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Tyler Key

Prof. Parks

XIDS 2190

29 February 2012

Draft of Final Portfolio

RIVERRUN, PAST EVE AND ADAM’S TO STATELY ESTATES WHERE THE WIVES

OF MINERS WEEP

PRESS RELEASE

In brief, my lawyers inform me that the EPA and several independent activist groups will shut

down the operation in Ohio. We have a secretary decoding their legalese. For the purposes of this

electronic Press Release to you, the stockholders of Extractive Industries, I shall keep the tone

sufficiently pleasant (and granted, more understandable). But first on the docket, I’d like to relate

to you a very brief anecdote that may illuminate this entire predicament concerning the ethics of

what the eco-friendly media call “fracking“:

Upon making my first sizable profit in the industry, I decided to seek out some very rare first

edition texts: James Joyce, TS Eliot, Ezra Pound– antiquarian volumes of that rigid Modernist

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literature that I’d always enjoyed and that would lend some gravitas to the library in the new

home I’d built in the Adirondacks. I met a fellow at a rare book auction who could procure for

me the desired volumes. He sported an eyepatch and used a cane around his shop, which was

filled with cloth-bound and leather-bound tomes and smelled of ginger. He gave me a twice-over

with his good eye and asked why I’d want books so dense and unreadable, never mind the cost. I

smiled at him. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t purchase something that keeps the mind

unsettled, always working its way out of a corner.”

You, the stockholders, all know that I, the CEO, then spent three years in India with Ravi

Shankar.

***

This particular piece began as an exercise in form, because really: who wants to read the same

old kind of story each time they sit down to do so? Conforming with my creative catalyst I’ve

selected for the semester (using a picture of an old object in order to get to create a character and

their story), I found a picture from the James Joyce Museum. Yes, that’s because I love Joyce

and the Modernists. The process, as with most of these little flash-fictions, begins with

constructing a plausible character to own the object, who then must begin to relate his/her story

and have it reasonably concluded in the span of 250 words. It’s hard. There’s hardly any

climactic point in this one—no jumping off a cliff into a deep ravine or watching the Hindenberg

fall from the sky. I tried to create implied climax. If this sounds pompous and arrogant, then

blame the subject matter. Instead of explaining my process on each piece (because it’s quite

systematic and almost easy [as long as I have the time]), I’ll reveal little bits that are important to

each one throughout.

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SO THE TENANTS OF THE APARTMENT SCRAMBLE DOWN THE FIRE ESCAPES

OFFENSE REPORT

OFFICE OF SHERIFF

County of Pemberton, GA

OFFENSE 429 INVOLUNTARY ARSON

LOCATION… E. Longview St, Harrington Apt Complex

REPORTED BY… Maj Tom Wiesgluck   ADDRESS…Pemberton Co Sheriff’s Dept

RECEIVED  BY… Cpl Julian Comstock DATE………..01/29/12 TIME…

4:00PM

STATEMENT: JOSIAH HENSON, BM age 19,

                     son of HERMAN HENSON of APT314

                     1492 E. Longview St, Pemberton, GA.

                     JOSIAH was questioned in regards to the origins of the fire that burned the apt

complex JAN 28 and states that it was an accident. HERMAN was also questioned. HERMAN

states his son, who recently acquired a used IBM SELECTRIC II typewriter from HERMAN’s

sister, noticed smoke shortly after plugging up the SELECTRIC into the APT’s outlet in

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bedroom 2. The APT was not equipped with extinguisher. Further motive unclear, though

Harrington Apt’s insurance policy proves sizable. Sister of HERMAN, VP of HOUSING

FUTURE, LLC, owners of Harrington Apt., proved unreachable by all attempts. JOSIAH

recounted a tableau of floor six residents bulging from sixth floor fire escape. JOSIAH stated two

large black women in nightgowns leaped from fire escape when flames occluded passage down,

their names and remains are under further investigation. JOSIAH delivered to PPD by Maj

Wiesgluck, who attests to JOSIAH’s remorse and moist eyes. JOSIAH stated all he wanted to do

was write a story like the old days where men used typewriters and their imagination. JOSIAH

also states he could not have envisioned such a tragedy emerging from his words alone.

***

This piece, too, began as an exercise in form, but instead of using the Press Release format of the

previous post, I decided to cop an Offense Report—the slip filed after you get in an accident or

stab your neighbor. Telling a story seemed implicit to the format, but, alas, I found that the

constraints of both 250 words and an unfamiliar format made the story quite vague. The picture

here I chose simply because I dig old typewriters, and had never written anything in which one

was used as a plot device. So there’s that. This piece, when all was said and done, turned out to

deal with the metaphorical (and ironic) power of the written word. And maybe an indictment of

electric typewriters in general. (P.S.: Use a manual one. Be a man.)

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LITTLE MOTIONLESS GREEN MEN

Little Fucker play with his army men. KAARACK. THUH THUH thuh BddddBddd. Ahh!

Wahjuh, I been shot! Hep me Wahjuh! Wahjuh I need juice! Ah! KARACKATACK.

SZOOOOoooPUHHHH. Ah!

Two green men in his fingers. They sticky. He licked one. I got you some juice Fwed. Lick.

Fwed you oh kay? You got shot? Lick. BdddddBdddBdBdddd. KEW KEW. Crunch of green

men like leaves under his booties.

Little Fucker Momma yells from nowhere Cut that shit out GODDAMMIT. Waah! We fwying!

Waah! KEW KEW PSHHHH. Get out get out get out get out, a boat! aboat! Shuffle and scuttle.

Two sticky men in two sticky hands and they got to get away from Little Fucker Momma, big

monster they got to leave. It’s okay Fwed and Wahjuh, she no hurt you no. Big monster.

Little Fucker Momma cook stink on the stove. Stove hurt to touch but now Little Fucker don’t

touch. Little Fucker Momma put one Army Men on the I one day and he don’t look like Army

Men no more. That Wahjuh. He got shot. Need juice. Lick. Little Fucker Momma lockadoor

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sometime and she get shot AH AH AH AHH ah and Wahjuh and Fwed say she need juice yeah.

Come sounds that hear like PSSSH KARACK but real quite cause the door. Little Fucker

Momma cook stink and lockadoor too and Little Fucker Momma say Little Fucker if you dont

cut out that GODDAMMIT NOISE eye um gonna THROW YOU INuh GARBAGE.

Wahjuh and Fwed on the cawpet now. Little Fucker don’t flyum no more. They need a

pairashoes.

***

Instead of focusing on form after my systematic creative spark, I decided to focus on style and

orthography as a means of conveying more than the 250 words would have allowed. I honestly

don’t know how I pictured the child of a drug addict playing with the army men in the picture,

but sometimes those weird things and mind explosions can’t be systematically ingrained into the

creative writing student—they just happen. Instead of telling the story first person (which could

have led down a road of even more gobbledygook, since the mother doesn’t speak to the child

but in clipped expletives), I decided to go with the third-limited perspective so that the reader

wouldn’t feel totally lost. The name “Little Fucker” seems offensive at first, until the reader

makes the leap and discovers that his mother calls him. I could explain this one for days—so I’ll

stop.

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HOW TO EAT FROM THE JESUS PLATE

First, have your girlfriend over. Tell her what you did with that girl from class who is three years

your junior (Note: do not be gentle or circumlocutory). Let her vent the frustration she feels at

the moment. You are just a college student so you have nothing of great value in your flat. This

is because you’re hip: thrift stores, Goodwill, kitschy crap (like the Jesus plate—only for it’s

ironic value). Let your now ex-girlfriend destroy every visible item in your kitchen, since you

hardly use it.

Next, expend your reserve of styrofoam dinnerware. Make an artistic collage for your Creative

Process class, involving said plates–you glue them to your naked body with peanut butter (since

you have a surplus at the moment–grocery shopping while hungry has never been your strong

suit). Now you are covered in peanut butter, styrofoam plates, and have one less relationship to

worry about.

Now, after your Dionysian creativity splurge (and, let’s be frank, there were chemicals that aided

this which you ingested), do not emerge from bed for a few days. Call in sick to your part-time

job where you answer phone calls. Ingest more substances during your sick day.

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You are hungry. Your dinette set is scattered across the dumpster outside, where your girlfriend

still lurks–she has binoculars to watch you emerge through your window. Your belly rumbles

and you stumble to the freezer for a Hot Pocket, because it’s easy.

The microwave’s glass rotary looks dirty. Fortunately, Jesus Saves.

***

This piece began as an incorporation of the “How To” format we’d been working on in class

during that week. My grandmother has all sorts of kitschy crap, like commemorative Jesus and

Dale Earnhart dinnerware, so that popped into my head. (I’m starting to realize that some of this

stuff isn’t necessarily teachable—like the spark moment. How do you teach someone what to

write about?) With the How-To format, humor, for me at least, seemed to be the most accessible

and interesting route, since most How-To guides read so dry and limp. So in order to make this

one funny, I combined the kinds of activities we were doing in class (albeit more ridiculous) with

a normal life situation (crazy girlfriend whom you’ve cheated on) and constructed the writing

around that. Hopefully, the end result is funny (and sad, a little).

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CATEGORY “FAMOUS SERIAL KILLERS”

“The Personal Self Defense Hand-Hewn Walking Cane costs under $200, is very sturdy, and

comes with a free lifetime warranty.”

The salesman stood at her door holding two of these canes. She was glad he didn’t have a Bible

or a Book of Mormon, but there was something strange about him. He didn’t have a briefcase.

“I see that you have a walker there from one of our competitors. Now those aluminum

contraptions are quite light and stout, but–as you can see–they would be mince-meat if you were

in a personal self defense situation.”

The Wheel of Fortune was on in the living room and she peered around the threshold. The big

white boxes on the screen read D_H__R. She smiled at the salesman. Her top set of dentures slid

around.

“Hold this one for a second, if you will. It has some real weight to it, doesn’t it? This model

includes an optional rubber stop at the tip, for those slippery surfaces like the linoleum behind

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you in the kitchen. And honestly, two of these Personal Self Defense models would make a

perfect replacement for an aluminum walker any day.”

There was a weight to the cane. Too heavy. Pat Sajak asked if someone would like to buy a

vowel. A. She peered in again.

DAHM_R. The damn cane fellow had interrupted her. She didn’t know the category.

“If you’d like to, we could discuss this inside, ma’am. I’m sure you’d love to try one out.”

E. It clicked. She yelled at the young salesman. She said “Git!” and shooed him off her porch

with her walker.

***

After working with odd formats and unconventional stories for so long, I felt the need to create

something more in line with the flash-fiction genre. My great-grandfather had a nice cane he’d

bought from a salesman (or so he said—the man had Alzheimer’s at the end of his life) and I’d

always wanted to envision that scene. But by having a female protagonist, the tension of the

piece heightened, so I rolled with that. We all know old people watch Wheel of Fortune. It’s a

given. So there was my plot scenario: cane salesman, Pat Sajak, old woman. Then came the

creation of suspense—turns out it’s also really hard in such a short form. Tension and release

seem to be the skills I’m showing off, here.

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HISTORY, AND UNDERSTANDABLY SO: SHE HAD TO RECITE A EULOGY THE

FOLLOWING WEEK.

“When I was a little girl, we had nothing except what Momma made us. After we all went to bed,

she’d be in the front room quilt-making with the aid of a kerosene lamp–and that’s after a whole

day of field work. Now, I ain’t talking about what you kids today call ‘work’–we had it rough–

none of this sit-on-your-butt-all-day-pecking-at-a-line-o-type kinda stuff. We worked in the

fields, Daddy’s fields–he was a sharecropper after he got out of the service–and we picked and

shucked and shelled and plowed and tilled from before the rooster crowed until sundown.”

“…”

“Well anyway, you want to know about this chest here I’m selling? Let me tell you, there’s a rich

family history behind this old oak chest. That pale, too, for what it’s worth–and that’s about five

dollars extra. But my grandmother, Linnie, got that chest from her uncle Joe–who had died–and

she was the only one who had a car at that time, so she scooped in on out of Alabama. And

Linnie gave it to Momma when Linnie died, and Momma kept all those blankets in it.”

“…”

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“One night, when I was a girl, I caught Momma in the front room in the lamplight with a black

man. He was holding Momma close; they were both lying on my favorite blanket in the floor,

covered up with another blanket. See, Momma and Daddy, to my knowledge, never slept in the

same bed, and most nights Daddy didn’t come back from town with his buddies ’til daybreak no

how. But there they were, and I peeked in there, ran and got Daddy’s deer rifle and, well, the rest

is…” 

***

This may seem ridiculous: I have a lot of one-sided conversations with people. So why not write

them? Since the first post, I’d been interested (not like David Foster Wallace in Brief Interviews

with Hideous Men, though he does some similar stuff) in portraying those one-sided

conversations. This piece would feel much different as a monologue, I think. This picture comes

from one of those (again) kitschy little shops, where a bunch of people have old junk for sale.

The contents of the picture dictated the kind of voice I’d employ in the story: female, southern.

But I wanted to throw something in there that would echo the kind of South found in Flannery

O’Connor and others: the weird, seedy underbelly. The character’s voice in this piece was

decidedly easy to write, since I’ve grown up with these kind of characters and have done tons of

unconscious research, but I feel that it’s the most important aspect of this one. Also, I wanted the

title to be more important to the story.

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INTO A BLISTERING SUN BEATING DOWN ON THE SIDEWALK

He stood at the Greyhound station and wondered if he should try bumming a ride instead. It had

been fifteen years since he’d drove, so cars now seemed much sleeker. They didn’t sound as

powerful as even those in the nineties did–they couldn’t be safe. Aluminum. Like huge cans of

Spam. The bus wasn’t going to arrive for another hour. A lady in a sunhat stood with two duffel

bags. Where was she going? It didn’t matter. She was probably one of the guards’ old ladies,

kissing her jowled husband before she left for her mother’s, probably somewhere far away.

Somewhere he couldn’t imagine.

He had one bag. One wallet. One expired driver’s license. One change of civilian clothes. One

business card where the name of his parole officer was. The girl behind the glass at the station

wore one of those hats he used to see on working girls when he was young. She was chewing

gum. He scratched at his chest through the V-neck undershirt. His pa’s harmonica–he had

forgotten to add that to the list. They wouldn’t let him have it in the cell: too dangerous. What

was he going to do with it? His pa had brought it back from the war, where he probably had

killed a little jap and fucked little jap women. He wouldn’t have made a shank out of it.

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The girl behind the desk motioned to him. She said his bus was cancelled. He grabbed his bag

and played “My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean” once for his pa and walked outside.

***

After working with such eccentric voices throughout most of my posts, this one sprang out of a

desire to write something more tender and heartfelt. But, as can be expected, the complicating

factor comes in the form of an ostensibly “hardened criminal” who’s just got out of the slammer.

So to write something verging on sentimental (without getting gushy or clichéd) with this

character became the puzzle I had to put together. I feel that this one showcases a bit of the

traditional narrative storytelling skills I’ve accumulated: third-limited narrator that changes its

focus from the character to the long shot to back in. Also, the conflict continues to be one of

those implied ones, where I set in motion what the character’s doing then leave after an action

that should expectorate what the character does off the page. This may not be satisfactory to

some, but I feel that it seems more real than tying up all those loose ends (even though there

shouldn’t be a ton of those in such a short story). In short, this one hones in on the flash-fiction

format as a sort of poetry: a scene can stand alone as long as it is well written (not that I’m being

arrogant or bragging, but I feel that this is good writing, sentence-wise) and say more than it

really says in a very short space.