Bah!
I think Im going to start posting my short stories for class on here so people can help me revise them. Enjoy.
Spencer Faust
Millennium Brawl
Walking through the calmingly quiet rooms of the museum I looked around with mild interest. The paintings were nice, but not my style. Mostly portraits and religious paintings hung on the walls, neither of which especially interested me. Some of the paintings caught my eye, a surreal bird done in neon colors, a very well done graf, but none really reminded me of a specific event. I stopped in front of one painting to examine it closer. It was very realistic in style, but surreal at the same time. It showed chicanos wearing zoot suits fighting with U.S. sailors in a bar. The two foremost men were fighting, the zoot suiter had a gash on his left hand, grabbing the sailors face with his fingers in the mans eyes. The sailor was biting the mans hand. In the background there was a flurry of activity, sailors beating up chicanos, chicanos beating sailors, sailors urinating on the walls and floor, raping chicano women. In the very center of the photograph there is a woman, crying and praying with her rosary. There is a dead man laying in her lap.
As I stared at the picture I had a sudden chill. It had been cold, I was already on the bus. I was watching the snow fall gently to the ground, swirling around kids as they shuffled to their busses or cars on their way home. There were people standing around talking, shifting their feet in place to keep warm. A large group of guys stood outside my bus, talking in a circle. I remember he seemed to fly, like a baseball thrown into a tin sheet of ice. The boy tried to gain his balance, but it was icy, and he tripped over a mound of snow, falling back into the snow. Some other boys lost their balance, a few fell and the rest staggered and stood up straight again. Half the circle seemed to collapse in, crashing into itself. Most of the boys who had slipped and regained their balance were pushed to the ground, landing hard on the ice. I could hear one boys head connect with the ground, finding the one open piece of pavement on the snow covered sidewalk.
The dimensions of the picture drew me in, putting me in the very center of the action. The floor curved, representing 180 degrees. The paint seemed to rise off the canvas, come out to greet me. I almost reached out to brush the canvas with my fingertips, but stopped myself. I just stood there, slowly letting my hand fall back to the familiar pocket of my jeans. I contented myself to just lean in closer, following the light reflecting off individual brush strokes. I followed an arm, the hand and fingers. There was a spider web tattoo on the chicano’s elbow, and a scorpion on his forearm. The fingers were to long, and the hand had a slightly off look to it, but it was hardly noticeable from a distance, and easy to overlook when confronted with the entire picture. I stepped back again, folding my arms over my chest as I skirted the outsides of the painting for anything I might have missed.
Some of them didn’t fall though. Two of the bigger boys stayed upright, sending their attackers flying back to the ground on the ice with a shove that would have rocked a bus. Then it really started happening, hands balled into fists and flew through the air to their rosy skin. More boys went down, and more boys came up. The number of boys on their feet seemed to stay a constant, someone rising for everyone who fell on the ice. Some stayed down though. One boy had rolled over onto another and was punching him again and again in the face, the boy who hit his head on the pavement hadn’t moved. More people were joining in, running from various locations, dropping their book bags on the way. The snow became muddy as it was kicked away, revealing rock hard frozen earth and ice. There were small pools of blood on the ground, giving the ground a red tint as it was mashed into the ice. There were girls screaming, grunts of the people fighting and several of the boys were crying. A new comer ran up and began to kick one of the boys crying on the ground.
I took another step back, taking in the painting as a whole. There was a banner on the bottom reading “Zoot suit riots 1943” followed by two bird outlines fighting each other, the American eagle and the Mexican rooster. The skin of those fighting was off as well. The chicanos skin was a fleshy red color, full of life. The sailors looked green, tinted like they were sea sick. Neither of these matched the dull light given off by the lights in the bar, which barely lit the tables and jukebox. Out the door you could see more sailors running into the bar to join the fray, some wielding weapons. Out the window you could see a flashing squad car.
The police officer was the first one there. He ran in from the left, barreling into the boy kicking and knocking him to the ground. The large cop waded through the fight, knocking boys down left and right, pulling them apart like ripping fabric. Other APs joined in, helping students get up and holding down the ones that still had some fight left in them. The entire fight had lasted less than 3 minutes. I saw a boy sitting with his head in his hands, blood flowing easily down his arm from a cut and falling on the already bright red ground. My bus began to pull out as the nurse came out to examine the boy who had hit his head, he still wasn't moving. I turned in my seat and stared at the one in front of me. I backed away from the painting, finally breaking my eyes away and walking away.
Spencer Faust
Millennium Brawl
Walking through the calmingly quiet rooms of the museum I looked around with mild interest. The paintings were nice, but not my style. Mostly portraits and religious paintings hung on the walls, neither of which especially interested me. Some of the paintings caught my eye, a surreal bird done in neon colors, a very well done graf, but none really reminded me of a specific event. I stopped in front of one painting to examine it closer. It was very realistic in style, but surreal at the same time. It showed chicanos wearing zoot suits fighting with U.S. sailors in a bar. The two foremost men were fighting, the zoot suiter had a gash on his left hand, grabbing the sailors face with his fingers in the mans eyes. The sailor was biting the mans hand. In the background there was a flurry of activity, sailors beating up chicanos, chicanos beating sailors, sailors urinating on the walls and floor, raping chicano women. In the very center of the photograph there is a woman, crying and praying with her rosary. There is a dead man laying in her lap.
As I stared at the picture I had a sudden chill. It had been cold, I was already on the bus. I was watching the snow fall gently to the ground, swirling around kids as they shuffled to their busses or cars on their way home. There were people standing around talking, shifting their feet in place to keep warm. A large group of guys stood outside my bus, talking in a circle. I remember he seemed to fly, like a baseball thrown into a tin sheet of ice. The boy tried to gain his balance, but it was icy, and he tripped over a mound of snow, falling back into the snow. Some other boys lost their balance, a few fell and the rest staggered and stood up straight again. Half the circle seemed to collapse in, crashing into itself. Most of the boys who had slipped and regained their balance were pushed to the ground, landing hard on the ice. I could hear one boys head connect with the ground, finding the one open piece of pavement on the snow covered sidewalk.
The dimensions of the picture drew me in, putting me in the very center of the action. The floor curved, representing 180 degrees. The paint seemed to rise off the canvas, come out to greet me. I almost reached out to brush the canvas with my fingertips, but stopped myself. I just stood there, slowly letting my hand fall back to the familiar pocket of my jeans. I contented myself to just lean in closer, following the light reflecting off individual brush strokes. I followed an arm, the hand and fingers. There was a spider web tattoo on the chicano’s elbow, and a scorpion on his forearm. The fingers were to long, and the hand had a slightly off look to it, but it was hardly noticeable from a distance, and easy to overlook when confronted with the entire picture. I stepped back again, folding my arms over my chest as I skirted the outsides of the painting for anything I might have missed.
Some of them didn’t fall though. Two of the bigger boys stayed upright, sending their attackers flying back to the ground on the ice with a shove that would have rocked a bus. Then it really started happening, hands balled into fists and flew through the air to their rosy skin. More boys went down, and more boys came up. The number of boys on their feet seemed to stay a constant, someone rising for everyone who fell on the ice. Some stayed down though. One boy had rolled over onto another and was punching him again and again in the face, the boy who hit his head on the pavement hadn’t moved. More people were joining in, running from various locations, dropping their book bags on the way. The snow became muddy as it was kicked away, revealing rock hard frozen earth and ice. There were small pools of blood on the ground, giving the ground a red tint as it was mashed into the ice. There were girls screaming, grunts of the people fighting and several of the boys were crying. A new comer ran up and began to kick one of the boys crying on the ground.
I took another step back, taking in the painting as a whole. There was a banner on the bottom reading “Zoot suit riots 1943” followed by two bird outlines fighting each other, the American eagle and the Mexican rooster. The skin of those fighting was off as well. The chicanos skin was a fleshy red color, full of life. The sailors looked green, tinted like they were sea sick. Neither of these matched the dull light given off by the lights in the bar, which barely lit the tables and jukebox. Out the door you could see more sailors running into the bar to join the fray, some wielding weapons. Out the window you could see a flashing squad car.
The police officer was the first one there. He ran in from the left, barreling into the boy kicking and knocking him to the ground. The large cop waded through the fight, knocking boys down left and right, pulling them apart like ripping fabric. Other APs joined in, helping students get up and holding down the ones that still had some fight left in them. The entire fight had lasted less than 3 minutes. I saw a boy sitting with his head in his hands, blood flowing easily down his arm from a cut and falling on the already bright red ground. My bus began to pull out as the nurse came out to examine the boy who had hit his head, he still wasn't moving. I turned in my seat and stared at the one in front of me. I backed away from the painting, finally breaking my eyes away and walking away.