SS&PP Day 3

Happy Black Friday, shoppers! I hope no one got mown down at 4am outside local department store. 


We've finally come to our top three finalists in the Sudden Stories & Prose Poetry contest.  A special thank you and congratulations to Janet Harrison and Arlene Stanton, our tied-for-silver medalists, and Patrick J. Walczy, who won the grand prize - a free workshop.  It was a pleasure to meet Patrick at the Open House!  Here are our winners, and have a fantastic holiday weekend, all.

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It Happened On The Red Line

Temperatures had dipped below freezing yet he entered the Metro car in sandals worn over two pairs of thick socks, torn jeans, and a soiled trench coat belted with a piece of clothesline. He hadn’t shaved in several days and his mud brown, collar length hair was wildly uneven, as if he had hacked it off himself with a pair of dull sewing scissors.

At the next stop a young mother got on with her two children. The girl sat next to her mother and began to read a book. Her more obstreperous brother asserted his independence by sitting across the aisle, next to the trench-coated man.

“Do you want to see something?” asked the man, opening his coat.

His mother and I both tensed, but I was closer. I had no clear idea what I would do if the man exposed himself, except insert myself between the two, shielding the boy with my body.

The man reached under his coat, and pulled out a cockatiel . “She goes everywhere with me, but  now she has to hide because they don’t want her on Metro.” He gently slid her back.

“What’s her name?” asked the little boy.

The man brought her out again and considered. “You know,” he said, “She’s a special bird and she has lots of names. What do you think her name should be today?”

Transfixed, the boy stared at the bird. “Clorox,” he finally decided, “Because she’s so white.”

                                                -J. M. R. Harrison (Janet)

 

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Homewrecker

I didn’t know she knew how to operate a wrecking ball so I’m surprised when the fourth wall of our condo’s living room explodes inward. The pictures of us smiling in exotic locales come flying past and daylight cracks in. I hear her laugh, her cackle, as the patched ball retreats and begins a slow swing backward. It pauses after it divorces from momentum and then begins its valiant charge back at me, back at the memories of us. I destroyed the life we made by saying things that were false. Now she destroys the same with rented heavy-duty machinery. The ball reenters, this time breaking through everything we saw fit to hang and display, things that we thought would make people smile, but not us. It’s loud like two sticks of dynamite having sex. The ball swings past my head, shedding dust, plaster, the presents we bought, but never wrapped. The fourth wall is completely gone, everything is exposed to the afternoon sunlight. So tell me, you, where do we go from here? Google maps doesn’t have these kinds of directions. Where do we go? Don’t think, just distract her while I power that thing down. Then her and I can talk, just like we used to. 

                                                          -Patrick J. Walczy

We hope you've enjoyed reading.  Thanks again to our submitters!

Try your own sudden stories and prose poems this weekend.  Write about family, gratitude, the sensation of being full - whatever you choose, try to capture it succinctly and powerfully, reminding yourself once more of the brilliance of words, and the weight they carry when used in just the right way.  You get no more than 250, so use them well. Happy Thanksgiving to all.

SS&PP Day 2

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!  As you sneak away from the table full of food and family, snag an extra slice of pie and enjoy our next four semi-finalists in the Short Story & Prose Poetry Contest, run this fall by The Writer's Center.  Then, before you lapse into a delightful turkey (or tofurkey) coma, reflect once more on why we do what we do - to vent, to move, to inspire, to create, to learn.  Whatever your reason for writing, it's often a thankless craft, which is why it's so important to celebrate it whenever we can.  We at The Writer's Center remain grateful to all of you, for allowing us a place in your writing world, and for supporting us as we endeavor to provide a place for all of us to do what we love most: Write.


Here are our next three pieces (EDIT: I was able to get permission from our fourth semi-finalist, Richard Ladson, whose piece has now been added!), from John Cushing, Luke Moderacki, and Stefanie Wallach:

Batman and Superman

In January of 2006 I returned to Washington from my assignment in Cotonou, Benin, for three weeks for surgery.  One afternoon I took a #80 bus from Fort Totten to Foggy Bottom.  I was the only white person on the bus.  Somewhere in Northeast DC a woman got on with two boys, aged about five and six, each holding a toy action figure.  The older boy sat next to me and said, “This is Batman.  I don’t have a Daddy, but Batman has a Daddy.”

“Well, actually, Batman’s parents were both killed during an armed robbery,” I replied.

The boy sat quietly for a moment, then walked across the aisle of the bus, handed his younger brother the Batman action figure, and came back with Superman.

“This is Superman.  I don’t have a Daddy, but Superman has a Daddy,” he said.

 “Superman’s parents were both killed when their planet exploded,” I said.

He got quiet for awhile, and then asked me, “Where do you live?”

“Africa.”

The bus got very quiet.

                                                                      -John Cushing

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Of Couch and Man

The man is not obese

The man is not handicap

The man is not old

But somehow, the man has become one with the couch

His skin has absorbed into the couch

If the couch needed to go somewhere, the man would have to oblige

But, fortunately for the man, couches don’t move

And, fortunately for the couch, the man doesn’t move either

Over time the man sinks deeper and deeper into the couch

The man’s skin takes on the green pigment of the couch

The man’s backside, including the back of his head, looks as if it is sewn into the couch

Eventually, there is no longer a seam where the man meets the couch

If you touch the man’s skin, you feel the softness of cotton,

It is no longer human skin

He then becomes nothing more than a lump in the fabric

He is no longer discernable

All that is left is a lumpy couch

You ask, “How does such a thing happen?”

The lump answers, “No sense of purpose.”

                                                                     -Luke Moderacki

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Night Mine 

The girl’s compass spun as she walked in the cool night to find where she last breathed underwater. Such aimlessness! It was impossible, so she closed her eyes and felt for a pillow of frogs.

          "Little girl," he said. His breath a prickle of static on her downy cheek.

            The prince had first appeared to her as a tree. She had been wandering at dawn and wondering at the stillness of an oak. With staccato shift of branch and leaf, he formed pretty sky patterns. She plucked a blue
jewel from the boughs to keep in her pocket.

            One time she heard him in a Johnny Cash song. While fever danced along her spine, she noticed his laughter beneath the gravelly lyrics. She reached under her pillow to find an egg-shaped, velvet laugh.
            His no. 2 pencil had been the most charming gift. Wading in the brook, she stroked the mossy stones under the rapids and smiled when she pulled her hand from the brown boil. Instead of smooth gray, her waterwrinkled fingers held slender yellow.

             In the celestial field she heard again, “Little girl.”

             Her eyes opened upon a plastic laundry basket. She climbed in as the basket began to rise. It flew her over words, wishes, gardens, games, machines, mountains.
             The girl awoke in the spare room at her grandmother's house, just down the road from her own, in a warm square of sun. She held a slightly melted chocolate chip cookie. It tasted like love 
                                                               - Stefanie Wallach

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Kmart

While at the mall I visited Neiman Marcus and tried to purchase the newest (your name) package in their persona department.  They informed me that they only carried first tier personas.  They suggested that I try Kmart.

At Kmart I found a knock-off version of the (your name) persona in the returned merchandise department.  It had some dents and scratches and the batteries were dead, but otherwise appeared to be in working condition.

So I bought it for $1.99 and took it home.  I took the shopping cart home too.

When I got home and replaced the batteries I found that the OFF switch that controlled the mouth was inoperative.  It kept repeating, (Gimme chocolate, Gimme chocolate ...)

I put it on the shelf next to my Ken and Barbie personas.  The next morning I found Barbie torn to shreds, and Ken staring into space with a smile on his face.  (your name)  just sat there smoking a cigarette. 
                                       -Richard Ladson

Sudden Stories and Prose Poem Contest Winners!

As writers, it's important to take on challenges.  It's easy to fall into patterns of writing the same kind of story, with the same plot line, the same kind of character, the same patterns, even the same page count.  As such, we decided to throw down the gauntlet for our members. 

This fall, we at The Writer's Center invited our members to submit their best sudden stories and prose poems for a contest.  The only requirement was that submissions were not to exceed 250 words, and we would accept multiple entries.  We were thrilled to see our membership step up, sending dozens and dozens of entries our way.  With the help of our dedicated staff (and some heroic instructors), we whittled the pool down to the top 10 pieces.  We posted them on the walls at our fall Open House and encouraged everyone who attended to vote for their top three.  

As a special thanks to our top ten finalists (this week is all about gratitude after all), we will be posting their stories and poems on our blog for the next three days, the final day showcasing our top three finalists.  Check back each day to remind yourselves of the power of the written word, and how very much can be said with so few words.  To start us off, here are three of our finalists: Claire McGoff, Paul Rice, and Meredith Stivers.

Cry Uncle 

Even now, she pushes away the hand that touched her, helped feed her. Over and again, she steps toward then back from the sweet-smelling cologne, and minted breath. She’s kept the dresses. From the of depths of her closet, the ghosts of price tags gossip, murmur the costs. She holds the cross, no longer against her neck, but in an open shaky palm. As the chain begins to slip between her fingers, she clutches the jewel tight until the mark it makes begins to hurt. 

                                                                             -Claire McGoff 

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Without A Word

An immature white boy – racist in training,

           forgetting the company in which he rode

           demonstrated his bona fides to redneck teammates.

Leaning out the window of a safely moving car

            he yelled “WHITE TRASH” to Blacks being passed.

A startled young Black man seated beside him,

           amongst other White athletes,

           stoically stared straight ahead,

           as if he didn’t hear

                      what he wished he hadn’t

                      but all knew he had.

In the awkward, deafening silence that ensued,

           the white boy, with his back to the offended,

           slowly remembered what everyone else knew.

Mortified, he attempted to save face by concealing it,

           hiding in front of his back,

           engaging in inane small talk to no one . . . everyone,

           pretending that what had been heard

                       had not been spoken.

In the ensuing void,

           nothing said, nothing to be said,

A naive and cowardly white boy realized

           he had been yelling at himself,

           and a small life was changed

           without a word.

                                                                -Paul R. Rice 

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F Street Entrance, Chinatown

 

There’s always some street performer by the metro entrance you can hear from a block away. Tuesday morning it’s the guitarist with the graying dreadlocks and the patient dog.

I want to ask him, “Am I sad because you’re playing sad songs, or are the songs sad because I’m sad?”

But I never do. I just ride down the escalator and head to work, blinking back tears.

                                                                -Meredith Stivers