Shawn is in love with Jennifer's verbs.
I've tried to describe to some of you the kids in my Intro to Fiction and Poetry class. They are very difficult to put into words, especially if I don't have time to explode into a fifteen-minute rant. So now I present you with a sample of a story (slash poem?) written by one of the most insufferable members of this class. A brief description of the author: Asian, from Manhattan, private-schooled, loves the word "doppleganger," starts every sentence with "I feel like" when discussing literature. This is the story she wrote for our first assignment, which was just to write a story. It's rather short, 3 pages double-spaced. So now, dear friends, I present you with
Rain is never good for my disposition. Of course, I think of the plants that need water to live, I note the washing away of the urban grime that carpets the sidewalks. I also think of little mice drowning in the sewers, but then again, I never could suppress the “morbid streak” that afflicts every other generation of the Peng family.
Drops splatter attack my window and I think of gore and guts, viscera propelled against glass, stomachs spilling their half-digested contents onto collapsed lungs, beating hearts that bounce gracefully and squeal as they slide across the freshly watered lawn, splats and streaks of red that gently collect and settle for the night into rubber sealant and nail heads. Storm clouds machine gun the concrete until pockmarks become potholes so large they swallow people and cars alike. Drops collect on your collarbone and break trails of goosebumps as they sneak down your shirt, rappel down the cliffs of your back, collect and settle for a ride in the grooves of your hips. Clothes go one shade darker and collapse, bloated with saturation.
The homeless men plug infinite leaks in their cardboard homes, crowd the concrete overhangs and shadows of bridge overpasses. Upper East side gargoyles awake, spitting out the moss and pigeon nests of dry days, yawning a roaring, infinite deluge. Eyes hide in umbrella shadows and the sound of evil is muted by infinite collisions. Steps quicken, home hearkens, and the hand grips the umbrella tight against the slime of darkness.
This is an apology.
This is what should have happened.
This is the story of why I said, I will see you at Christmas.
Rain drops are pieces of heaven that fell from the angels to earth, each one carrying a single serving of love.
An octogenarian at his end and a child at her beginning on a sunny winter day.
I don’t want to talk about it. So I’ll talk about the rain instead.
At night, I wish for monsoons.
I don’t remember the date. It could have been any month of fall semester that year. I don’t dare ask.
I pray for mornings of wet concrete, satiated lawns, and spry men careful of their shoes.
I remember everything I said. I remember seeing something in his face change.
I disrupt puddles and watch the ripples. Puddles with leaves frozen inside, with fat cigarette butts sailing the currents, with spiders that glide on eight dimples.
I said, I will see you at Christmas and took myself away from the despair.
I pen every window as the rain moves on and breathe in a fresh start.
I am so sorry.
I will remember this forever, but I don’t want to talk about it.
So I’ll talk about my love of earthworm uprisings.
I used to squat above an ant colony with a magnifying glass and my grandmother’s reading glasses, waiting for the death beam that would make me God.
I don’t want to talk about it. So I’ll just point to the rain clouds that are massing overhead.
I don’t want to talk about it. So I’ll just change the subject.
I love: swarming ants, marching soldiers, parades, neatness, grace and four hundred thread count sheets.
I will try to tell you the story of alien ands gentling roaming the sensual curves of my back, but it will inevitably turn into a report of how nails became claws and smiles revealed daggers. He will draw blood instead of the token kisses and leave me empty on the bed.
I cannot talk about it. It is a sunken treasure ship, El Dorado, a panacea for the past, present and future. Untold numbers of adventurous divers have squeezed themselves into the red corridors of the sea where they find themselves mired in a quicksand of doubt and attacked by the sharp-toothed predators of fear, and before they can reach the exit, the oxygen tank has emptied and a final stream of life spheres rises, buffered by a muffled scream.
The leaders of the land expeditions, men of courage and ruthlessness, wade through seas of blood with their band of brothers, slash through cobwebbed memories, machete through the dense jungle of language and find themselves alone, surrounded by a pulsating world that grows smaller with each breath.
I have sacrificed millions of men to it.
I have destroyed countries and worlds to find and conquer this invisible foe.
How can I speak of it? I will tell you a story instead, of the rain and the streets.
Aren't you glad you clicked that cut?
Rain is never good for my disposition. Of course, I think of the plants that need water to live, I note the washing away of the urban grime that carpets the sidewalks. I also think of little mice drowning in the sewers, but then again, I never could suppress the “morbid streak” that afflicts every other generation of the Peng family.
Drops splatter attack my window and I think of gore and guts, viscera propelled against glass, stomachs spilling their half-digested contents onto collapsed lungs, beating hearts that bounce gracefully and squeal as they slide across the freshly watered lawn, splats and streaks of red that gently collect and settle for the night into rubber sealant and nail heads. Storm clouds machine gun the concrete until pockmarks become potholes so large they swallow people and cars alike. Drops collect on your collarbone and break trails of goosebumps as they sneak down your shirt, rappel down the cliffs of your back, collect and settle for a ride in the grooves of your hips. Clothes go one shade darker and collapse, bloated with saturation.
The homeless men plug infinite leaks in their cardboard homes, crowd the concrete overhangs and shadows of bridge overpasses. Upper East side gargoyles awake, spitting out the moss and pigeon nests of dry days, yawning a roaring, infinite deluge. Eyes hide in umbrella shadows and the sound of evil is muted by infinite collisions. Steps quicken, home hearkens, and the hand grips the umbrella tight against the slime of darkness.
This is an apology.
This is what should have happened.
This is the story of why I said, I will see you at Christmas.
Rain drops are pieces of heaven that fell from the angels to earth, each one carrying a single serving of love.
An octogenarian at his end and a child at her beginning on a sunny winter day.
I don’t want to talk about it. So I’ll talk about the rain instead.
At night, I wish for monsoons.
I don’t remember the date. It could have been any month of fall semester that year. I don’t dare ask.
I pray for mornings of wet concrete, satiated lawns, and spry men careful of their shoes.
I remember everything I said. I remember seeing something in his face change.
I disrupt puddles and watch the ripples. Puddles with leaves frozen inside, with fat cigarette butts sailing the currents, with spiders that glide on eight dimples.
I said, I will see you at Christmas and took myself away from the despair.
I pen every window as the rain moves on and breathe in a fresh start.
I am so sorry.
I will remember this forever, but I don’t want to talk about it.
So I’ll talk about my love of earthworm uprisings.
I used to squat above an ant colony with a magnifying glass and my grandmother’s reading glasses, waiting for the death beam that would make me God.
I don’t want to talk about it. So I’ll just point to the rain clouds that are massing overhead.
I don’t want to talk about it. So I’ll just change the subject.
I love: swarming ants, marching soldiers, parades, neatness, grace and four hundred thread count sheets.
I will try to tell you the story of alien ands gentling roaming the sensual curves of my back, but it will inevitably turn into a report of how nails became claws and smiles revealed daggers. He will draw blood instead of the token kisses and leave me empty on the bed.
I cannot talk about it. It is a sunken treasure ship, El Dorado, a panacea for the past, present and future. Untold numbers of adventurous divers have squeezed themselves into the red corridors of the sea where they find themselves mired in a quicksand of doubt and attacked by the sharp-toothed predators of fear, and before they can reach the exit, the oxygen tank has emptied and a final stream of life spheres rises, buffered by a muffled scream.
The leaders of the land expeditions, men of courage and ruthlessness, wade through seas of blood with their band of brothers, slash through cobwebbed memories, machete through the dense jungle of language and find themselves alone, surrounded by a pulsating world that grows smaller with each breath.
I have sacrificed millions of men to it.
I have destroyed countries and worlds to find and conquer this invisible foe.
How can I speak of it? I will tell you a story instead, of the rain and the streets.
Aren't you glad you clicked that cut?