) Only one-syllable words may be used.

My group came to the decision to strike out the letter "o," and this is what I came up with. Let me know what you think, please! Criticisms are very welcome. It would be highly appreciated!

The Klutz

My best friend had sex the first time at my 18^th birthday party. I was a sputtering and bleeding baby, apparently. I came in just by midnight and wasn’t up and breathing until minutes later, when the day started anew. I came appearing purple, lungs filled with birth fluid, and perhaps an umbilical strangling my neck. I’m entirely unsure of the exact details, but this is what has been detailed thus far. My birthday is technically August 5, but my parents decided I was truly alive and breathing August 6. That means my friend Anne crawled up in a furious pile, blankets and sheets, the night I turned 18, August 6. Anne has been evading me. I haven’t seen her in weeks, since my birthday. As a friend, her best friend, I believe I am entitled to hear her risqué tale.

She was lying in a clump in her family’s kitchen, limbs bent, with her head buried in her hands when I finally caught her. I said I was her best friend. I said I was listening if she needed me.

“I’m stupid,” was all she said, mustering the strength between hiccupped gasps.

“That isn’t true! Anne…”

Well, I can’t lie. She wasn’t a very bright girl. Anne treated myself and a few friends with Disneyland tickets last summer. Her aunt apparently had reduced rates, maybe free tickets, I wasn’t quite sure. My friend Benji and I were waiting restlessly, right by the Disneyland gates. The day was turning blazing and I was beginning to feel uneasy. After waiting what seemed an eternity, I finally rang her cell, asking why she wasn’t in Anaheim and what was keeping her.

“Hey Jamie! We’re all in the park already!” She sounded like she was screaming in my ears. “I can meet up at the gates. I have the tickets.”

I stared at Benji. We exchanged exasperated gazes, and I sighed heavily.

“Benji and I are already at the gates. We’ve been waiting awhile.”

“Ah,” she screamed again. “Well, I’ll be there then.”

We hung up. Benji and I kept waiting and didn’t see Anne at all. Minutes later, my cell rang again and I was quite frankly delighted in hearing that screeching Anne again.

“Where…at the gates?” she asked, a little quieter, thank heavens.

“Right where it says ‘Disneyland Park.’ At the bag check…”

“Disneyland?” she said, trailing the last syllable.

“Yeah, isn’t that where we’re meeting up?”

“Did I say Disneyland? Hmm. My bad…”

The girl meant Six Flags! All her friends, and my friends, were at Six Flags, because she neglected discussing with me her change in plans. Benji felt bad that I was near tears, and the fact that I was upset with Anne and her flightiness. He paid my way in Disneyland and I managed my anger at the “happiest place” with him. Besides, I liked it better than Six Flags, anyway.

After that incident, it didn’t take that much time disregarding Anne. These things were exactly her, erratic and unchangeable. I tried relying trust in her later in the year. I was having a fire at the beach and asked her if she might bring, essentially the basic item needed in a fire.

“Hack a tree, find it at Ralphs, the hardware place, wherever, just please bring it. And please be there early.”

When she arrived, timber-less, but arms full with graham crackers and candy, I had seen it all and had little patience. Yet I didn’t stay mad at her. She did have endearing qualities, I guess. I can’t be heartless. I was utterly sympathetic when I witnessed her blubbering mass in the kitchen. I wrapped her arms in mine and tried calming her.

“It was just that single time. The birthday party,” she said.

“Mine,” I muttered dully. She flinched a bit. “I didn’t expect this, Anne. Was there a breakup? Please tell me that he used—”

“He had rubbers. But that isn’t why I’m upset.”

She had me in a riddle. Why was she depressed and why had she neglected speaking with me all these weeks?

“Well why then?” I asked, feeling like pulling teeth.

“I’m upset because I didn’t reach the Big…” She whispered the last bit in my ear. She didn’t want it heard by her family.

“Ah, it’s an elusive um…letter, isn’t it?” I huffed, suppressing giant guffaws and a grin that reached my ears.

(Note: Please don't steal my work, or anyone else's work. And really, if you're going to steal something, make sure it's Stephen King, geez!)

Upper-Division Writing Proficiency Exam

It's acronym is UDWPE. This exam is a test where you write an essay because some omnipotent overlord has mandated a certain standard of writing. This test shall determine if you have adequate writing skills before you can be sent off into the real world. I have actually heard stories of students that fail the exam. Sometimes students fail the exam multiple times. On the flip side, I have had people tell me, "Oh, it's such an easy test!" and "You're an English major. It'll be nothing for you!"

Will it really be nothing? It is writing, something that I might have a little bit of experience with...but it's still a test. I am not a fabulous test taker. I actually passed my driver's permit test the first time, with almost a perfect score. Well, I missed five questions, and that's not near perfect, but I still passed on my first try. The driver's exam behind the wheel is another story. I failed the exam twice before the third time was the charm. I took the notary public exam twice and failed them both and decided to not retake the test because who would trust a notary public who knows nothing? I wasted about $80, (that included class fee + two tests) and felt very ashamed. Even when I took my Catholic high school entrance exam, I didn't even finish the test, but somehow I was still accepted to high school. Yeah, I'm a very uneven and inconsistent test taker and the times that I do pass, it's down to some kind of luck or a guardian angel ushering me the right way.

Essentially, I'm nervous. I need to pass the UDWPE in order to graduate, and I would rather not take the exam multiple times and shell out $20 per exam. Ridiculous.