Walking into the Spanish Class wasn’t the most exciting thing I’d ever done. I was, to be completely honest, a little nervous about taking Spanish. I had a hard time keeping up in class because it was mostly auditory. I had, even if I didn’t realize it, an auditory processing issue. Spanish wasn’t the easiest thing I was going to do that day.
She pulled up in a Volvo.
There wasn’t room to back the trailer into a spot, but this girl, she managed anyway. The U-Haul was perfectly straight, aiming the doors to shoot her boxes directly into her apartment, like a moving cannon.
Her boxes were big, and she was carrying them, one plastic bin at a time into her apartment.
“Do you think you could use a dolly?” I asked, noting that, if I were a man, and she were a normal Seattleite, she might have flatly refused. She was, however, strong enough to accept the offer no matter the gender of the person asking.
Do you want to go to the firehouse, or do you want to go trick-or-treating in the neighborhood?”
I stood there, one foot turned inward, a habit of which I was constantly admonished for, excited for both, and I felt loved. I didn’t remember ever being taken to a Halloween party before, much less, the choice of two Halloween activities. I relinquished the responsibility to him, knowing that either would be fun.
But he insisted, “Either one is fine. You choose.”
“Hi Angela” the group says in unison.
“This is my first day here. My momma and daddy don’t know or like that I’m here, but I’m not here for them,” Angela crosses her legs, swinging her size eight and a half white leather sandals with delicate straps over her other leg, adjusting her khaki-colored skirt for modesty. The eighties were a time for vibrancy, but Angela preferred a more subdued, more mature look. She reached into the pocket of her jacket slung over the back of the steel and pleather chair, fingering her Virginia Slim 120s, desperately wishing they could continue smoking inside The Building.
“But I’m not here for them. I’m here for me.”
Created 2021-10-13 17:32
The cat was just pacing, right there in front of me. Blackie always knew when something wasn't right. She had a sense about her. That cat was 8 years old and been through hell and back. Found her after Hurricane Hugo. She was just a kitten, one of five, that was orphaned after the storm. She just finished her tuna and was right there with me when I needed her, as much as a 45 year old man needs a cat anyways.
The white and beige cordless radioshack was in my hand. It was late, and I hoped my dad would be up. He probably would be because he's wound up tighter than the rope on an anchor. He's some kind of engineer, but he used to be in the army too. Walks two miles a day. Always has. Always will.
Doral 100's were stubbed into the ashtray beside me, a lot of them.
Created 2021-10-10 23:22
4 PM Pacific, 7 PM Eastern
One of the things that I learned about writing is that it's best to get feedback about your story idea before getting out that post hole-digger you may call your pen. David Sedaris does this. He takes his stories a s kind of stand-up routine, performs it, and sees what parts resonate with his audience. Bring your best 7-minute story to perform and get feedback from Dr. Caines-Coggswell and Angela J. Williams. Their energy is infectious. Their feedback is sure to be invigorating. Watch the faces of people as you tell your story. Don't make the mistake of reading a piece. Best to go extemporaneious or outline and go by notes or just come to listen to others tell a story. It's not your only chance.
[[2021-10-12|Tuesday]]
4:30 Pacific 7:30 Eastern
Making a long-distance move? I've made a checklist for you! Please follow the steps in exact order. It's a real rube-Goldberg machine.
Is it true? Am I back?
First off, Hunter is laying down some fucking hate. He has the presence of mind to get out his 203 and shoot up an illume round over the field where the enemy is hiding. Now the sky is lit up so we can see them.