The Day the Artist Won

She dreamt of running through the field
Of soaring above the sky
And dancing with starlight

But duty kept her bound to the earth
In a skirt
Her hair unbraided
Her face unadorned

When she slipped out into the moonlight
She saw sour faces—frowning
Their lips—whispering

The whispers guided her hands
As she tore out the artist
And fell apart

Exchange

i break a nail;
he reaches down, picks it up,
and offers me his.

he pulls a muscle;
i touch it lightly, kiss it,
and give him mine.

i puncture my heart;
he weighs down his spirit;
we look up, smile, and exchange.

Awake with OK Computer

By Lindsey Renée Jacobs

“please could you stop the noise i’m trying to get some REST”

1:23 am the red numbers of the clock blink at me. The neighbors upstairs are still awake. Groan, creak, clunk, the sounds of living in an apartment. Did they switch a light on? Clank, clunk, clatter, laughter.

Are they hosting? Should I yell at them again? I’ll wait.

“in the neon sign scrolling up and down/ i am born again”

If I open my eyes will the sounds be less distracting?

Why does the room look that early morning blue color? It’s that street lamp outside the window. Damn safety. It’s never dark enough here. Even the sky is bleached from the ceaseless light.

The Open sign for the sports bar across the street is struggling to stay alive, morphing into a strobe light. The window’s blinds keep lighting up red then yellow then red again, endlessly changing. Maybe if I wedge this blanket over the window it will be better? It only muffles the light so the room is now a dusty black but it’s an improvement.

“you watch your feet for cracks in the pavement”

Did I sleep for a few minutes? I don’t know, but I’m awake again. Lyrics from OK Computer keeping buzzing through my head, “This is what you get. This is what you get.” This is what I get for what?

Why can’t I sleep? The neighbors upstairs haven’t made any noises for a while. Maybe I’m being punished. I did yell at them earlier to “Shut the hell up!” They were making the apartment shake, stomping around loudly and laughing hysterically. I don’t think those were just the sounds of living.

Is a Christian allowed to shout “hell” like that? Probably not. I think it let them know how serious I was though.

Maybe I’m being punished for not being more neighborly. I only interact with them when I yell through the ceiling to shut. I don’t think I’ve ever even introduced myself. But it’s a city. It’s all about living as anonymously as possible.

“a song to keep us warm”

I hate sleeping alone. I used to imagine that an angel was sleeping with me at night when I was little. I imagined his wings wrapped around my frail body keeping me warm, shielding me. I’m too old for that now.

I don’t want to sleep alone. These blankets can’t give off their own heat or whisper promises of protection.

One of my friends used to sleep with a knife in the drawer beside her bed just encase someone broke in. She doesn’t anymore now that she doesn’t sleep alone.

Maybe I should ask her if she still has that knife, just in case.

“the emptiest of feelings”

“An awful, kind of, Sunday hollow feeling.” What was that from? I like it.

Sundays at my parents’ house were like that. Now I feel it all the time.

Why do I feel like this? There doesn’t seem to be a reason. I like to believe in cause and effect, but maybe this doesn’t have a cause.

Or maybe, I just don’t want to admit it.

“fitter happier more productive/ … sleeping well (no bad dreams)/ no paranoia/ … No longer afraid of the dark/ Or midday shadows/ Nothing so ridiculously teenage and desperate …”

What are the next words? “Nothing so childish” I think. Nothing so childish as what?

“i trust i can rely on your vote”

Who were they talking about at work today? Or yesterday, by now. One of the presidential candidates I think. Maybe I should start looking into them. They keep talking about them at work.

I hate watching TV or reading the news, though. They’re so addictive.

But, I think I should start looking into the presidential candidates.

either way you turn i’ll be there”

I still miss him. Can I admit that? I wouldn’t tell anyone, but I still do. Not always. Just when I feel like I’m losing it. He could always talk me down. Make me reasonable. I’m so unreasonable.

I miss him when I feel like Hesse’s Siddhartha. When I think all of this is not worthy of me, that it all lies, it all stinks, it all stinks of lies, it all pretends to be meaningful and joyful and beautiful, and all it is, is concealed putrefaction[1]. When the world feels like a horrible delusion and I’m sunk in despair I miss him. He’d give me hope again. He’d make me see beauty again. He’d remind me to love again, and to forgive the world for being imperfect.

Now I can’t even forgive myself for being imperfect, and the world tastes bitter and life feels like torture[2]. But he can’t help that. He can’t help that he left either. Everyone leaves eventually.

“a heart that’s full up like a landfill./ A job that slowly kills you./ Bruises that wont heal.”

5:03 am. My alarm will be blaring in an hour. I haven’t slept yet. I don’t suppose I’ll be able to.

My roommate will be happy that I’ll turn my alarm off right away. She’s a light sleeper. She doesn’t have to be up until 7:30 am.

What will I wear? Probably my black dress pants and white silk shirt; those will look nice. I feel like being monochromatic today. I wonder whose work they’ll have me editing?

Just thought of what that kid said back in college.

“For your career have you considered ‘critic’? Not art critic or book critic. Just critic,” he said.

“Critic is my being. It need not be my career,” I said, but I guess it is now. It’s working out for the most part.

“no one else would know”

Boom. Shutter. Grate. The garbage truck is here now emptying out the dumpster. I might as well get up. It’s nearly six and there is no way I can be louder than the dumpster. But how do I turn off this alarm? I think my roommate said that I have to hit the cancel button and then the alarm button. Why do they make it so hard?

The red alarm light went out so this better not start roaring while I’m in the shower. 5:39 am and I’m already getting ready. When I’m done with the shower maybe I’ll sit outside and watch the sunrise.

Who knows? I always intend to.

I think I’ll listen to Radiohead in the shower. Good thing the bathroom isn’t right next to our room.

“i’m on a roll./ i’m on a roll this time./ i feel my luck could change.”

Dream on.

---

[1] “all of this was not worthy of one look from his eye, it all lied, it all stank,it all stank of lies, it all pretended to be meaningful and joyful and beautiful, and it all was just concealed putrefaction.”

[2] Again from Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha, “The world tasted bitter.  Life was torture.”

To Be Moved

“How could you be so stupid?” He looked me in the eye with that cold stern look he has and scowled in utter disapproval. And then it began, another one of his rants.

His words hung in the air, meaningless. They came out of his mouth and just sat there. They didn’t move; they surely didn’t move me. I was immune to his words by now. I’d heard them so often. They were always the same, but usually they at least moved something. Not this time though. Today they fell flat. Today, they were powerless.

Yes, I was listening to his words, but I wasn’t really hearing them. I didn’t need to, and I certainly didn’t want to. Instead, I heard the birds. They weren’t loud like him. They were distant, mysterious, cheerful.

There was one far off to my left who kept singing this patterned melody. The pitch was so high that it pierced my ears, but it was so musical that I couldn’t help but be his audience. After each song, a scattered group of birds would chatter in response.

They listened so well. They were always silent and tentative when the lone bird sang, and they were always ready with the right response. It was like a dance, what they did, their melodies intermingling and swirling together in the air. Their voices moved things. Their voices moved me.

If only I could move people like that. If only my voice held such power and understanding. If only I could actually say what I meant.

“What were you thinking?” By now he was pacing. He looked like a naval sergeant, steaming with anger. His face was even starting to turn red. I wanted to run and hide. But that’s what I always wanted when he yelled, when his words moved me. But not today. Not this time. I would stand still and strong. I would not be moved.

I noticed the leaves on the trees, some falling, others merely waving. They knew my battle, but they fought against the wind. Every day they fought for their place on those trees. Although, every day they grew weaker.

The wind blew, and one of the leaves broke free. Perhaps it lost the battle against the wind, but it appeared to win against the tree. Maybe that was a better analogy. Freedom. I smiled gently as the leaf fell clumsily to the ground.

“Are you even paying attention?” He came up to my face again, grabbed me by the shoulders, and pushed me to the ground. I could hear the leaf mourn as the wind scraped it across the crisp lawn. And then it fell, right off the edge of the bank and into the pond. It made no sound.

I pity the rain

I pity the rain,
unmasked and laid bare,
naked, transparent,
with nothing to wear.

I pity the rain,
compelled to the ground,
helpless for mercy,
its destiny bound.

I pity the rain,
though needless it be.
I pity the rain,
which once pitied me.

The Eye of the Eagle

Howdy, folks. My name is Ben Carpenter. My old man runs a small spread call the Circle K ranch here in Eagle Pass in New Mexico Territory.
You probably wonder what all this has to do with the story that I am about to tell you. Well, it has a lot to do with it. You see, though my father taught me everything about roping and riding, he never taught me how to shoot. He believed that…well, that if I didn’t know how to shoot I would not become a gunslinger. That same was true for most of my friends. You see, most of our food was domestic beef, chicken, and salt pork. You’ll see how important this is later on.

Well, I’d better get on with the story. It all began about twenty years ago when I was twelve years old. Back then Pa only owned the local stables.
It was a bright June day when Sheriff Jackie Ross rode into town. When people took one look at him they turned their back on him, every man one and all. The problem was that though he was tall, handsome, and lean; his skin color was not to their liking. For you see, Sheriff Ross was black.
He rode his small brown and white striped mustang to the jail, which faced the main street and was situated between and dwarfed by two saloons. Once there, he unloaded his supplies and made himself at home.

That night at dinner Pa made a big row about having a Negro for a sheriff.
“What do those stupid politicians know sending us a black man for a sheriff,” said he. “The rumor is that lots of other people feel the same. Tom Brenner, the blacksmith, is getting signatures for a petition to send to the governor to recall the sheriff.” Pa was a tall, clean shaven man with strong muscles hardened by years of ranching in his youth. He had strong feeling towards many things, including Negroes.
“How is the sheriff taking this conspiracy against him?” asked Ma. She was the only one who dared argue with him when he was angry.
“He doesn’t seem to care,” laughed Pa. “He acts as though this has happened to him before. And it probably has, it probably has.” Pa then lapsed into great laughter at that ironic thought.
You must remember that this was a time of discrimination, a time that has long past us, thank God.

After dinner and chores, I ran over to our barn. It was here that I and several of my friends met every night. We made a club out of it. I was the president of the club for the week, Dick Hollister was vice president, John and Bob Edge and Dave Parker were members.
As was our custom, we met in a corner of the barn where Dick and I used several crates with a board on top for a desk. The other boys sat on crates arranged in front of the “desk”. Once everyone was seated, I rapped a hammer on the board for attention.
“What do you think of the new sheriff?” I asked.
“Well,” started Dave, the oldest and smartest of our club, “there is a saying that you can’t judge a book by its cover. I think that goes for people too.”
“You mean that if a man is dressed like a rich man, he might be just a poor man,” demanded John.
“That’s not exactly a good example,” replied Dave. “Take a look at old Mister Pond for example.” Mr. Pond was an old man who was feared by the children of the town because of his angry face, until one day he pulled a child out from under the wheels of a runway wagon.
“I agree with Dave,” I said. “I suggest we give the sheriff a chance, but,” I continued in a conspiratorial manner, “we’ll keep an eye on him.”
We all agreed and after discussing other things we broke up for the night.

We were as good as our promise. Each day we took turns watching, so that all the time there was at least two boys watching him. During the week nothing extraordinary happened except the usual town drunks and fights when the cowpokes came to town.
The exception was Sunday. After lunch, Sheriff Ross saddled his horse and headed out of town. Since it was Sunday all of us were watching. The sheriff was only walking his horse so we followed him on foot. We figured that since he didn’t have his bedroll and there was a “Gone Hunting” sign on the door of the jail. He was not leaving town.
The sheriff traveled for several miles until he came to the woods. From there he moved farther in. It looked as though he really was going to go hunting. As quiet as Indians we followed him until he stopped in a large clearing. Here he got off his horse and tethered him to a tree. Then, opening his saddlebags, he removed five blocks of wood with strings attached. He tied these blocks to a low hanging branch on the far side of the clearing. Next, he returned to where his horse was and whirled to face the targets he had erected.
Suddenly, with lighting speed, he whipped out his revolver and emptied his gun into the targets. Each target bucked and jumped as a bullet tore into it. All five of us looked at each other in surprise. Then, as he shifted his weight, Bob broke a twig that rested under his foot.
Sheriff Ross pivoted on his heels when he heard the sound. He had only had time to load three of the chambers, but he snapped it shut and held it at his waist, cocked and ready.
“Who’s there? Come on out,” he ordered.
I shrugged my shoulders and walked out into the clearing, followed by the others. Once he saw us the sheriff, slowly let the hammer down on his revolver. He returned to reloading his piece.
“So what is it that you boys want?” he asked nice enough. “Did you come to report to the townspeople of my actions?”
“No, sir,” I said. “We’re a club and like to come into the woods.”
The sheriff nodded and smiled as though he saw right through my story.
After a moments of silence, he said, “Do, you boys, know how to shoot?”
“No, sir,” I replied glad to change the subject.
“Call me Jack, not ‘sir’. How come you don’t know how to shoot?”
“Well, Jack, our fathers never taught us. My father believes that if I don’t know how to shoot, I won’t become a gunfighter.”
Sheriff Ross silently chuckled to himself. “I don’t believe that,” he said. “I’ve been a sheriff in many different towns for going on ten years and never once was I in a showdown. My Daddy taught me to shoot when I was strong enough to hold a gun. And since then, I have only killed two men and both times it was in the line of duty. Technically, I’m not a gunslinger, I’m a peace officer.”
He stood there for several minutes, thinking. When looked back at us the smile had returned. “So, you guys, want to learn how to shoot?”

That afternoon the sheriff taught us all the basics of shooting. He started us off with a rifle and let each of us take turns using it. By five o’clock, the lesson was over. We agreed to return every Sunday for another lesson.
Before we split up, Sheriff Ross said, “Remember, don’t tell you parents, they might not understand. Let’s wait until you have a chance to show how good you are. Oh, and one last thing. Does your club have a name?”
“No, we just formed a club,” said Dick.”
“Well, every club needs a name. How does Eagle Scouts sound?”
The five of us exchanged glances and nodded.
“Good,” smiled the sheriff. “See you later, Eagle Scouts.” With that he stepped in the stirrup and threw his leg over the saddle, and after tipping his hat to us, he turned his horse and headed for town

The practice sessions continued for about another month, during which time none of the club breathed a word of it, especially to our parents. By this time, all of us had become experts with the sheriff’s rifle, even to being able to shoot from different positions.

On July 3rd as John, Bob, and I lounged in front of Eagle Pass General Store, two wagons from the Blue Arrow mine showed up and pulled around to the front of the Western Bank. As the two men who drove the wagons and two of the bank clerks unloaded the contents of the wagons, the owner of the mine, Mr. Kane, made a beeline for the Sheriff’s office.

Later that night, Pa told us that the Blue Arrow Mine had struck a rich vein and Mr. Kane wanted to ship the gold out as soon as possible. But he had decided to wait until after the holiday and realized that the bank vault was probably the safest place to store it in the meantime. Pa also told us that the bank president, Mr. Ward, and two of his clerks were going to stay at the bank to keep an eye on the gold. There was no mention of what precautions the sheriff was taking. Pa had not talked about him for a couple of days and I figured he thought it would be best to ignore the sheriff.
The rest of the dinner conversation was taken up with plans for the huge town picnic that was planned for tomorrow to celebrate Independence Day.
Throughout the rest of the meal I could not help but think that someone might try to steal the gold. If a person was desperate enough he would not let three men stand between him and that gold.

The next day, besides being Sunday, was Independence Day. Immediately after church services, everyone returned to their home to get the food they had prepared for the town picnic. By noon everyone from town, except the three people from the bank, had gathered at the Chapel clearing.
It was a huge clearing the size of the interior of a large church I once saw in St. Louis. It sat three miles from town and near a stream. There was even a field nearby where some of the men would play horseshoes or ball.
While the women fixed lunch, we men went to the stream to wash. When I, Pa, and the rest returned; blanket had been spread out and covered with food. I had waited all year for this so I dug in. As a looked for a shady place to sit to enjoy my meal, I saw the sheriff. He wore a light grey, almost silver suit, complete with white hat and black string tie. However, I knew he still had his gun on because his coat bulged where it hung under his coat.
As I passed he whispered, “Get the Eagles and meet me at the usual place.”
Several minutes later, we all were gathered in the clearing that we used regularly as a shooting range.
“Boys, yesterday a stranger came into town,” he said. Today, I did not see him among the crowd, so I’ll bet that right now the bank is being robbed. I think we should get back to town.”
“Why us, sheriff?” asked Dick.
“Because you boys are the only ones who will believe me and you’re the only ones I can trust.”
The five of us exchanges glances and decided to follow the sheriff.

Ten minutes later, we were in town. We walked through the back streets until we reached the bank. Once there we looked in the side window and saw six masked men in the bank, robbing it. The men were dressed in identical long white desert coats and white hats and wore red bandanas to hide their faces. The banker and one of his clerks sat in a corner, tied and gagged.
The sheriff motioned us to follow him and we made our way to the back door of the jail through side streets. We had to be careful because the jail was right across the street from the bank.
Once in the back of the jail, the sheriff said, “We need to stop those men. All the tricks I taught you boys will come in handy.” Then he started to pass out Winchester rifles and belts of ammunition.
“We can’t kill anyone,” I objected.
“You don’t need to,” the sheriff replied. I don’t want you boys to shoot the robbers unless you have to, otherwise shoot around them.”
“Alright,” I replied. “What do you want us to do?”
The sheriff smiled and said, “I want each one of you men on the buildings directly across from the bank so you can cover it.” We all returned the smile when he called us men. “I’ll take a place by the side of the bank and draw their fire from there. I’ll give you five minutes to get to your positions. When I want you to open fire, I’ll signal you.” We all nodded and moved out.
Outside, I went to the back of the Pink Lady Saloon and climbed the stairs that led to the roof. Once on the roof, I crawled to the edge that faced the street and placed the Winchester next to me. I took off the belt of bullets and laid it on the roof beside me.

Below on the street, Sheriff Ross was standing at the side of the bank. The robbers were loading their illegal gains onto their horses when he stepped onto the porch of the bank; all six men whirled around in surprise.
Before they could move for their guns, Sheriff Ross said in a quiet, even tone, “I wouldn’t go for my gun if I were you.” His face was has hard set. Every fiber in his body was tense, waiting for robbers to make one false move. “You men are covered by my deputies.”
“You’re bluffing,” said one of the men, the tallest one.
“You free to find out,” replied Sheriff Ross. “Otherwise, I want you to drop your guns and march to the jail.”
“No nigger’s going to tell me what to do,” exploded another of the thieves as he drew his revolver.
Before the man even has his pistol part way out of his holster, the sheriff had drawn his own revolver and fired as he retreated back around the corner of the bank. The man who had tried to draw fell wounded. His comrades dragged him to the opposite corner of the bank and opened fire on the sheriff, who for his part waved to us.
At that moment, I was ready. I jerked down the lever on the rifle, loading and cocking the rifle. I aimed at the wall above the heads of the thieves and pulled the trigger. The criminals ducked down in surprise when the round hit and tried to return fire. That was impossible because of our sniper positions.
I was excited. It was my first gun battle. All those hours of training and practice had paid off. As I fought the recoil, I again yanked on the lever and fired again.
When one of the men tried to fire at us on the roofs, the sheriff winged him. After that I think it became apparent to the other men that if they stayed they would be shot. So, they took their chances.
They came out firing and leapt onto their horses and tried to make a break for it. Sheriff Ross bolted from the protection of the bank and jumped onto another of the getaway horse and tore after the thieves, gun blasting.
By the time the five of us made our way to the street, we saw the rest of it. When the shooting started in town, the people at the picnic remembered the gold in the bank and grabbed horses to return. The fleeing thieves had run smack dab into a band of citizens returning hurriedly from the picnic with guns drawn. The thieves had reined up and surrendered, returned to town peaceably.
Once the criminals were in prison, Sheriff Ross recounted the story to the townspeople, all of whom had returned. Everyone had mixed feelings. It turned out that one of the clerks had told some friends about the gold and the picnic and had helped in the robbery. The banker and the mine owner were grateful to us for saving the gold. Our parents, especially our mothers, were appalled. My father was angry that I had learned to shoot, but he changed his mind when the banker and the mine owner offered us monetary rewards. That really helped to change Pa’s mind. Everyone was impressed with the sheriff, even though he was black. Not another word was heard about the petition to the governor.

Life returned to normal pretty much. Pa put the reward money together with some money he had saved up and bought the Circle K Ranch. Jackie Ross remained the sheriff and we remained deputies. We had many adventures together.

This story has a moral. Just like you can’t judge a book by its cover, you can’t judge a man by his skin color. It makes no difference if a person is white, black, red, or yellow they are all Americans.
Today, I am Sheriff Ben Carpenter. The things that I learned from that encounter stayed with me for the rest of my life. I’ve been a sheriff for twenty years and I’ve only killed three men in self-defense, in the line of duty. It’s the person that kills, not the gun. Remember that.

Writers Group Mission of the Week

Each week for the Writers’ group that meets on campus I will have a mission or challenge. For those of you who can’t make it to the meetings you can participate with us on here. (As well as by participating though posting your poems and short stories.)

Writers’ Group Mission this Week

“For godsake, keep your eyes open. Notice what’s going on around you.”

William Burroughs

Get a journal or notebook to record observations and thoughts:

“Writing is all about learning to see, hear, smell, taste and touch more accurately than most people. (Ezra Pound called writers “the antennae of the species.”) It’s all about ferreting out the significant detail that makes a place a place, a person a person, a car a car.”

Activities to get you observing and writing (choose one and post it before next Thursday):

1. Go to a cafe or diner (or somewhere on campus with a lot of people like the Corum or cafeteria) and practice short, medium and long descriptions of people. Describe one of the workers and one of the patrons.

2. Practice seeing, hearing, smelling and feeling as you go to your classes. When you get back write down everything you can remember – setting, dialogue, appearance of people, everything.

3. Automatic Writing – put on some music that fits your mood (the fewer the words the better) and get out your journal or a notebook. Let your mind be as passive and receptive as possible. Forget your genius, talents, as well as your competitive nature and just write. Write quickly without any chosen subjects, quickly enough not to dwell. Don’t read over what you are writing. Just write. (This on you do not have to share.)

How can I explain myself to you?

I am

but a lullaby
dancing upon
a charmed wind
as Venice sinks
quietly beneath
deepening blue
waves deciding
whether to go
toward a sunset
which will turn
day's glory dark
and forever be

lost.

Hello and Cello Strings (In a slightly rambling fashion)

Hello to you all. I am new to this little blog here and I am rather frightened at what I am about to do in this, my first post. I have posted my poetry in various sundry places within my little world for the public to see, such as in the Herald back in the days when it actually had a literary section, as well as maintaining a gallery of my work on a rather significant site known as DeviantArt, the home of thousands of artists of all shapes and sizes and abilities. I was also pleased that one of my poems made its way into that tiny, yet very endearing little arts journal that was published and distributed about campus at the end of the semester. Other than that, besides close friends and family, only a few classmates in my Creative Writing class and Professor Vandyke have really seen my writing, and even come close to critiquing it. (Not including online journaling like Xanga etc...) Hence, this is the first time I am opening the door to let my writing into a place where it will be absorbed by fellow writers and peers with a more critical eye then ever before.
For me, my writing is a part of me, an extension of my personality. As such, when it is criticized I struggle with the emotion of feeling like my soul is being criticized, even if said critique is done with the hope of bettering my writing skills. So it is, that I am going to begin the process, to better my writing by posting it here and when I do, strive to "divorce" myself away from it, as much as possible.
You here, who read my writing will know more about me then you may ever know in person. For I do better at this, then in literal conversation.
With all that being said, without much further ado, I shall post a random poem of mine, one my shorter ones, also one of my favorites.
One final thing, you might want to know is that I never write poetry in rhyme. I feel to restricted by it and I have not practiced it enough to be really good at it.
Alright then...

This poem is called Cello Strings. I was inspired to write it while attending a senior recital of a cellist from the Calvin College Orchestra. I also desperately want to learn to play cello someday. I wrote these words down on the back of the program during the recital, and this is where my thoughts took me:

Effortlessly,
fingers fly across the strings;
gently,
graciously,
dancing like a cat.

The bow caresses them
having union with wood.

The sound that comes forth
is soul-being.

I am in adoring love
with the intersection
of strings and fingers.

~Hollers

Obsessed with Sacrilege

One of the goals of this blog is for it to be a space where we writers can share our inspirations and ideas. Lately, my mind has been on fire with an idea or concept for a story. I’d like to share it.

Two weeks ago I began reading Chaim Potok’s The Chosen to my sister, Christa. I had read it the week before and knew that she would love it just as she had loved My Name is Asher Lev. Though it isn’t as artistically crafted, it is just as moving. After I finished that second reading I had an epiphany.

Since I entered university I’ve been trying to figure out what genre I’d write. In middle school I loved fantasy but I just haven’t felt like I was meant to write it, at least not right now. Science fiction, romance and mystery aren’t even options. Though I like creative non-fiction (like Donald Miller’s Blue Like Jazz and Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies) and will write some essays like that, I have still felt that there is a fiction writer in me lying dormant, waiting for direction. That night I got some of the direction I’ve been hoping for.

I want to be our (Christianity’s) Chaim Potok. What I mean by that is that I want to have stories that are related to the Christian faith but are also universally applicable. Fiction that was so compelling, that intellectuals with any spiritual or anti-spiritual leaning would be drawn to it. Since our religion is not so tragic nor are we such a sorrowful people I think it means that my books will have to be a bit apologetic and humble (well, in the faith aspect.) Since I’m most religious when sacrilegious I think that my narrator(or at least this first one that is growing in my mind) will be rather bitter. Some of the darkest aspects of me are going to come out in this first short story or novel, whatever it turns out to be. I’m going to do a lot of research this summer of our religion and religious writings and classical literature and eastern religions (with the exception of Islam, which will be written off since it is so antagonistic to females and my narrator will be a female with some feminist leanings.)

Any thoughts, comments or questions?

Free Contest for Crime & Suspense Stories

For those of you who like to write crime and suspense stories you may be interested in this.

The Crime and Suspense ezine is sponsoring a new contest for short
crime story authors. The stories will be voted on by the readership
and there will be prizes for first, second and third place. There is
no fee to enter.

For full details on the rules, requirements and prizes, go to the
Crime and Suspense web site and click on the link for the Austin
Camacho Beltway Crime Writing Contest.

The website is http://www.crimeandsuspense.com/

Short Story

This is a short story that i started a couple months ago. It's supposed to be an espionage story, although this part is not very exciting. It's just setting up the main character.

Carson McKenna walked out the door. He set down his briefcase and turned back towards the door. He shut the door and checked the lock. He then picked up the briefcase and walked down the steps towards the sidewalk. He quickly checked his watch. Eight o’clock. He had enough time to stop at the coffee shop for a cappuccino before heading to work.

Carson stood just under six feet tall. His short black hair glistened with hair gel. Even though he was only twenty-five, he already had several small patches of gray hair. He was proud of his gray hair. He liked to show it off to people. His little patches of “wisdom”. His eyes were as green as emeralds. People who looked into his eyes could see intelligence and determination. Carson’s face was smooth, and the faint scent of aftershave could be detected. He was dressed in black slacks and a white shirt. A simple black tie dangled from around his neck. He walked to his car and pushed the button on his key ring. The car chirped and the doors unlocked. Carson opened the door and slid behind the steering wheel. He drove a black Hyundai Accent. He put the car in gear and pulled out of his parking spot. He drove towards the road. As he drove, he turned on the radio. He tuned in the morning news. He listened to a report about action in Iraq. He shook his head as the reporter talked about the growing American casualties. The reporter then began talking about the Secretary of State’s visit to Saudi Arabia. Carson touched the radio dial, changing the station to a soft jazz music station. He smiled as the music began to play.

It took him five minutes to get to the coffee shop. Once at the coffee shop, he got out and walked into the building. There were three people in the shop plus the person behind the counter. Two of the people, a man and a woman, were sitting at a table sipping coffee and talking. The third person, a man in a suit, stood at the counter waiting for his coffee. Carson stood behind the man, waiting. The man took his coffee and walked away. Carson stepped forward.

The girl behind the counter smiled, “Morning, Carson, how’re you today.”

Carson flashed the girl a smile, “I’m doing great, Becky. And yourself?”

“It’s been pretty slow this morning,” Becky replied with a sigh, “You want the usual?” Carson nodded and pulled a five dollar bill from his wallet. He handed the money to Becky, who rang up the drink and handed back his change. She then turned and started making the cappuccino.

“So, you have any big plans this weekend?” Carson asked.

Becky nodded, “Yeah, my boyfriend and I are heading into D.C. We’re going to go out for dinner, and then to visit my parents. What about you?”

Carson smiled, “That sounds like fun. I’ve got some work that I’ll probably finish this weekend. And hopefully it doesn’t take too long, ‘cause I’ve got a new book that I want to read.”

Becky finished making the cappuccino and handed it to Carson, “Well, good luck with that. Have a good weekend.”

Carson nodded, “Thanks, you too.” He turned and walked outside. He got into his car and pulled onto the road. He turned onto the freeway and headed to work. Forty-five minutes later, he arrived at his work. He pulled up to the guard shack and drew out his picture ID. He rolled down the window and held it out.

The guard approached and took the ID, “Morning, Carson.”

Carson nodded, “Morning, Mike. How is your Friday so far?”

Mike nodded, “Boring as always, but that’s how we like it.”

Carson grinned, “Yes, indeed.”

Mike handed the photo ID back to Carson, “Have a good day, see you at five.” Carson thanked him before rolling up his window and pulling into the compound. He drove to his parking spot and turned off his car. He pulled his briefcase with him as he stepped out of the car. He took the empty coffee cup out and tossed it in the trash. He then approached the main building.

Carson worked in Langley, Virginia at the headquarters for the Central Intelligence Agency. He enjoyed watching people’s reactions when he told them he worked for the CIA. Of course, he worked as an information analyst. He wasn’t a gun slinging field agent. Instead, he sat at a desk and analyzed data. Not very glamorous perhaps, but he enjoyed his work. He entered the main building and passed through security without any problems. He greeted the guards at the desk before passing through the scanners. Having passed security, he headed to his cubicle. As he walked, he greeted his coworkers. Once at his desk, he set down his briefcase and removed several papers from it. He then put the briefcase under his desk. He activated his computer and sat down in his chair. He leaned back as he waited for the computer to boot. The computer booted and the CIA logo popped up. He placed his hands on the keyboard and began his day’s work.

His day passed quickly. He sat in front of his computer as streams of data passed over his screen. He analyzed it, he thought wryly to himself. His job consisted of studying the data streams for any inconsistencies. Usually, his work was pretty boring, but occasionally he saw some interesting data. He then passed that data on to other analysts who were specifically devoted to tracking down the leads. Overall, Carson was happy with his job. It wasn’t the most glamorous or exciting job in the world, but he enjoyed it. He took his lunch at twelve o’clock sharp. He spent exactly thirty minutes to eat his lunch and return to his desk. Carson worked until five o’clock. He then logged off of the system and left his desk. He said goodnight to his coworkers as he passed their cubicles. He passed through security without any difficulties. He said goodnight to the guards behind the desk. He walked to the parking garage and pulled out his keys.

Suddenly, he heard a voice call out to him, “Carson! Hey, Carson, wait up.” Carson turned to see who called his name. He saw Geoff wave at him. Geoff was a thirty year old analyst who had worked with the CIA for seven years. His brown hair was parted in the middle. His eyes were brown. He wore a well-kept mustache which he often stroked when thinking. Geoff worked in the cubicle next to Carson. He had a wife and two kids, a fifteen year old daughter and a thirteen year old son. Geoff wasn’t as organized as Carson, but he was a nice guy, dedicated to his work. He and Carson had developed a friendship over the past six months.

Carson smiled, “Hey, Geoff, what’s up?”

Geoff jogged forward and stopped next to Carson, “Hey, got any plans for the weekend?”

Carson shook his head, “Not really, just some work that I need to get done.”

Geoff smiled, “Well, Lisa asked me to invite you over for dinner on Sunday. Will you come?”

Carson considered for a moment, “That would be nice, thanks. Weekends can be quite boring and lonely.”

Geoff smiled, “Great! How does five sound?”

Carson nodded, “That works for me.”

Geoff grinned, “Alright, we’ll see you on Sunday.” With that, he waved and walked away. Carson waved back and headed towards his car. He pressed the button on his car which unlocked the doors. He slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. He pulled out of his parking spot and drove to the gate.

Mike walked to the window, “Have a good day?”

Carson nodded, “Yeah, pretty quiet today.”

Mike waved him through, “Well, have a good weekend. See you on Monday.”

Carson smiled, “You too. See you later.” With that he pressed his foot on the gas pedal and pulled away.

The Curse of California - Part 2

Here is the second part of my attempt at poetry. Sorry it took so long to post. Busy week.

One evening, with lust in his eyes,
Monestario called on Senor De le Vaga,
And demanded his daughter’s hand in marriage.
Here Senor De le Vaga had a problem,
If he said no, it would mean persecution;
If he said yes, his daughter would be miserable.
Before he could answer,
Monestario and his aide pushed by.
In the parlor, they encountered Senora De le Vaga.
The Alcalde demanded to see the senorita,
“In the living room,” answered the frightened Senora.
Monestario left his aide-de-camp to guard the door,
And entered the parlor with fire in his eyes.
There he found the senorita,
She sat on a couch.
A book lay open on her lap unread,
A dreamy look on her face.
He cleared his throat and broke into her reverie.
“I ask you for your hand in marriage,” said the mayor.
“What of my father?” demanded the girl.
“He has no say.”
“What?” cried the girl, rising.
“You will marry me.”
“No!”
Monestario grabbed the girl in a tight embrace,
And held her in a passionate kiss.
The sound of a sword being drawn broke the stillness.
Monestario spun.
El Zorro stood before him with Monestario’s own sword.
“You will apologize,” ordered the masked crusader.
“Never!”
A flash of silver and ripped tunic was the response.
“Do it or die.”
Monestario fell to his feet and groveled.
El Zorro threw the alcalde’s sword away,
Grasping man’s collar and belt,
He hurled him out into the parlor.
Drawing his pistol,
He order Monestario and his aide to depart,
Warning them never to return.
With a bow to the De le Vaga family,
El Zorro disappeared in the night.

El Zorro had found a gathering,
He gathered the caballero around himself,
He formed and army of honest men,
All wearing black.
But only he wore a white band on his hat,
To signal the purity of their cause.
All caballeros were inspired to overthrown,
Those corrupt men who had forced their way into office.
The day came when they were ousted.
El Zorro rode at their head.
They begged him to remove the mask,
So that they many know who led them.
Seeing no reason to refuse,
Or any need to further wear the mask,
El Zorro obeyed the people.
The mask fall away,
Revealing Diego de la Gras.
Everyone cried in surprise and joy.
Diego de la Gras took Rebecca’s hand in marriage,
The people have him alcalde and a legend.

The Curse of California - Part 1

The following is a wee bit long so, I'll only post half of it at a time. Please overlook the dismal lack of rhyme. I'll more comfortable writing prose than poetry, but I tried my best.

The chronicles of Spanish California,
Recount events that horrified some,
But gave others hope.
Ecclesiastical power had now been eclipsed,
By the Authority of Man.
Corruption replaced generosity;
God’s kindness was superceded by man’s cruelty.
Pueblos took the place of churches,
As areas of influence.
The evil Captain Monestario deposed,
The humble Senor de le Vaga,
And took his place as alcalde of Los Angeles.
Peons were enslaved by the army,
To mine for Monestario’s gold.
Taxes were doubled,
To satisfy Monestario and the King.
The reigning governor and his friends grew opulent.
This was the main villain;
The scene is set.

Into this rode an outlaw,
A savior to the poor,
To the rich he was a contender.
Dressed in jet-black and wielding a blade of silver,
This hero brought justice to poor California.
The scourge of cruelty was answered,
By the sting of the blade of justice,
And the whip of retribution.
Theft from the peons was rejoined,
By disruption of gold shipments.
Mistreatment of a caballero,
Merited the destruction of a gold mine.
No man was exempt from his judgment,
Even Monestario had tasted of the blade and the whip.
This man was el Diablo to the corrupt,
And el Zorro to the oppressed.
It was the latter he adopted,
He was a man of the people.
Thus has another performer been introduced,
The hero.

Among the new hierarchy was a monster,
This person outshone the alcalde with his cruelty,
Who out-Heroded Herod.
Diego de la Gras was his name.
It was impossible to call him a man,
For a man he was not.
His servants were treated as slaves,
His tenants broken.
It was he who deserved the title,
El Diablo.
He fell prey to the dark avenger more than anyone else.
He offered 10,000 pesos for the bandit.
The price on his head only emboldened el Zorro.
He replied in kind,
Offering 15,000 pesos for de la Gras.
Now we have the second villain.

The final actor in this drama,
Is the young Rebecca De le Vaga.
This senorita was kind and gentle.
Her father, the alcalde,
Had been deposed by Monestario.
This young maiden marveled,
At the exploits of the dashing young rouge,
El Zorro,
The man who, to recall,
The description of another like him,
“Had robbed the rich to feed the poor”.
Long and hard she dreamt,
Of this hero in ebony.
Dreamt of holding his love,
In her heart.
The final ingredient of this tale,
Has been introduced to you,
The heroine.

One Day Away

in the spirit of Valentine's Day- a short poem

When you yawn
I see capillaries
They bother me
Because I do not
Like blood it
Stains and doesn’t
Wash out ever.
When you yawn
You close your
Eyes and the
Wrinkles are more
Defined I do not
Like it because
It means we are
Getting old.
When you yawn
I think your lungs
Are tired and I
Cannot help but
Think about what
Would happen
If we all ran out
Of air someday.
When I am weary
I am overwhelmed
By sadness because
It means I am one
Day closer to life
Without you.
But then one
Day you were
Jogging up to me
And I saw your
Heart beating
Beneath your breast.
Oh life grant me
Reprive from sadness
Oh love gather me
Up and banish the
Fears. After all
You are mine.
This is why
I can smile.

Press On

Just some encouragement for these cold winter months of falling behind in homework,

Press on
Press on
Let not your heart be troubled
The rain, wind, sleet and snow,
The upward climb,
Are merely
Impossibilities

The futility
Of your efforts
Is not so obvious
If you smile and laugh

Press on
Press on
It makes for a grand show

The bass

Guidelines for CU English Society Literary Magazine 2007

Submission Period
Wednesday, January 24^th – Friday, March 30^th

What to Submit
Artwork, Photography, Poetry, Song Lyrics, Fiction/Non-fiction Short Stories (limit of 1500 words). The fiction genre includes fantasy and sci-fi stories. Non-fiction stories include narrative essays.

Publication
All entries will be judged by a panel of peers and the winning submissions will be published in the magazine. The magazine will be printed and distributed through the final week of classes (April 23^rd – 27^th).

Announcement of Winners
All winners will receive a letter in their school mailbox no later than April 20^th.

Submission Format
All submissions must be in a digital format.

Artwork and Photography:
You are responsible for converting your work into a digital format that can be submitted via email.

Song Lyrics, Poems and Short Stories:
Must be submitted as Word Documents. For uniformity, you must use Times New Roman font, size 12, and all short stories or essays must be double spaced. Each entry must have a cover page with the title of the work, name of the author, and school box number. To protect against bias, your name cannot appear anywhere else in the document besides the cover page. The title of the song, poem or short story should be in the header on each page.

All submissions must be sent via email to Lindsey Jacobs at Lindsey_r_jacobs@cornerstone.edu.

Deadline
Friday, March 30^th