In December, I posted the three-part Blast From The Past series. The first post featured a surreal flash fiction piece I wrote when I had recently moved to New York in 2011. The second post included three poems I wrote in college. Then the third went all the way back to my senior year of high school for a short story I wrote called “Pedestrian” that was based on the months I worked at a bowling alley and fantasized about escaping into a life of crime.
It was embarrassing and hilarious to look back the naïve hack writing in the story from high school, and for today’s blog post I dug up another story I wrote in high school that I had totally forgotten about until just now. Continue reading →
Inspired by Jeff’s series of old-school stories and poems in his “Blast From The Past” series, here (unedited and unchanged) is a story I wrote in 2007 when Jeff and I were Creative Writing classmates in college. There’s a lot of cussing, but also earnest introspection. And strippers.
“Important Moments In History”
A:Wake up, jackass.
B: Ah! What the shit?
C: Wake up.
A: No? Fuck you, no. “No.”
B: I’m skipping the day.
A: Skipping the day?
C: He does that sometimes. He either stayed up all night on the internet, or out drinking with his friends.
B: The first one. I’m not even cool enough to go out drinking. I was up all night on the internet. It’s sad, really. Look at me. I didn’t even shave this crazy moustache. Look at this crazy moustache I got. This is ridiculous.
Earlier this week, I posted three poems I wrote in college and one flash fiction piece I wrote shortly after moving to NYC in the summer of 2011. To close out the week’s Blast From The Past mini-series of blog posts, I’m going further into my archives, all the way to senior year of high school (’04/’05). I wrote “Pedestrian” for my creative writing class taught by Jeff Hudson at Alton High School.
The story was inspired by the time I spent working my first job ever: a bowling alley porter making $5.15 an hour. As you can see in the very first paragraph, I didn’t exactly love the job, though it was an interesting experience. It’s interesting (and embarrassing, as you might expect) to look back on this story now and see how my writing has changed and how it’s stayed the same.
I hope you’ll enjoy it and remember in its corny, cliche, and borderline offensive moments, I wrote this as a high school kid. Having just re-read it myself, I had to laugh and shake my head many times. But I’m glad to have taken a new look at it because it puts me back in the state of mind I had in that time of my life. It’s as good as, or better than, a diary in that way.
With hands full of trash bags, Troy wandered gloomily out the door to the bowling alley. He was not sure which was worse: being inside the disgustingly sooty walls of the pervert-infested redneck asylum or being leaked on through the ripped trash bags. The dilemma was a hopeless one, indeed. At that particular moment, however, he preferred the slimy company of the nasty off-white substance dripping on his foot and rolling off his shoe onto the black top. Beer mixed with ranch sauce? he wondered. Continue reading →
On Sunday I posted a short story from just a couple years ago, but on this edition of Blast From The Past, I’m going to dig a little deeper into my writing archives with a trio of poems I wrote in college. “I Resolve” should be from sophomore or junior year of college (sometime between 2006 and 2008), while the other two are from my senior year (08-09).
As always, any feedback or thoughts you may have appreciated.
To prickle you with frozen snot mustache.
To share the breath of rancid acid burps.
To hack up phlegm upon your wedding dress.
To feel your stomach churn with grubby hands.
To hate to hate your hate of loving me.
To learn to love your love of hating me.
To swallow words you could have should have ate.
To bear the weight and learn to masturbate.
I thought it would be fun this week to post some old stories I had written so I could give them a fresh look and accept any new feedback that came from people who have never read them.
The story for today is from the not-so-distant past, the summer of 2011 when I was brand new to New York and living with two Turkish guys in a one-bedroom in Sunnyside, Queens. It was the first time I tried my hand at writing a flash fiction piece in a surrealist style, which followers of The Midnight Diner will know I’ve continued doing (see: “Playdough for Lunch“).
The doctor’s sleepy eyes peered at Angela from under heavy wrinkled hoods. He was huffing and puffing. Sweat trickled down the grid on his forehead and the bridge of his nose and around his eyes. Angela watched his hands move to a tray of surgical instruments as she lay on the operating table, just below the doctor’s breath. She raised an eyebrow in concern. She could hear a faint buzzing.
Doctor, why are you sweating? It is cold in this room.
Patient, I am nervous.
Doctor, why would you be nervous? Why are you not calling me by my name?
Patient, I have forgotten the procedure and your name.