April 20th

Exercise 35
The Need to Know: The Solace of Imagination

He must have skipped school. After he dropped me off he headed toward the high school but instead of turning into the parking lot of the huge brick building he kept driving. He chose not to park in its oppressive shadow, chose not to spend even one more day in that burdensome place where no one knew what Johnny thought and more importantly no one cared. Instead he just kept driving. His hand would reach out to turn the volume up on The Cure album he kept in the cd slot at all times. His head would lean back onto the leather seats letting the wind from the open windows whip across his face. He would have driven fast so that the sounds of the world were drowned out by “why can’t I be you?” and the sound of the wind blowing past his eardrums. He would no longer hear the snickering of his female classmates or the not –so –whispered “faggot” from the boys. He wouldn’t hear our mother’s concerned tone or our father’s disapproving one. He would drive until the fuel was nearly empty and then stop at a gas station miles away from home where he’d pick up a bottle of water and a phone number from the cute boy at the counter. I can just see their hands brushing against each other as this boy pushed his number across the glass covered lottery tickets. Johnny would return home triumphant. His last day on earth better than the rest of his life put together as he slowly sipped our father’s sixty year old bourbon and felt the soft silk of our mother’s negligee against his skin. As he put the revolver to his temple he was happy – his last memories content. I am sure that is how Johnny spent his final day.




Exercise 40
From Situation to Plot

“A Waitress who likes her menus to rhyme”

Jennifer was going to be late. The hands of her Mickey Mouse watch told her it was five after. Jennifer cursed under her breath as she searched beneath the refrigerator for her car keys. She stood, brushing the dust from the front of her pink uniform she opened the fridge to see if she had put them in there again. When they weren’t in the egg holder she decided to check in her purse again, though she had checked there three times already and she was sure they wouldn’t be there. Her hands ruffled past a half eaten snicker’s bar and an Altoid’s tin when she heard them jingle. Damn, she was sure that she had looked there.

Mickey’s diner, located at the intersection of 10 and 152 in Sherman Arkansas was the kind of place that no one talked about but everyone was aware of. It had a kind of comfort and charm in its simplistic décor and unassuming nature. The floors were black and white checker and the seats were a shiny red leather, well not leather exactly, but Jennifer wasn’t exactly sure what it was called. The walls were decked in black and white photos – a tribute to the Sherman’s many triumphs. Jennifer’s favorite was there on the wall above the register, a black and white photo of Jennifer and her grandfather, Mickey. It was at their shared birthday party; his cake, chocolate with white frosting, held sixty candles, her cake, chocolate with more chocolate frosting, held six. His arms were wrapped around her as she sat on his lap ready to blow out the candles. There on his wrist was a Mickey Mouse watch.
Jennifer had inherited a lot from her grandfather. She had his large green eyes, his infectious laughter, his watch as well as his corny jokes and quick fuse. Her favorite thing that she got from him though, was no question, Mickey’s Diner. Jennifer had worked there since before she could see over the counters. She would sit in Mickey’s kitchen banging on the pots and pans playing “music.” Despite the complaints of the patrons, Mickey would just smile and tell them, “That’s my only granddaughter and if she wants to play then she will play.”
When she was a little older she discovered skates and would spend hours zooming in and out of the kitchen dipping below the counter. It was Jennifer who, much to the chagrin of the other waitresses, convinced her grandfather that it was charming and fun to have all the waitresses on skates. It only took two months, one hundred and seventy-eight broken glasses and one very angry tyraid from Louis, Mickey’s oldest waitress, before Mickey rethought the skates.
When she was twelve Jennifer starting writing the menus. She was in a poetry kick and all of the entrée’s descriptions needed to rhyme. Despite another tyraid from Louis the menus have remained in ab ab rhyme scheme for nearly eighteen years. At Mickey’s you can order Mac’ and Cheese with a side of peas if you please. (Though Jennifer has grown up and become more sophisticated her rhymes have not.)

Exercise 52
Practice Writing Good, Clean Prose

Sex. It was all she could think of. His hands made her think of it. She tried to push it from her mind but his hands were still there. His huge, tough yet soft hands were there in her mind. She would sit and think about his hands. They would push up her skirt. They would pick her up and set her on top of his desk. They would pull her hair with a soft touch.
“Jean, hi, Jean. Earth to Jean.” Mark, Jean’s best friend said. His face had a huge smile on it. “A good one?”
“yes.” Jean sighed
“hands?” he said, though he knew the answer.
“Yes, hands.” She could not help the blush as it came to her cheeks.
Mark’s face still held the smile as he set the pile of cards on her desk. Her eyes went with him as he left – that way she could drink in Jack’s hands, his arms, his face in a casual, not sad, way. She only thought of him. His hands were the new thing but before that it was his name, Jack, it just sounds nice. It was his face, and his blue eyes. It was his walk, the way he would sway with each step. She could not help it. She tried to do work things. She turned her view to the cards on her desk but the first card was a pair of clasped hands. Damn you Mark, she thought as her mind was filled with his hands again, this time holding her waist.