Fiction and Things

[upperatm-blog]

The Stool and the Light Bulb

“Hey Betty, come help me out!” Findin hollered down the hall, “I think I found something up here.”

Betty, sitting in the living room with the daily crossword in her lap, looked up, “Coming dear.” She stood up with a bit of trouble and came hobbling over to her husband - the same man she had fallen in love with sixty four years ago. He was looking up with his head bent backwards, stretching the loose skin around his neck taught.

“That’s the one we need, a forty watt ought to do it.” 

“I think so dear, let me get the stool,” said Betty as she shuffled away. She began smiling at the thought of having light in the dining room again; though the light had gone out weeks ago, Findin hadn’t felt up to changing the bulb, a task which required at least two trips up the stool - one to retrieve the thing, and one to install it. Today Findin was feeling extra adventurous, and decided to take on the challenge. 

When Betty returned, Findin was preparing for his first journey up the stool. Bracing his wrinkled hands against the walls of the hall, he began by lifting his right foot up about halfway before a pain in his left hip led him to try with his other foot first. Once his first foot was situated on the stool, it was time for the hardest part of any stool-stepping experience: he put his body weight onto the stool, and began bringing his right foot off of the ground. 

“Oh good job Findin, I’m impressed,” Betty remarked with a glow in her eye - she was always confident that Findin could get things done, just like he used to.

Reaching fort the light, Findin paused for a moment. “I’m not doing this again,” he said, “just buy some more candles.” And with that, Findin struggled back down the stool and walked to his chair in the living room. 

For this assignment, I chose to write outside of my age range. This was in some ways a bit difficult. In particular, it was difficult not to use stereotypes in describing the characters. I think that this was the case because as I have not experienced antiquity myself, I only know about it what I have learned from media and limited interactions. I believe that dilemma poses a potentially larger problem if an author attempts to write about social and civil problems outside of his or her experience, because there is the possibility of offending large audiences (after all, writing in stereotypes is bound to upset some people). While it was somewhat difficult, I thought that writing this piece was also quite fun. That is because I was not writing about the same things I always do, or the same people I always do, and I was able to have more fun with it. 

[decemberhooyah-blog]

Prompt 9.1

1) I wasn’t sure how long I stared through the one way glass at her killer, imagining the man’s death by my hands.  I felt like an eternity.  I watched his every move, every blink, every glance to the side until my eyes watered.  It was only when the back door opened when I returned to the real world and realized how tight my jaw was clenched and how much my teeth hurt from it. I felt my palms with my fingers, realizing I had left deep marks in each with my nails, almost to the point of blood.  But it didn’t matter.  I couldn’t feel the pain.  

2) I sat across from him at the interrogation table, watching him wring his cuffed hands.  He didn’t dare look at me, keeping his eyes focused on the surface of the desk.  I continued to stare, trying to meet his gaze, and give him a look that would let him know I would be the end of him.  Finally, he looked up.  And I did not see the eyes of a cold blooded murderer but of sorrow.  I have no idea how long our gazes were locked.  There was something in there…someone in there.  “I didn’t mean to…” Those green eyes reminded me of hers.  His eyes began to glisten, and I felt my own vision begin to blur.  A single tear began to roll down his cheek, and one down mine.  

[upperatm-blog]

I really like how you chose to complicate this scene. You took the raw hatred and turned it into something I can relate to. The parallel between the two characters, that being the single tear rolling down their cheeks, links the two in a really interesting way - drawing me in because I am interested about learning more about them. 

A comment on the first version of this scene might be that even though it is well written, it lacks a certain element of realism. I can understand that a character might be furious, but surely there must be some humanity within him or her - and I think that it is this element of humanity which you brought out in the second version. 

Good job!

[upperatm-blog]

Fiction

1. Fiction is anything that is not real; literally fiction is a way to explore what is.

2. Writing is a way to create art and to make people think.

3. Good writing is character driven. It let’s you see the way characters think, and how their worlds work. 

4. Bad writing can be improved, and is not necessarily bad (that’s right, bad writing is not necessarily bad). Bad writing is different for everyone, and for me it is writing which misuses the elements of fiction unintentionally. Bending the rules can be great, but it must be intentional. 

5. Stories are worlds unto themselves. They have their own inhabitants, their own logics, and their own histories. 

[upperatm-blog]

Frank sat in a room on the top floor of a hotel alone. He could hear people out in the streets, celebrating the new year - cheering, screaming, rejoicing. But Frank was not with them. Frank was alone, with a bottle of Jack in his right hand, and a cigarette in his left. Another swig, another drag, another night. 

While the streets were vibrant and full of life, Frank could feel nothing. Numb to to the world, he thought about his wife and children. They would soon be washed away by the alcohol, dissolved into nothingness, but for now they burned in his mind. 

As the bottle was emptied, he sat upright and began to cry. One tear at a time, Frank felt his mind leave his body until he was but a puddle on the floor. 

Frank sat in a room on the top floor of a hotel alone. He could hear people out in the streets, celebrating the new year - cheering, screaming, rejoicing. But Frank was not with them. Frank was alone, with a bottle of Jack in his right hand, and a cigarette in his left. Another swig, another drag, another night.

While the streets were vibrant and full of life, Frank could feel nothing. Numb to to the world, he thought about his wife and children. He thought about how beautiful they were, and how disgusting he was - a knock at the door. He stumbled to the entrance of his room, and let in a girl he’d never seen before. She was dressed in a tight dress, and from the way she walked - with such confidence - she was probably half the age of Frank’s wife. The streets were still alive outside, but Frank was as cold and drunk as ever as he began to strip away his clothing.

[ucdfictionalthings]

Free Falling

Oliver opened the window and jumped.

He glided through the air, free falling.

Below him people screamed, but he knew he could fly.

Crash

Sirens

[upperatm-blog]

Oliver jumped.

Gliding - falling.

Screaming - crashing.

[ucdfictionalthings]

8.1

The weather beaten tombstone stands proudly in the cemetery. Beside it, a man leans against a blank grave-marker, a cigarette dangling from his hand.

[upperatm-blog]

The tombstone stands proudly in the cemetery. Beside it, a man leans against a blank grave-marker, cigarette in hand.

[upperatm-blog]

Schuyler Alschuler

My name is Schuyler Alschuler, and I am currently a computer science major at UC Davis. I have a background in writing poetry, and this - combined with the lush environments surrounding my hometown - have led me to focus on the settings in which my stories take place. In addition to writing, I love to create music, a hobby which frequently influences my stories indirectly. 

[kbartschat-blog]

Sleepless192 has entered the chat

<Welcome to tripsit sanctuary, this is a calm environment for anyone who needs it. Keep it positive.>

Sleepless192: Hello any1 online?

Doctorchill: yah do you need help with anything?  

Sleepless192: Is this real.

Doctorchill: what are you on? we can help you ride it out. just need to make sure u r safe. 

Sleepless192: i think acid. 1 tab. feeling strange. not like im dying just weird. 

MadMax: I’ll link you to our page on LSD you can read about what you need to avoid right now/how long the trip will last. 

Doctorchill: If u just want to talk we r here. I have had bad trips before so I can talk you thru it. 

Sleepless192: I think the colors inside of me r outside nw. Im scard. 

MadMax: 1 tab isnt that bad. usually stronger than advertised. Are you at home now?

Sleepless192: yes

MadMax: Ok good. Just chill out as best as you can. and enjoy. How are the visuals?

Sleepless192: blu auras around my fingers. The wlls are moving like waves, kind of breathin. Time is physical.

Doctorchill: physical?

Sleepless192: I can feel it changing. It is changing length. can’t believe im already 21. 

Doctorchill: haha dude thats a good way 2 celebrate ur bday. time flies right?

MadMax: congrats!!

Sleepless192: im not too hppy aboutit i shouldve dn more in my time here. Like I shouldv done more to help every1 here with me. 

Sleepless192: like humanity becus i can feel everyone right now and they are disappointed. i can feel everyone breathing. 

Doctorchill: don’t worry that’s just th acid making u feel like that. u have more time to make a difference. 

MadMax: are you alone?

Sleepless192: Yes. my friends lft hours ago. very alone. didnt want to take cre of me so im on this site. 

MadMax: ok well, you aren’t alone. we are here. 

Sleepless192: on the computer

Doctorchill: still we can hlp

MadMax: hello?

Sleepless192 has left the chat

[jlowen004]

There were so many small elements here that I really enjoyed, and I thought were really well done. To begin, I love your choice of usernames. From Sleepless192 to Doctorchill, I thought they were really clever and you had me laughing. Also your choice of domain name as tripsit sanctuary was really well picked and hiliarous as well. Another aspect which really contributed to the form was your use of abbreviations throughout, making it all the more believable.

One thing I wasn’t quite sure about was who was hosting the chatroom. Is this a condoned medical chatroom, or just a place where people with drug experience can help each other? I got the sense of the latter, but was still unsure. One other thing you might want to add are some time tags, so we can get an idea of the time span this conversation takes place over.

[upperatm-blog]

This story is pretty interesting. I thought it was really neat how the even though it was so short, it revealed a lot about Sleepless192 as a character. I learned about her age, her feelings about isolation, what her friends are like - and all in such a short story. With that being said, one thing that I noticed was that every character in the story typed the same way. So in that way, the main character’s voice was not used in order to advance the story in any way. While I at first thought Sleepless was typing the way she was because of the drugs she was on, it became clear to me that every character just types very poorly in this chat room. I think that you could really use the way the different characters type to reveal more about their current states of mind.

[upperatm-blog]

Dear Jessy,

Dear Jessy,

I’ve been really busy lately! I just wanted to let you know that college is going pretty swell. It can be hard sometimes, but it’s going well. My classes are really hard, but I’m learning a lot. 

But classes aren’t the most interesting part of college. My new friends are the interesting part. There’s John, a political science major from the east coast. He’s always thinking about the world. About how the world is “wrong”, and his ideas, or maybe they’re someone else’s, about how to fix it. Something about classes, and how there will be a revolution.

Then, there’s Potter. Potter is an econ major, from the mid-west. He’s got this swanky voice, that is completely soothing. Whenever we’re hanging out he chats with John about those ideas I mentioned before. Well, maybe not chat. They tend to just fight about it actually. Potter has these other ideas, about an invisible hand guiding the thoughts of people. 

Have you been to any parties yet at your school? I gotta say, I’m not really to excited by parties. But it is kind of fun to watch how people act at these things. At parties, John is always hitting on girls and dancing. He seems to really enjoy the scene, meeting random people and winning them over with his voice. Potter tends to just hang back with me at parties. He’d rather chat about his ideas than dance. Occasionally, Potter meets a few fellow intellectuals at the parties. When that happens, he just goes into a back room and chat. They might take a beer or two back with them, but the way they chat reminds me of old french cafes; of conspirators chattering about their plans (though I doubt they would ever carry any of them out). 

I’ve met other people here too, but none of them seem worth mentioning besides John and Potter. I think that they are the ones I’ll remember at the end of all this, the ones that are going to be affecting my mind the most. 

Anyways, hope you are doing well!

Love always,

Colton

[ucdfictionalthings]

Writing Question: (Monday's assignment, 6.1)

How do I avoid getting too dramatic when I’m writing? I oftentimes find myself straying towards over dramatic and cliche themes when I’m writing my stories. I am always temped to write about things like depression, suicide, disease, etc. I’ve noticed that things that are mentioned subtlety within a story are often more powerful than things that are brought up outright. Is there a way for me to learn the art of being subtle yet powerful in my writing?

[upperatm-blog]

Research, Part 2

I think that this is a really interesting question because I think this applies to a lot of beginner writers (like those found in a 5F class). After doing a bit of research, I found a really great article called “10 Tips to Bypass Cliche and Melodrama”. The reason I liked this article so much was because of the sound logic it presented, and also the writing tips it provided to overcome the dramatic style mentioned in this question.

One of the first points made, and some of the best advice in the article, is to resist the temptation to write about sensational topics. The reason for this resistance is that sensational topics are confined by many cliches and expectations. Toward the beginning of the quarter, Sarah mentioned that topics such as death and murder are very common among 5F students, and these are just the topics which the article suggests to avoid, due to their sensational nature. 

I think that this advice, of avoiding sensational topics, should be taken with a grain of salt. While sensational topics may lead to cliche and over-dramatic storytelling, if the writer makes an effort to avoid stereotypes and instead write about such sensational topics from a new and unexplored perspective, then these these important topics may still be explored through fiction. 

One piece of concrete advice given by the article is to try writing two pieces, each about the same scene. In the first, try and make the story as interesting and dramatic as possible. In the second, make the story as slow and boring as you can. According to the author, the results of the second method (slow and boring) will actually be more interesting than the more dramatic first approach. This neat little advice addresses the very last part of your question, about developing the skills to write subtle and powerful stories. I haven’t tried this though, so let me know if you do.

http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/10-tips-to-bypass-cliche-and-melodrama

[ucdfictionalthings]

6.1 question

Sometimes, I don’t understand a certain part of the story, or something happens with the format, and I get confused. But I can also see how that could be part of the author’s intention, to make the reader think or feel a certain way. How can we tell what is the author’s intention, and what needs to be fixed?

[upperatm-blog]

Research, Part 1

I think that in addressing this question, the initial assumption should be that the author’s intention is never to confuse the reader. The writer may intend to evoke some emotion from the reader, or convey a certain state of mind, but I don’t think that an author would ever intentionally confuse the reader. Even if the state of mind which the author wishes to convey is one of confusion, they would still not want to confuse the reader. 

Here’s why. If an author confuses the reader, then the author has lost his or her connection to the reader. The writer can no longer guide a reader through a story if the reader no longer understands what is happening. 

If we now assume that the author is never trying to confuse a reader, then it seems to me that any time you are confused while reading a piece of writing (and I mean really confused, not just surprised or think that something is strange), it is worth mentioning your confusion to the writer during a workshop. It is more than likely that the writer did not intend to confuse you. 

When I did a bit of googling based on this question to see what would come up, it becomes abundantly clear that the opinion of the majority of writers is that confusing the reader is a sin of storytelling. Specifically, I searched, “Should a story confuse the reader?” Every result on the first page from this query was about how to avoid confusing your reader. I tried to find even one online resource devoted to the art of confusing a reader, and I was unable to do so, thus demonstrating the strength of the anti-confusion opinion. 

To summarize: Don’t confuse your reader. Even if confusion is what you want to convey to your reader, don’t use confusion as a tool to develop a state of mind within your story. 

[chewbekah2222-blog]

It started with....

It started with a sharp pain in her stomach.  It seemed innocent enough back then, but now looking back at that moment, it was when her life changed forever.  Taking her to countless doctors and specialists, taking her out of school. It just wasn’t fair to her that’s all. Wild child, with curly locks.  She had a spark in her auburn eyes and charming freckles on her nose.  She had a pep in her step, like she was going somewhere magical.

She use to breeze by life, now she can barely get up in the morning.  No one else can see her struggle because she hides her pain so well. Her friends are oblivious to the fact their once charming girl is now a shell of what she use to be.  Teachers call me, complaining about her absences. How can they understand? She looks fine to an untrained eye, but I see the pain in her eyes.

She calls me crying, telling me her chest hurts so badly, and there is nothing I can do about it. Doctors give her pill after pill after pill trying to ease the pain of my young girl.  Slowly she begins to become bitter at the doctors and sarcastic because she knows, they don’t have the slightest idea what is wrong with her. I see my young daughter become older then her years, due to the pain she has to endure.  She just went into surgery in attempt of trying to find out what is causing this horrid ordeal.  She looked so scared and yet I can’t do anything about it, but tell her it’s going to be alright. 

Why does she have to go through this?

Why did it just start on a normal day with a sharp pain in her stomach?  

[upperatm-blog]

The first thing I noticed while reading this post was the way the point of view seemed to shift. I thought it was in third person at first, with a fairly distant narrator. By the second paragraph it became clear that the narrator was actually the child’s parent, and the distance to the girl began to shrink. I think this technique really worked for the story, and added some variety to the style of narration without any sudden jumps or shifts. 

One thing that really threw me off though was the final sentence. It is a bit clunky, and I think recomposing that sentence would really help the story come to a neat conclusion of sorts. 

[upperatm-blog]

Le Merde

It all started with a trip to the bathroom. That’s when he knew things wouldn’t go well on his date - his perfectly planned date. While the night was supposed to end with a midnight kiss atop a Ferris-wheel, Jeremy now sat bent over the toilet, hurling up the pasta he’d just eaten. 

He was thinking about how this restaurant was too nice to give him food poisoning, how there must have been something else making him sick. It simply couldn’t be the pasta, right?

Back in the kitchen, one of the Chefs had a worried look on his face. He wasn’t feeling quite right, and was looking for his usual medicine. The one that he always left in the same place, and told no one else to touch. A sweat ran down his neck as his eyes glanced around for the orange prescription bottle which only he could touch.

Jeremy wiped his mouth clean with toilet paper, and flushed his troubles down the drain. Now, he thought, he was definitely ready. He was once again thinking of the Ferris-wheel, and that oh-so-perfect moment. He gave his hands a rinse, and walked back into the restaurant.

Gentle harp plucking gently bounced off of the white table clothes around as Jeremy took his seat, “Sorry about that Lissa, where were we?”

“Well you were just telling me about...” Lissa paused for a moment, examining the pale color of his cheeks, “Jeremy. You don’t look well.”

Jeremy refused to have his night ruined by a bit of queeziness, and convinced her that he was fine. 

While they continued their conversation on the benefits of fruit infused waters, the Chef began to feel ever more uneasy. He tried to continue his work, chopping vegetables and preparing the meats, but his hands fumbled as his nausea intensified. Eventually the manager of Le Merde came in, and told the Chef to get out of the kitchen until he was feeling better.

The Chef walked out to his car, defeated by the day. He was feeling lightheaded, and wasn’t sure if he would be able to drive home. The thought of his family at home urged him forward, and his hands struggled to start his car. As he pulled out from his parking spot, he couldn’t believe that he had lost one of his Xelodas. That one pill was worth seventy dollars, and perhaps his life. He had some more at home, but his chemotherapy was meant to be taken at very specific times. He hoped that this irregularity wouldn’t ruin his progress, and worried about whoever had taken his medicine. 

By now, Jeremy too was on he road. He had his hand on Lissa’s thigh, and he couldn’t help but worry about what was happening to him. He was once again becoming sick, but this time he saw no bathroom to escape to. There would still be fifteen minutes more before they arrived at their destination, and Jeremy knew he wouldn’t be able to make it in time. While he drove onward, worrying about his date and his health, he saw a car begin to swerve into his lane. He braked hard, slamming his foot against the floor of his car, and the white Corolla next to him slammed into an electric line on the side of the road. 

“Oh my god,” Lissa yelled as Jeremy pulled over to the side of the road. He went over to examine the wreck, and saw a Chef with Le Merde embroidered on his white uniform. The Chef’s face was pale, and Jeremy immediately brought him into his car. 

He thought about calling 911, but by that time Jeremy was already on his way to the hospital with the stranger. As much as he wanted to control his own nausea, Jeremy’s body wouldn't allow him to - he began throwing up on the steering wheel as Lissa sat in the back seat with a half-dead man on his lap. Her face was turning pale now to as she thought about the events unfolding. 

They arrived at the hospital, and the Chef was carted into a room of his own while Jeremy went directly to the bathroom. He spent the rest of the night drinking water and puking, until the morning came and he left the place with Lissa. The Chef did not.

[upperatm-blog]

On the Horizon

The air was stagnant, unmoving. Like a vacuum, its warmness seemed to lap at the last bit of energy in their legs. The journey had been going on for about two years, yet it was far from over. Its leader, Shawn, was sitting on a sand bank about ten feet away from the rest of his crew - thinking about his family back at home. He couldn't help but think about his daughter. How she used to roll a ball around the house, bumping into everything as she crawled hysterically trying to catch up to it; how she would eventually happen to roll that ball into his office, and he would chuckle as she rubbed against his legs.

Looking now to the horizon, it seemed impossible to imagine how far he had come. Looking at that point, where cool blue sky meets hot yellow sand, there was some small voice inside his head convincing him that it could be done. That the desert could be conquered. 

The rest of the men were sitting underneath a tarp they had set up for shade. It didn’t do much though, providing safety only from the most intense rays of the sun while the heat around them continued to bake them alive. Sweat dripped down each of their foreheads, and their shirts - stained with sweat, dirt, mud, and sand - looked like they had been dipped in greasy dishwater. 

Shawn continued to sit and think about his past as a father and future as, hopefully, a famous explorer until his dry tongue reminded him that the search for water was far from over. 

[myriahjsmith-blog]

An Unbeknownst  Admirer

I helped Violet see the world. Whenever she felt the need to escape from her everyday surroundings, she sought me out. Only I allowed her to explore further than the four walls and carpeting that enclosed her while she slept.

Together we traveled everywhere; from a simple grocery store, to hiking mountains in Peru. Step by step, we moved in synch. More often than not, it felt like she guided me, and I simply tagged along on all her excursions. But she still took me with her; always.

Without me, Violet would miss so many of her other favorite things. I cannot tell you how many times she woke me early in the morning to get coffee, or disturb my midnight slumbers for a late night treat. Her addiction to sweets kept me busy. We constantly journeyed to new corners of the world, finding different chocolates or sour bites for her candy jar. And speaking of it, our days religiously began with a quick stop to that jar. Morning or night, whenever she first came to me, we soon after visited that jar before leaving for the day. Sometimes I worried she might love it more than me.

But I protected her. With me, infection or other debris never hurt her. I kept her safe, and comfortable, helping her wander for miles without growing weary.

At times I became a little dusty, muddy, worn down, but she loved me in all my forms, and cared for me just as I did for her. From the day we met, all those years ago, a post it note somehow got stuck to me. Of course I was embarrassed for looking ridiculous. But she simply smiled at the mishap and peeled it off, crumpling it into her pocket and saving it for later. It was not the last time I would find a piece of sticky paper trapped on me. Violet constantly forgot things, and wrote down everything in a desperate attempt to remember. But she never forgot about me. Our closeness, literally touching cloth to skin, created a bond between us.

When the time came at the end of the day, when she needed to return to her carpeting and four walls, I felt sad. I knew our day together would end, and she would slip me off to walk around alone. But I took comfort in knowing that only a few short hours stood between my solitude and the next time I could feel her touch.

Then something changed. One day she flew past me, clicking out the door and not putting me on. I wondered how she roamed about her day without the security blanket of my canvas fabric. The same thing happened the next day, and the next; until finally I learned she had gotten a new corporate job and upgraded her wardrobe from tennis shoes to high heels.

[upperatm-blog]

I always felt that the high heels could never be as great a companion as I. They were uncomfortable, digging into her heels all day. They were unadventurous, they couldn’t even handle the smallest of hikes. And worst of all, the heels seemed to be hurting Violet. She would return each day from her new job with a long face and bruised ankles. When she slipped the heels off each day, I could tell that she was changing.

I never once saw a piece of paper stuck to the heels, and I began to suspect  that the jar was not being visited anymore. If only she could leave those heels behind, just for a day, I could bring the old Violet back. 

Of course, new Violet never did change. Every few months, she would wear through another pair of those heels and make the same purchase - though perhaps in a different color. 

I continued being shoved further and further into the corner, until one day I was tossed out into the trash. I guess Violet just needed something else. 

[upperatm-blog]

Constraint

        A candy jar, a post-it, and a shoe. Are you fucking kidding me? Ralphie slumped down in his chair, defeated by the assignment at hand. Why would they make me do this bull shit? He slowly moved his finger up to his mouse, slid the cursor to the upper right-hand corner of his computer and closed Microsoft Word. A little quicker now, the cursor moseyed over to Chrome. Like it was no big thing, the mouse decided to navigate to Netflix, releasing an invisible adhesive which glued Ralphie’s eyes to the screen for the entirety of the fifth season of Strange Addictions.

        His pocket buzzed just before the mouse clicked on season six, “What’s up shit-head?”

        “Nothing fuck-wad, we’re just gonna head down to B-King, they got those new chicken fries. You down?”

        Ralphie stood up and looked at himself in the mirror, shrugged, threw on a pair of cargo shorts, and thought about brushing his teeth before walking out the door. The day was perfect outside; the grass was green as it had ever been, the sky as blue, and the sidewalk seemed to put an unusual bounce in Ralphie’s stride. Both of Ralphie’s parents were at work, though it didn’t make much of a difference. If they weren’t at work, they would probably be having sex with their other other parts. Ralphie knew this, and knew too that they wouldn’t mind, or at least would never know, if he went out with his friends to get burgers and fries every day for the rest of his life.

        After about seven minutes, beads of sweat were pouring down Ralphie’s face, and a “v” of perspiration had formed on his chest and back. Ralphie was relieved to see the red, yellow, and blue sign of rescue he’d been waiting for: “Burger King”.

        “Hey ya’ shit-turd,” his friend Spiker said as he smacked Ralphie on the buttocks and showed him to the table where the gang was sitting. Spiker’s real name wasn’t Spiker, or course, but he had earned it on account of his amazingly spiky hair. “No gel, really. No gel at all,” he always said, and everyone believed him; he could even come out of a pool, soaking wet, with that same spiky hair. Some said he had been shocked by a lightning bolt as a kid, and others – everyone but Spiker really – said that he had stuck his finger in a wall socket as a kid.

        Oh, and the gang? It consisted of Spiker and Ralphies other friend – Weasel. Weasel’s real name wasn’t Weasel, of course, but he had earned it on account of his incredibly loud wheezing. “It’s not my fault, really. Not my fault at all,” he always said, and everyone believed him.

        Ralphie sat down, snatching up one of Weasel’s chicken fries as he began speaking, “You guys, my teacher sucks. I mean, she literally sucks. I just wanna sit here and watch Netflix all day, you know – the American dream – but then she makes me do all this writing bullshit.”

        “God, what a fucking jerk.”

        “Well... what’s so bad about it?” chimed in Weasel.

        “Come on Weasel, are you kidding me?” Ralphie motioned in the air, as if he was calling on God to help him help Ralphie understand the injustice which was taking place at that very moment, “She’s putting stupid limit on me, cramping my creativity, and making it so I can’t do what I want to do. She said, and I quote, ‘write something using a candy jar, a post-it, and a shoe.’ Does she even care what I want to do?’

        Weasel was unimpressed by Ralphies commotion, ate another chicken fry and then two more fry fries before responding. “Maybe the limitations she places on you are meant to help you grow as a writer. Sure, your creativity is limited, but maybe it will help in the long run. Like, maybe you can learn something from it.”

        Spiker shoved Weasel back into the cushions of the booth, “Stop wheezing all over your food, we want some too.”

        They all continued to eat Weasel’s food, and eventually went home.

[upperatm-blog]

Sipping

The girl in the corner, her name was Lyssa, was sipping on her short-black-pike-place-roast while chattering into the phone. She would go on to eventually finish her roast and head home, where she would be greeted by her family. Her youngest, Timmy, would be crying in the corner until the dinner was ready. Her oldest, Chelsea, would be smoking in the bathroom until dinner was ready and she felt like coming down. Her husband would call home, saying that he was very sorry he couldn’t be home for dinner tonight  it’s just been a rough week at the office and he needs to finish some things up, while the newest intern’s knees begin to turn red beneath his desk.

But for now, Lyssa continues to sip on her short-black-pike-place-roast while chattering into the phone.

The guy in the middle, his name is Frank, was sipping on his grande-iced-sugar-free-vanilla-latte-with-soy-milk while typing on his computer. He would go on to eventually finish his latte and head home, where he would be greeted by his family. His dog, Spot, would be underneath his feet as he worked into the night. His wife would be on his mind, trying to ease his pain from sixteen miles away in the local cemetery.

But for now, Frank continues to sip on his grande-iced-sugar-free-vanilla-latte-with-soy-milk while typing on his computer.

The third one, his name is Joseph, was sipping on his triple-venti-half-sweet-non-fat-caramel-macchiato while listening to music through a pair of yellow headphones. He would go on to eventually finish his macchiato and head home, where he would be greeted by his roommates. They would get ready for some party, and head out to a place characterized by excess and irresponsibility. He would at some point find himself hovering over a toilet, unaware of how he got there, and he would see his macchiato for one last time before his stomach was pumped. 

But for now, Joseph continues to sip on his triple-venti-half-sweet-non-fat-caramel-macchiato while listeneing to music through a pair of yellow headphones.

[upperatm-blog]

They came - from the house, from the office, from the school. They all came for the same thing too, for that dark scent hanging in the air like tar. Or perhaps it was for the blue cushioned seats, the deeply finished table tops.  The barista, for most of them, would remember their usual and have it ready when they arrived. Clock work, tick-tocking as the black brew was readied and consumed.  

For now, they sat.

***

The girl in the corner, her name was Lyssa, was sipping on her short-black-pike-place-roast while chattering into the phone. She would go on to eventually finish her roast and head home, where she would be greeted by her family. Her youngest, Timmy, would be crying in the corner until the dinner was ready. Her oldest, Chelsea, would be smoking in the bathroom until dinner was ready and she felt like coming down. Her husband would call home, saying that he was very sorry he couldn't be home for dinner tonight  it's just been a rough week at the office and he needs to finish some things up, while the newest intern's knees begin to turn red beneath his desk.

But for now, Lyssa continues to sip on her short-black-pike-place-roast while chattering into the phone.

***

The guy in the middle, his name is Frank, was sipping on his grande-iced-sugar-free-vanilla-latte-with-soy-milk while typing on his computer. He would go on to eventually finish his latte and head home, where he would be greeted by his family. His dog, Spot, would be underneath his feet as he worked into the night. His wife would be on his mind, trying to ease his pain from sixteen miles away in the local cemetery.

But for now, Frank continues to sip on his grande-iced-sugar-free-vanilla-latte-with-soy-milk while typing on his computer.

***

The third one, his name is Joseph, was sipping on his triple-venti-half-sweet-non-fat-caramel-macchiato while listening to music through a pair of yellow headphones. He would go on to eventually finish his macchiato and head home, where he would be greeted by his roommates. They would get ready for some party, and head out to a place characterized by excess and irresponsibility. He would eventually find himself hovering over a toilet, though not even he knew how he got there, and he would see his macchiato for one last time before his stomach was pumped.

But for now, Joseph continues to sip on his triple-venti-half-sweet-non-fat-caramel-macchiato while listeneing to music through a pair of yellow headphones.