South Omaha was theoretically its own ghetto apart from North Omaha. Most didn’t call it the ghetto, though - it was Little Mexico. Maybe Kyle was just friends with too many white people, but in all his ventures south of Dodge he hadn’t seen a single Mexican market, piñata, taco joint, or remotely Catholic-looking church. The taco place around the corner from where he lived was more Mexican than any place he’d seen in South Omaha.
The alleged Little Mexico didn’t have the same desperate air that North Omaha carried. Its streets had the same bizarre grey overtones that Council Bluffs carried, and some of the houses could do with a new paint job, but Kyle didn’t feel nearly as suffocated there. Sure, the houses were crammed a little closer together, and the different families - most of whom were admittedly Mexican - did seem to spill from one property onto another, but their lawns were neater and Kyle did feel so uneasy as he drove the streets, searching for Drew’s new place. His lady had put the kaibash on a West Omaha mansion pretty quickly.
Children clustered around a new toy on the driveway of one of the houses and barely glanced Kyle’s car as he passed. One of them even smiled and waved. That was different - in North Omaha he’d get flipped off for making eye contact. The children’s mother came out and rounded them up, speaking in rapid Spanish, and she cast a wary look Kyle’s car, but he didn’t mind.
Drew lived in a strange white pocket of Little Mexico in a whitewashed townhome crammed into the middle of a series of identical townhomes. They had less color than the crowded-together houses across the streets, and after a moment Kyle realized it was because no one’s children were playing outside. He parked behind a beat-up black pick-up truck and reached for his cell phone. He still wasn’t going to stand around alone.
(327 words)
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
Over The Bridge
When they said Iowa was “just over the bridge”, they meant it. Kyle had been in downtown Omaha before - the place was a harrowing maze of one-way streets. The grid was at its most perfect downtown, all parallel streets and perfect right angles, but the idea that one could simply travel the grid to an intended destination was a fallacy, so Kyle had never ventured below tenth street in his desperation not to get lost.
What he didn’t realize was that Dodge - and Douglas running neatly parallel to it in the other direction - turned into Iowa below tenth street. Omaha went from tenth street to the bridge to a different state entirely.
Kyle could feel it when he crossed the bridge. Drew and the others in the office called Council Bluffs the ghetto, but it wasn’t a ghetto the same way North Omaha wasn’t really a ghetto. Something about the grey tinge to everything - buildings, streets, signs, even the lights - caused Kyle to automatically hunch his shoulders and tighten his grip on the steering wheel as he hunted for the shoe store where Drew’s girlfriend’s shoes were waiting to be picked up.
The sidewalks were disturbingly empty, given that Broadway was supposedly the main drag. Kyle watched the other cars cram the road and tried to figure out what it was that made the place so dingy. He’d rolled up his windows as soon as he hit thirty-second street, because a stench that greatly resembled raw sewage had attacked his car. Perhaps what was most disconcerting was the way none of the buildings were actually on Broadway itself. A dizzying array of dim and flickering signs advertising various establishments crowded for attention above the sidewalk, but everything was set back a ways, and Kyle had to crane his neck to see if the right building was there.
He missed the Payless Shoe Source and had to find a side street to flip around and backtrack. He couldn’t wait to get back over the bridge, but he was sure that once he made it, invisible fingers of unease would claw at the back of his neck until he fell asleep.
(361 words)
What he didn’t realize was that Dodge - and Douglas running neatly parallel to it in the other direction - turned into Iowa below tenth street. Omaha went from tenth street to the bridge to a different state entirely.
Kyle could feel it when he crossed the bridge. Drew and the others in the office called Council Bluffs the ghetto, but it wasn’t a ghetto the same way North Omaha wasn’t really a ghetto. Something about the grey tinge to everything - buildings, streets, signs, even the lights - caused Kyle to automatically hunch his shoulders and tighten his grip on the steering wheel as he hunted for the shoe store where Drew’s girlfriend’s shoes were waiting to be picked up.
The sidewalks were disturbingly empty, given that Broadway was supposedly the main drag. Kyle watched the other cars cram the road and tried to figure out what it was that made the place so dingy. He’d rolled up his windows as soon as he hit thirty-second street, because a stench that greatly resembled raw sewage had attacked his car. Perhaps what was most disconcerting was the way none of the buildings were actually on Broadway itself. A dizzying array of dim and flickering signs advertising various establishments crowded for attention above the sidewalk, but everything was set back a ways, and Kyle had to crane his neck to see if the right building was there.
He missed the Payless Shoe Source and had to find a side street to flip around and backtrack. He couldn’t wait to get back over the bridge, but he was sure that once he made it, invisible fingers of unease would claw at the back of his neck until he fell asleep.
(361 words)
Project in the Works
David walked into his room and placed his backpack on his desk. Kicking off his shoes he placed them on the floor of his closet and tossed his dirty socks into the hamper. Walking back to his desk, David unzipped his backpack and pulled out his textbook and notepads, placing them neatly on his desk.
The room was spacious, the walls lined neatly with posters and pictures in frames. A computer sat humming in one corner of the room. A bookshelf was near the window, the titles organized by genre and author. An electronic keyboard was tucked into one corner, sheets of music spread on the music stand.
Strangely the only disorderly aspect to the room was the bed. Sheets and blankets were tangled on the end of the bed. Papers were crumpled and scattered over the bedding, sketches and snatches of writing. Drawings lay at strange angles and bizarre juxtapositions to each other. A pillow and a light blanket lay on the floor, as if he had chosen to sleep on the floor rather than disturb the pattern of the papers.
David glanced over at the bed, twitching as if he were going to jump up and rearrange the papers on the bed. Sighing he turned back to his homework, working out a few sums. Looking at the bed again, David almost made it out of his chair before he stopped himself. Grinding his teeth, David turned his back squarely on his project and forced himself to finish his work.
"Soon enough," he said.
The room was spacious, the walls lined neatly with posters and pictures in frames. A computer sat humming in one corner of the room. A bookshelf was near the window, the titles organized by genre and author. An electronic keyboard was tucked into one corner, sheets of music spread on the music stand.
Strangely the only disorderly aspect to the room was the bed. Sheets and blankets were tangled on the end of the bed. Papers were crumpled and scattered over the bedding, sketches and snatches of writing. Drawings lay at strange angles and bizarre juxtapositions to each other. A pillow and a light blanket lay on the floor, as if he had chosen to sleep on the floor rather than disturb the pattern of the papers.
David glanced over at the bed, twitching as if he were going to jump up and rearrange the papers on the bed. Sighing he turned back to his homework, working out a few sums. Looking at the bed again, David almost made it out of his chair before he stopped himself. Grinding his teeth, David turned his back squarely on his project and forced himself to finish his work.
"Soon enough," he said.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
West Omaha
“Now this is a house call.” Drew whistled appreciatively as Kyle steered the car off the main drag and down a side street.
Maybe this neighborhood was safer, but to Kyle it was...boring. Sure, the houses were big, and the lawns were neat, but everything looked the same. It was suburban hell at its finest. Most of the houses were cookie-cutter generic, from the fancy molding around the windows and the stylish wooden shutters set to make the places look semi-rustic. If just one of the houses had looked like that, it would have been fine, but driving through a bewildering subdivision of over a hundred of them was like being lost in some sort of Jungian nightmare hell. It was Kyle’s subconscious reminding him why he had a loft downtown on the borders of Little Mexico, the ghetto, and corporate satanism.
“I’d kill to be able to afford a place out here,” Drew said. “When Melissa and I get married, if I can score a place like this --”
Kyle privately thought that if Drew moved Melissa out to one of these mansion-wannabe monsters with the fake chandeliers and overly thick cream carpets, she’d tear her own hair out. All of the streets had ridiculous names on overly-gilded signs that were difficult to read in the glare of fading sunlight. Did that say Black Swan or Black Dawn? And who’d want to live on Black Dawn anyway?
Predictably, the house that had summoned them was at the end of a cul-de-sac, perched at the top of a ridiculously long and curved driveway. Golden light spilled from the massive front windows - a bay window on the second floor - and it felt like a three-eyed demon was staring down at them. The squat doors for the three-car-garage grimaced like so many teeth.
Kyle parked the car at the sidewalk and followed the curving path up the slope, nervous about stepping on the immaculately manicured lawn. From the doorstep, he could see the fake chandelier, and - oh hell, the woman coming to answer the door was wearing a 1950’s house dress, complete with pearls and high heels.
So this was West Omaha.
(370 words)
Maybe this neighborhood was safer, but to Kyle it was...boring. Sure, the houses were big, and the lawns were neat, but everything looked the same. It was suburban hell at its finest. Most of the houses were cookie-cutter generic, from the fancy molding around the windows and the stylish wooden shutters set to make the places look semi-rustic. If just one of the houses had looked like that, it would have been fine, but driving through a bewildering subdivision of over a hundred of them was like being lost in some sort of Jungian nightmare hell. It was Kyle’s subconscious reminding him why he had a loft downtown on the borders of Little Mexico, the ghetto, and corporate satanism.
“I’d kill to be able to afford a place out here,” Drew said. “When Melissa and I get married, if I can score a place like this --”
Kyle privately thought that if Drew moved Melissa out to one of these mansion-wannabe monsters with the fake chandeliers and overly thick cream carpets, she’d tear her own hair out. All of the streets had ridiculous names on overly-gilded signs that were difficult to read in the glare of fading sunlight. Did that say Black Swan or Black Dawn? And who’d want to live on Black Dawn anyway?
Predictably, the house that had summoned them was at the end of a cul-de-sac, perched at the top of a ridiculously long and curved driveway. Golden light spilled from the massive front windows - a bay window on the second floor - and it felt like a three-eyed demon was staring down at them. The squat doors for the three-car-garage grimaced like so many teeth.
Kyle parked the car at the sidewalk and followed the curving path up the slope, nervous about stepping on the immaculately manicured lawn. From the doorstep, he could see the fake chandelier, and - oh hell, the woman coming to answer the door was wearing a 1950’s house dress, complete with pearls and high heels.
So this was West Omaha.
(370 words)
The Trenches
David and Joe huddled in a fox hole; a few feet away, Mark, Bryan, and Steve were crouched in another. The steep earthen walls crumbled and dirt slithered to the ground as another mortar shell landed nearby.
"Join the Army, they said. See the world they said," Joe grumbled, shifting as more dirt found it's way down his shirt. He felt like it was caked on an inch thick by now.
David's smile was crooked, "this isn't the Army, we are a branch of the Marines. We go where they tell us, do what they tell us, no questions."
David stood up and fired a few rounds at the enemy. The screams of pain reported a direct hit. "I feel a bit like that game Whack-a-Mole. We pop up and pop down. And if we're lucky, we don't get hit back," David said as he crouched back beside Joe.
"At least can we have a war where it's cooler?" Joe asked, mopping the sweat out of his eyes and taking a long pull from his canteen.
"Can't help that the hot spots in the world right now are in the Middle East," David said, shrugging, and taking a swallow of his own warm water. He took in one more mouthful, swishing it around, and standing, spit it out quickly to get the grit out of his mouth. "Just imagine being in Alaska, salmon fishing in the rivers," David said, sitting back down, "at least trench warfare is nothing like it was in the other wars. Here it's relatively clean and sanitary."
"Hey Boss!" Steve hollered from the other hole.
"Yeah?"
"What is the deepest part of the ocean?"
"Challenger Deep," David hollered back.
David could hear a scuffle from the next hole over, and a faint, "ha, I told you so. Pay up."
David rolled his eyes. His team could be immature, but he wouldn't trust his life to any other group of men.
"Hey boss!" It was Bryan this time.
"What?"
"When can we go home?"
"We go home when we've won," David said.
"When we've won," He whispered to himself.
"Join the Army, they said. See the world they said," Joe grumbled, shifting as more dirt found it's way down his shirt. He felt like it was caked on an inch thick by now.
David's smile was crooked, "this isn't the Army, we are a branch of the Marines. We go where they tell us, do what they tell us, no questions."
David stood up and fired a few rounds at the enemy. The screams of pain reported a direct hit. "I feel a bit like that game Whack-a-Mole. We pop up and pop down. And if we're lucky, we don't get hit back," David said as he crouched back beside Joe.
"At least can we have a war where it's cooler?" Joe asked, mopping the sweat out of his eyes and taking a long pull from his canteen.
"Can't help that the hot spots in the world right now are in the Middle East," David said, shrugging, and taking a swallow of his own warm water. He took in one more mouthful, swishing it around, and standing, spit it out quickly to get the grit out of his mouth. "Just imagine being in Alaska, salmon fishing in the rivers," David said, sitting back down, "at least trench warfare is nothing like it was in the other wars. Here it's relatively clean and sanitary."
"Hey Boss!" Steve hollered from the other hole.
"Yeah?"
"What is the deepest part of the ocean?"
"Challenger Deep," David hollered back.
David could hear a scuffle from the next hole over, and a faint, "ha, I told you so. Pay up."
David rolled his eyes. His team could be immature, but he wouldn't trust his life to any other group of men.
"Hey boss!" It was Bryan this time.
"What?"
"When can we go home?"
"We go home when we've won," David said.
"When we've won," He whispered to himself.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
The Vein
Some people are bothered by the sounds of traffic, especially out here. Not me. My apartment complex sat right by the interstate and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The complex was made up of four buildings that stood straight and narrow, all alike, almost like giant bread boxes looming towards the sky. Of course, they weren’t very tall, with only a ground floor and one flight of stairs to speak of. Lights burned quietly between each set of apartments. The doors came in twos, with their numbers rusting away bold and black against the white paint.
The light was out near my apartment. It was the only one that didn’t shine. I didn’t care too much.
All that stood between me and that stretch of freeway was a small drain that bubbled along its way every time it rained, and a fence. If I could climb that fence, I’d be home free, thumbing my way to some other state, to some other city.
But I liked it here. I never heard many sirens, and I could always see the stars - lying on the hood of my beat up car, I could see everything, hear the noise, and at the same time drown it out.
(207 words)
The complex was made up of four buildings that stood straight and narrow, all alike, almost like giant bread boxes looming towards the sky. Of course, they weren’t very tall, with only a ground floor and one flight of stairs to speak of. Lights burned quietly between each set of apartments. The doors came in twos, with their numbers rusting away bold and black against the white paint.
The light was out near my apartment. It was the only one that didn’t shine. I didn’t care too much.
All that stood between me and that stretch of freeway was a small drain that bubbled along its way every time it rained, and a fence. If I could climb that fence, I’d be home free, thumbing my way to some other state, to some other city.
But I liked it here. I never heard many sirens, and I could always see the stars - lying on the hood of my beat up car, I could see everything, hear the noise, and at the same time drown it out.
(207 words)
Home
The place that David had come to call home was austere. On the surface it was a small bunker, but underneath was a world of concrete and florescent lights. Corridors that stretched on forever were designated alphanumerically. The walls were stark, bare concrete, reinforced with re bar at their core. Pipes were exposed in the ceiling, color coded for identification. Blast doors, accessible only through a key card blocked much of the facility. Sound seemed dampened here, the air sterile, scrubbed a thousand times by the filtration system.
Barrack rooms were kept spotless. Fifty beds to a room for new recruits, five to ten beds for the team barracks. The common areas were even silent, as if holding a breath, waiting for a slight movement.
Strobe lights and sirens sat at junctions, waiting to go off. Weapons lockers and equipment storage were immaculately organized. Everything spoke of flawless military precision.
Barrack rooms were kept spotless. Fifty beds to a room for new recruits, five to ten beds for the team barracks. The common areas were even silent, as if holding a breath, waiting for a slight movement.
Strobe lights and sirens sat at junctions, waiting to go off. Weapons lockers and equipment storage were immaculately organized. Everything spoke of flawless military precision.
The Right Address
“We’re not doctors. Why are we making house calls?” Drew asked.
Kyle hitched his laptop bag higher and sighed. “Keep your chin up and walk a little faster. Then we won’t get mugged.”
“Mugged?” Drew squeaked.
Kyle rolled his eyes. “Don’t be such a wuss.”
“We’re in the ghetto, man. Two white guys in the ghetto - we’re walking targets.”
“We will be if you keep talking like that,” Kyle said. “And this isn’t a ghetto.” At least, North Omaha wasn’t like the ghettos people saw on TV. The streets followed the semi-organized grid-system that the rest of Omaha pretended to follow, but the further north of Dodge the streets got, the more broken-down they became. Kyle and Drew would have been driving if Drew hadn’t blown a tire on a pothole. The cracks in the broken sidewalk seemed to have been timed to match the potholes in the tar, and Drew had almost tripped over his own shoes five times now.
“You told the caller what a house visit costs?” Drew asked.
“It’s not like Holgren would let us out of the office if I hadn’t pinned the caller down to actual payment,” Kyle said. Drew’s skepticism was understandable, though. Most of the houses in these neighborhoods were from the sixties and seventies, and a good number of them hadn’t had paint jobs since then. Lawns were overgrown and choked with weeds, and the scent of grits that wafted from open windows. Drew looked guilty when his stomach growled. Kyle would have paused to admire one of the ma-an-pa corner stores a little longer if the group of teenagers pouting over soda pop bottles weren’t glaring quite so fiercely.
“...Are we still even in the city limits anymore?” Drew asked.
Kyle peered at the GPS on his cell phone, then looked up. They’d reached the end of Maple Street, which had dead-ended here even though it was a main street further west, and there was a single house, ramshackle and made of what looked suspiciously like bamboo. It stood in the middle of a single, grassy field, and Kyle was convinced that a gang of men would emerge, singing songs about picking cotton. The grassy field was huge and dotted with trees, and the rest of the neighborhood seemed to have vanished from around it.
“Well,” Kyle said at last. “It’s the right address.”
Kyle hitched his laptop bag higher and sighed. “Keep your chin up and walk a little faster. Then we won’t get mugged.”
“Mugged?” Drew squeaked.
Kyle rolled his eyes. “Don’t be such a wuss.”
“We’re in the ghetto, man. Two white guys in the ghetto - we’re walking targets.”
“We will be if you keep talking like that,” Kyle said. “And this isn’t a ghetto.” At least, North Omaha wasn’t like the ghettos people saw on TV. The streets followed the semi-organized grid-system that the rest of Omaha pretended to follow, but the further north of Dodge the streets got, the more broken-down they became. Kyle and Drew would have been driving if Drew hadn’t blown a tire on a pothole. The cracks in the broken sidewalk seemed to have been timed to match the potholes in the tar, and Drew had almost tripped over his own shoes five times now.
“You told the caller what a house visit costs?” Drew asked.
“It’s not like Holgren would let us out of the office if I hadn’t pinned the caller down to actual payment,” Kyle said. Drew’s skepticism was understandable, though. Most of the houses in these neighborhoods were from the sixties and seventies, and a good number of them hadn’t had paint jobs since then. Lawns were overgrown and choked with weeds, and the scent of grits that wafted from open windows. Drew looked guilty when his stomach growled. Kyle would have paused to admire one of the ma-an-pa corner stores a little longer if the group of teenagers pouting over soda pop bottles weren’t glaring quite so fiercely.
“...Are we still even in the city limits anymore?” Drew asked.
Kyle peered at the GPS on his cell phone, then looked up. They’d reached the end of Maple Street, which had dead-ended here even though it was a main street further west, and there was a single house, ramshackle and made of what looked suspiciously like bamboo. It stood in the middle of a single, grassy field, and Kyle was convinced that a gang of men would emerge, singing songs about picking cotton. The grassy field was huge and dotted with trees, and the rest of the neighborhood seemed to have vanished from around it.
“Well,” Kyle said at last. “It’s the right address.”
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Warren Buffett's Neighborhood
“I’m telling you, this is Warren Buffet’s neighborhood.” Drew gestured to the view beyond the windshield.
Kyle sat back and stared at the row of suburban houses and wondered where Omaha had gone. Sure, this wasn’t downtown, but this wasn’t really the suburbs either. If he glanced over his shoulder, he could see the rush and zoom of cars on Dodge, which was the city’s main artery, but when he looked forward, it was as if he were staring into a whole new world.
And a whole new world it was, with dozens of little gingerbread houses topping fairy-tale adorable lawns. Each lawn was perfectly manicured and dotted with patches of flowery color that resembled carelessly-strewn candy. There was something uncanny to the overly-sharp slope of the roofs and the too-bright flowers in the trees that made Kyle wonder if he’d stepped into Wonderland. The faux-tudor finish in the front was kitschy and unsettling, and any moment a little dwarf with a pointed cap and a shovel was going to come a-whistling out the front door to the tune of “hi-ho, it’s off to work we go.”
“If I ever pay off my student loans, I’d totally love to buy a house here,” Drew said. “And not just because super-man Buffett lives here. It’d be a great place to raise kids, right?”
Kyle cast Drew a glance askance. “To raise kids. Sure.”
Drew rolled his eyes. “Are you sure you’re not gay?”
The woman who’d crawled out of Kyle’s bed this morning before he woke was pretty sure.
“All right.” Drew revved the car. “C’mon, I’ll take you to the Dundee Dell - they’ve got great imports on tap as well as seriously good food. You’ll like Omaha - you’ll see.”
Kyle sat back and stared at the row of suburban houses and wondered where Omaha had gone. Sure, this wasn’t downtown, but this wasn’t really the suburbs either. If he glanced over his shoulder, he could see the rush and zoom of cars on Dodge, which was the city’s main artery, but when he looked forward, it was as if he were staring into a whole new world.
And a whole new world it was, with dozens of little gingerbread houses topping fairy-tale adorable lawns. Each lawn was perfectly manicured and dotted with patches of flowery color that resembled carelessly-strewn candy. There was something uncanny to the overly-sharp slope of the roofs and the too-bright flowers in the trees that made Kyle wonder if he’d stepped into Wonderland. The faux-tudor finish in the front was kitschy and unsettling, and any moment a little dwarf with a pointed cap and a shovel was going to come a-whistling out the front door to the tune of “hi-ho, it’s off to work we go.”
“If I ever pay off my student loans, I’d totally love to buy a house here,” Drew said. “And not just because super-man Buffett lives here. It’d be a great place to raise kids, right?”
Kyle cast Drew a glance askance. “To raise kids. Sure.”
Drew rolled his eyes. “Are you sure you’re not gay?”
The woman who’d crawled out of Kyle’s bed this morning before he woke was pretty sure.
“All right.” Drew revved the car. “C’mon, I’ll take you to the Dundee Dell - they’ve got great imports on tap as well as seriously good food. You’ll like Omaha - you’ll see.”
Remembrance
Dim light filtered into the alley; reflections from the windows across the street. Busy shops, full of people and prosperity, just around the corner from hell.
Refuse was strewn on the ground; the air stale and rank with urine and vomit from any number of homeless people who would squat there at night. There was an empty dumpster near the mouth of the alley, lidless and reeking, one wheel missing from the front. It looked like it hadn't been moved for an age. The rest of the alley was filled with broken bits of human life. A T.V. with a smashed in screen, a child's bike, the paint faded and the once bright silver rusted, newspapers dating back to the previous decade, empty beer bottles and copious amounts of glass. Spray paint covered the walls, gang tags, claiming territory hardly worth defending.
David stood from where he crouched among the rubbish, a breeze carrying the stink of the alley into his face; making him scrunch his nose in distaste. A bunch of Forget-me-not left on the ground. They would be dead and shriveled in a few hours. David turned from the alley and walked to his car.
Dead and as lifeless as his love.
Refuse was strewn on the ground; the air stale and rank with urine and vomit from any number of homeless people who would squat there at night. There was an empty dumpster near the mouth of the alley, lidless and reeking, one wheel missing from the front. It looked like it hadn't been moved for an age. The rest of the alley was filled with broken bits of human life. A T.V. with a smashed in screen, a child's bike, the paint faded and the once bright silver rusted, newspapers dating back to the previous decade, empty beer bottles and copious amounts of glass. Spray paint covered the walls, gang tags, claiming territory hardly worth defending.
David stood from where he crouched among the rubbish, a breeze carrying the stink of the alley into his face; making him scrunch his nose in distaste. A bunch of Forget-me-not left on the ground. They would be dead and shriveled in a few hours. David turned from the alley and walked to his car.
Dead and as lifeless as his love.
Monday, June 29, 2009
King Pin
There weren’t many places to hang out in Fayeville. Vince and I always seemed to wind up at the bar (yes, one bar in a town of drunks), or at the bowling alley. I liked the nights where we pulled into the bowling alley parking lot more, because I knew I would have fun, instead of getting drunk and pretending to have fun.
The parking lot was fairly big, simply because business was usually booming every single night for one reason or another. Even though it was big, it had few lights, so what it did light up seemed ghostly. It kind of freaked me out sometimes. I hated going out to my truck alone when it got late. I always made Vince walk out with me.
Inside, you get thrown back a few decades, but in a teeny tiny town like Fayeville, you got used to it. It was like that everywhere you went. The pool tables stuck out like sore thumbs because Brad has only gotten them a few months ago. That’s what Vince and I did. We were slowly but surely becoming pool sharks.
“So what’ll it be tonight, Sam? Eight? Nine? Trick shots?” Vince was gathering the pool balls and putting them in the rack. I was mildly distracted by the rumble of the lanes, the whirring of the ball machines, the distant clicks and clacks of the one pinball machine that stood in the corner, lonely and itching for a quarter.
“Sam?”
“Hmmm?”
“Sam, why are you always spacing out on me? I think you’re coming down with a case of EDD or something.”
“It’s ADD, Vince. I’ll go get us some cues.”
(278 words)
The parking lot was fairly big, simply because business was usually booming every single night for one reason or another. Even though it was big, it had few lights, so what it did light up seemed ghostly. It kind of freaked me out sometimes. I hated going out to my truck alone when it got late. I always made Vince walk out with me.
Inside, you get thrown back a few decades, but in a teeny tiny town like Fayeville, you got used to it. It was like that everywhere you went. The pool tables stuck out like sore thumbs because Brad has only gotten them a few months ago. That’s what Vince and I did. We were slowly but surely becoming pool sharks.
“So what’ll it be tonight, Sam? Eight? Nine? Trick shots?” Vince was gathering the pool balls and putting them in the rack. I was mildly distracted by the rumble of the lanes, the whirring of the ball machines, the distant clicks and clacks of the one pinball machine that stood in the corner, lonely and itching for a quarter.
“Sam?”
“Hmmm?”
“Sam, why are you always spacing out on me? I think you’re coming down with a case of EDD or something.”
“It’s ADD, Vince. I’ll go get us some cues.”
(278 words)
Old Park Bench
The scent of loamy earth rose on the damp air. The sun had set behind the city, painting it a vivid orange, and dusk was falling. The city lights were starting to come on, glowing pale in the misty night. Fog was gathering and drifting into the streets, flowing like river currents towards the center of the city. The moon was rising, bathing the night in silver light.
A bench, partly hidden by the drooping branches of an ancient Elm tree, was tucked away near the trunk. The gnarled branches cradling the bench and casting deeper shadows on Arianna and David as they sat on the old park bench, nestled at the top of a hill, just outside of the city to the East. The breeze was blowing gently from the south, cool and soft.
Arianna snuggled into David's side, her head against his shoulder. She shivered lightly under his leather jacket that was slung around her shoulders. David placed his arm around her shoulders, sighing in contentment. Right now, he thought, right now, I'm happy.
David tipped his head back to look up at the sky. The clouds were starting to thin out, and he could see the first spots of light in the distance.
Arianna watched David watching the stars and smiled, her hand resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her fingers. She leaned over and kissed his neck as his head was tilted back.
David's breath hitched, his skin goosebumping under her lips. He looked down at her, his eyes dark in the night. He brought his lips to hers and kissed her slowly and passionately.
"I love you Arianna," David said.
"I love you too."
It was the first time those words had been exchanged.
A bench, partly hidden by the drooping branches of an ancient Elm tree, was tucked away near the trunk. The gnarled branches cradling the bench and casting deeper shadows on Arianna and David as they sat on the old park bench, nestled at the top of a hill, just outside of the city to the East. The breeze was blowing gently from the south, cool and soft.
Arianna snuggled into David's side, her head against his shoulder. She shivered lightly under his leather jacket that was slung around her shoulders. David placed his arm around her shoulders, sighing in contentment. Right now, he thought, right now, I'm happy.
David tipped his head back to look up at the sky. The clouds were starting to thin out, and he could see the first spots of light in the distance.
Arianna watched David watching the stars and smiled, her hand resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her fingers. She leaned over and kissed his neck as his head was tilted back.
David's breath hitched, his skin goosebumping under her lips. He looked down at her, his eyes dark in the night. He brought his lips to hers and kissed her slowly and passionately.
"I love you Arianna," David said.
"I love you too."
It was the first time those words had been exchanged.
Downtown
It was almost romantic, standing beside the window in his darkened apartment, staring out at the city while soft piano music played in the background. Of course, the dim glow out of the corner of his eye came from his laptop instead of candlelight, and his neck was craned at an awkward angle so he could catch a glimpse of the fireworks hailing the end of the annual city arts festival, so it still wasn't quite romantic.
Downtown Omaha from the fringes from the north side of Dodge, on a night like this, looked like someone had carved a piece of Victorian London of the past and dumped it down in the middle of the plains. Then giant hands had rearranged it to form a semi-neat grid and smeared it in golden light. The rooftops were flat and even, punctuated in spots by the highrise buildings of the banks and law firms that corroded the downtown skyline. Most of the buildings were old brick with high, roman-arch windows. They were old factories and warehouses remodeled into stylish studio apartments with sky-high rent and starving students lounging on the stairwells, trading talk about Heidigger and the latest college world series game.
Some cities were modern halogen-bright, stark with blue-white light cutting into the dingy shadows that crept alongside decrepit buildings, but Omaha had older lights, golden and warmer, if a bit foggy on a humid Sunday night. Edges of buildings and billboards looked softer, almost dream-like.
If he squinted just right, he could see the sudden dip in the even rooftop world, like a black hole had clawed up through the bottom of the pseudo chimney-sweep universe and swept away the singing Dick Van Dykes. The county jail was over there, right in the middle of downtown next to the world-class performing arts center modeled after some fancy Viennese institution.
The fireworks echoed across the sky like gunshots, lit up the factory-ancient roofs, and for a moment, a dull city night was colorful.
Downtown Omaha from the fringes from the north side of Dodge, on a night like this, looked like someone had carved a piece of Victorian London of the past and dumped it down in the middle of the plains. Then giant hands had rearranged it to form a semi-neat grid and smeared it in golden light. The rooftops were flat and even, punctuated in spots by the highrise buildings of the banks and law firms that corroded the downtown skyline. Most of the buildings were old brick with high, roman-arch windows. They were old factories and warehouses remodeled into stylish studio apartments with sky-high rent and starving students lounging on the stairwells, trading talk about Heidigger and the latest college world series game.
Some cities were modern halogen-bright, stark with blue-white light cutting into the dingy shadows that crept alongside decrepit buildings, but Omaha had older lights, golden and warmer, if a bit foggy on a humid Sunday night. Edges of buildings and billboards looked softer, almost dream-like.
If he squinted just right, he could see the sudden dip in the even rooftop world, like a black hole had clawed up through the bottom of the pseudo chimney-sweep universe and swept away the singing Dick Van Dykes. The county jail was over there, right in the middle of downtown next to the world-class performing arts center modeled after some fancy Viennese institution.
The fireworks echoed across the sky like gunshots, lit up the factory-ancient roofs, and for a moment, a dull city night was colorful.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Overview #32: First Person POV
Ugh. First of all, I know I didn't write yesterday. Had a bunch of things going on, like party planning.
Anyway, I thought this challenge went pretty well for me. Once I got writing, I fell into a rhythm, and that hasn't happened for me in a long time. I also very much like my characters. While at first I was simply basing them on people I knew in real life, I felt like they finally took on their own personality and image as the week wore on.
I thought I wasn't too keen on the whole first person thing, but then I remembered that I wrote an entire novella in first person. So maybe I've just been out of practice. (And the novella also stopped me from writing prose for a very, very long time.)
On to the new assignment!
Anyway, I thought this challenge went pretty well for me. Once I got writing, I fell into a rhythm, and that hasn't happened for me in a long time. I also very much like my characters. While at first I was simply basing them on people I knew in real life, I felt like they finally took on their own personality and image as the week wore on.
I thought I wasn't too keen on the whole first person thing, but then I remembered that I wrote an entire novella in first person. So maybe I've just been out of practice. (And the novella also stopped me from writing prose for a very, very long time.)
On to the new assignment!
Overview #32: First Person POV
Okay, so while I don't think I totally suck at first person, I could definitely use some improvement. I noticed, and it was pointed out that I have inconsistencies in my characters. I think part of that is that they are still kind of new characters and so they don't have a set and definite personality and form yet. I liked the one from David's POV, and then I tried it from Arianna's. I found that as I was working with the others that they are to underdeveloped; I'm not really sure what they are prone to do at any given moment. I did enjoy viewing David from Arianna's perspective though. I am still having troubles with the technical aspect of writing, though I am slowly improving. It seems like it is good for a while, and then the misplaced modifiers of doom or some strange punctuation slips in. Perhaps those are the posts that I am hurrying to get written because the characters are not being cooperative. I will try this next week to be especially vigilant about that.
Project #33: World-building
I'll be the first to admit that this is something I shy away from and rarely relish in, even when I'm GMing, and it's the reason I avoid high fantasy and stick to urban fantasy - because there's no world-building. Or so I thought. And then I read this post by the lovely SRB and thought, well, maybe I do some of that after all. Even when you write urban fantasy or set your story in a place that really exists, you're building a world when you make that place a home for your reader. So, this week, build a world! Take us on a tour of your characters' home town - where do the rowdy kids hang out on a Friday night where Sam and Vince live? Was 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' out on the green at the local university or in a fancy theatre downtown for Ari and David?
Keep it no more than 400 words, no less than 100 words a day, and hopefully after six days we'll have worlds built. Happy writing!
Keep it no more than 400 words, no less than 100 words a day, and hopefully after six days we'll have worlds built. Happy writing!
Rules 2.2
Hi and hello from the Mod!
Feedback consistency: friends and fellow writers, let us attempt to be as consistent as possible with feedback. Sometimes we fall behind and it feels like a rush, to make up for back posts missed (click on the "post options" button so you can back-date posts) and catch up on the posts we haven't read, but this game is for the improvement of all, and improvement comes through constructive criticism. Do make a point to try to find posts you missed reading - it's only fair to the other writers.
First - constructive: be helpful. We're mature here, and so far the feedback here has been friendly and decent and full of camaraderie, and we do our best not to waste the pixels our comrades have to read. If someone points something out, pay attention to it. What may seem like nitpicking to you may be where someone at the bookstore closes your novel and sets it back on the shelf and never gets to that cool scene in the third chapter. Don't take things personally, either - just because you might have grammar/spelling/style issues doesn't mean you're a horrible person or we think you're horrible for mentioning them. Yes, writing comes from your soul, but just because we may not like something you wrote doesn't mean we dislike you as a person all of a sudden.
Second - criticism: try to have something useful to say. Sometimes all you can do is nitpick, but do it, because it's that fine-toothed comb that makes good writing better. We want to encourage each other and help each other keep up with this tasks, but we want to help each other improve, and gushing only love and puppies to each other (which we've all been guilty of) doesn't always help/isn't useful to the writer. Did you hate a particular sentence? Why? Tell the writer and let her know, and she will take your criticism under advisement.
Yes, under advisement. We have free agency, and we will listen to criticism with open minds, but don't be offended if someone doesn't take it. You might be annoyed, but try not to be offended. We love each other.
Remember that.
Feedback consistency: friends and fellow writers, let us attempt to be as consistent as possible with feedback. Sometimes we fall behind and it feels like a rush, to make up for back posts missed (click on the "post options" button so you can back-date posts) and catch up on the posts we haven't read, but this game is for the improvement of all, and improvement comes through constructive criticism. Do make a point to try to find posts you missed reading - it's only fair to the other writers.
First - constructive: be helpful. We're mature here, and so far the feedback here has been friendly and decent and full of camaraderie, and we do our best not to waste the pixels our comrades have to read. If someone points something out, pay attention to it. What may seem like nitpicking to you may be where someone at the bookstore closes your novel and sets it back on the shelf and never gets to that cool scene in the third chapter. Don't take things personally, either - just because you might have grammar/spelling/style issues doesn't mean you're a horrible person or we think you're horrible for mentioning them. Yes, writing comes from your soul, but just because we may not like something you wrote doesn't mean we dislike you as a person all of a sudden.
Second - criticism: try to have something useful to say. Sometimes all you can do is nitpick, but do it, because it's that fine-toothed comb that makes good writing better. We want to encourage each other and help each other keep up with this tasks, but we want to help each other improve, and gushing only love and puppies to each other (which we've all been guilty of) doesn't always help/isn't useful to the writer. Did you hate a particular sentence? Why? Tell the writer and let her know, and she will take your criticism under advisement.
Yes, under advisement. We have free agency, and we will listen to criticism with open minds, but don't be offended if someone doesn't take it. You might be annoyed, but try not to be offended. We love each other.
Remember that.
Overview #32: First Person POV
This was a good exercise for me to do, because, let's face it, I'm not so awesome at the first person POV. It could be an extension of my own interpersonal/trust issues, but that's neither here no there. I really needed the improvement, especially since an exercise in the first person is also an exercise in voice, and I've always been a bit iffy about how well individual characters have different voices in my writing. The First Person does tend to bring out someone's unique voice a bit more, and I feel a bit more free to take liberties or new angles with grammar and punctuation to find a voice. In the beginning, I was definitely writing third person limited with pronoun changes, which was pretty lame, and I was half-pleased, half-annoyed to discover that in the first piece Clay and Bob had more distinct voices even though the piece was in Dan's POV. As the week wore on, though, I found that I didn't know the characters like I thought I did. For some reason, Clay came easiest. Bob, who is probably my baby of the group, gave me hell as far as finding a voice, and every line was pulling teeth (although I was pretty pleased at being able to sneak in another 2BP song, especially one that had the grainy over-the-phone quality that fit the piece). Scott came fairly easily after that. I was surprised at just how much trouble Carolyn gave me, probably because in my head she's so inconsistent. As a character within herself she's inconsistent, and I had to fight to make her work without making her sound incoherent. Still, I applaud Jade's choice for this week's challenge and am glad to have improved, if only minimally.
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