As an undergrad (O so long ago) I took a creative writing class. For one of our first assignments we had to write a 100-word story. 100 words -- no more, no less. The point was to help refine word usage and gut out filler. I figured this would be fun and potentially interactive so, here it goes.
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The match struck and flickered before it met the bowl. Four strikes before it took. He drew in, quick at first to sink the fire, then in deep drags. The smoke paused in his mouth and then, with a sigh, dripped over his lips. Hesitating, as if waiting for direction before the mid-day breeze stirred it away, the haze disappeared in a murmur of futility.
Lost in thought, the flame faltered and had to be struck again. It must be sustained with diligence. It takes care to nurse a flame, or else, when forgotten, he should grow weary and fail.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Goodbye, My Little Sweetheart
It's been a while since I posted. I have tried a few times here and there but the system failed. I'll give you the highlights of the summer so far though.
I visited my friend Paul in Jersey near the end of May. There were a lot of great moments out there, but none of them seem fitting to my most immediate mood. Maybe I'll write about it later.
I also visited Amy in Chicago. I am so thankful for her friendship. And I love Chicago.
I quit my job at Starbucks and got a new one teaching swim lessons where I make the same pay in half the hours. Plus I get to hang out with kids. Teaching has been my best comfort and favorite distraction this summer, much as it was last summer.
I'm moving in August. I have a job waiting for me with an organization called Amachi. I'll be working to pair up kids of incarcerated parents with mentors. The gig lasts a year. It won't pay much but it's good work and, if I decide to get a paying job someday, it will be good for the resume. I'm excited for the adventure.
Most recently (and heavily) I had to put down my dog of fourteen-and-a-half years. You don't have to read on but I need to write this out a little.
-
We found her in a shelter just outside Dallas, Texas. She was a little less than three months old, a golden cocker spaniel mutt and the runt of the litter. When she came around the corner to meet me, her paws slipping and clacking on the plastic floor. She saw me and peed. It was love at first sight.
We took her home and deliberated on what to call her. After a short time we decided that the name we found her with was best. They called her Belenda and that seemed just about right. Of course, I was still 9, so she couldn't possibly go without a middle name too -- so, she was Belenda Arthurelle Janelle T____.
I came to find out later in life that Belenda truly was a God-send. She came home in February of my fourth grade year. This was right around the time that we were moving again, I was diagnosed with Tourrette's Syndrome and I had my first real encounter with Jesus. A heavy few months. I had a little depression going on then too. Ten and depressed. I didn't know it then but, in addition to my Prozac, my parents felt it would be good for me to have a dog. I know my dad wasn't excited about the dog, but he did want what was best for me. I'm thankful for that.
For years she slept in my bed, pulled my brother and I on our roller blades and wrestled with me on the floor. We had a little pink stuffed man that we would play with -- she would grab the head and I would grab his bottom left foot (with my teeth) and we would wrestle. I miss her vigor.
Needless to say, the depression that haunted me seemed to fade away. There were many helps to that end, but I do not doubt that my little lion did her share.
Then we moved again. And this time it was a big move - Texas to Indiana. I learned of the possibility of the move two weeks before it happened. I even started school down there. Then, on a Wednesday, we got the call that my Dad was offered the job. Saturday we were on the road. It was my freshman year in high school and I got to have two first days. Joy.
The first semester was pretty awful. Naturally, I knew no one. I sat alone at lunch for the better part of the semester. Loneliness began to taste like a chicken sandwich.
And Belenda was there. She, like many pets, had a sense for knowing when something is wrong with their owner. She was there for me. Just because that's what she did.
Eventually, life busied itself again. I made friends, played music and sports, had a serious girlfriend. Those years she was there too. But, being a constant, I can't remember much except that she was there. What more can you ask?
A few years ago she had a stroke. I wasn't home but I didn't need to be to know it. She wasn't able to move well after that. She got pretty big. Yesterday she was twice her healthy body weight. But she was still the loyal, sweethearted dog she had always been. Just more of her now.
Two nights ago I slept with her in the basement. She hadn't been able to stay in the house for some time, especially recently as she would "do her thing" wherever she sat. It had been a long time since she had slept in the same room with someone. I wish I hadn't waited so long to do it. When I woke up yesterday morning her head was on the pillow next to mine. I kissed her on the top of her head and she, with half-opened eyes, licked my nose and went back to sleep.
Six hours later we pulled up to the vet's office. After a few brief words with the workers there we knew what must be done. My brother had bought her bacon treats. She hadn't been allowed to eat them because it gave her the runs. That didn't matter now.
I held her until the medicine worked and her little heart stopped. She was a stout little girl -- a fighter like all of us in our household. It took two shots to bring her down. But, like every fighter, eventually there is a time to let go. She did and breathed her last.
My tears are still warm. I know that she was only a dog. Though, I've been corrected in saying so. She was more than that to me. She was a gift from a good God. A good gift. And a friend. It's hard to know that my will ultimately decided to end her life. I believe that it was best for her and I refuse to second guess my decision. But I do miss her, and will. But mostly, I'm thankful. She was the best dog I could have ever had or asked for. There is really on this left:
Thank you, Belenda.
Thank you, Jesus.
I visited my friend Paul in Jersey near the end of May. There were a lot of great moments out there, but none of them seem fitting to my most immediate mood. Maybe I'll write about it later.
I also visited Amy in Chicago. I am so thankful for her friendship. And I love Chicago.
I quit my job at Starbucks and got a new one teaching swim lessons where I make the same pay in half the hours. Plus I get to hang out with kids. Teaching has been my best comfort and favorite distraction this summer, much as it was last summer.
I'm moving in August. I have a job waiting for me with an organization called Amachi. I'll be working to pair up kids of incarcerated parents with mentors. The gig lasts a year. It won't pay much but it's good work and, if I decide to get a paying job someday, it will be good for the resume. I'm excited for the adventure.
Most recently (and heavily) I had to put down my dog of fourteen-and-a-half years. You don't have to read on but I need to write this out a little.
-
We found her in a shelter just outside Dallas, Texas. She was a little less than three months old, a golden cocker spaniel mutt and the runt of the litter. When she came around the corner to meet me, her paws slipping and clacking on the plastic floor. She saw me and peed. It was love at first sight.
We took her home and deliberated on what to call her. After a short time we decided that the name we found her with was best. They called her Belenda and that seemed just about right. Of course, I was still 9, so she couldn't possibly go without a middle name too -- so, she was Belenda Arthurelle Janelle T____.
I came to find out later in life that Belenda truly was a God-send. She came home in February of my fourth grade year. This was right around the time that we were moving again, I was diagnosed with Tourrette's Syndrome and I had my first real encounter with Jesus. A heavy few months. I had a little depression going on then too. Ten and depressed. I didn't know it then but, in addition to my Prozac, my parents felt it would be good for me to have a dog. I know my dad wasn't excited about the dog, but he did want what was best for me. I'm thankful for that.
For years she slept in my bed, pulled my brother and I on our roller blades and wrestled with me on the floor. We had a little pink stuffed man that we would play with -- she would grab the head and I would grab his bottom left foot (with my teeth) and we would wrestle. I miss her vigor.
Needless to say, the depression that haunted me seemed to fade away. There were many helps to that end, but I do not doubt that my little lion did her share.
Then we moved again. And this time it was a big move - Texas to Indiana. I learned of the possibility of the move two weeks before it happened. I even started school down there. Then, on a Wednesday, we got the call that my Dad was offered the job. Saturday we were on the road. It was my freshman year in high school and I got to have two first days. Joy.
The first semester was pretty awful. Naturally, I knew no one. I sat alone at lunch for the better part of the semester. Loneliness began to taste like a chicken sandwich.
And Belenda was there. She, like many pets, had a sense for knowing when something is wrong with their owner. She was there for me. Just because that's what she did.
Eventually, life busied itself again. I made friends, played music and sports, had a serious girlfriend. Those years she was there too. But, being a constant, I can't remember much except that she was there. What more can you ask?
A few years ago she had a stroke. I wasn't home but I didn't need to be to know it. She wasn't able to move well after that. She got pretty big. Yesterday she was twice her healthy body weight. But she was still the loyal, sweethearted dog she had always been. Just more of her now.
Two nights ago I slept with her in the basement. She hadn't been able to stay in the house for some time, especially recently as she would "do her thing" wherever she sat. It had been a long time since she had slept in the same room with someone. I wish I hadn't waited so long to do it. When I woke up yesterday morning her head was on the pillow next to mine. I kissed her on the top of her head and she, with half-opened eyes, licked my nose and went back to sleep.
Six hours later we pulled up to the vet's office. After a few brief words with the workers there we knew what must be done. My brother had bought her bacon treats. She hadn't been allowed to eat them because it gave her the runs. That didn't matter now.
I held her until the medicine worked and her little heart stopped. She was a stout little girl -- a fighter like all of us in our household. It took two shots to bring her down. But, like every fighter, eventually there is a time to let go. She did and breathed her last.
My tears are still warm. I know that she was only a dog. Though, I've been corrected in saying so. She was more than that to me. She was a gift from a good God. A good gift. And a friend. It's hard to know that my will ultimately decided to end her life. I believe that it was best for her and I refuse to second guess my decision. But I do miss her, and will. But mostly, I'm thankful. She was the best dog I could have ever had or asked for. There is really on this left:
Thank you, Belenda.
Thank you, Jesus.
Monday, May 04, 2009
Stranger Distractions
I am currently sitting at Starbucks, struggling to get through what is the final paper of my undergraduate career. The topic is enjoyable, I just cannot seem to put my thoughts into action. I have the answer, just not its form yet. So, with the hopes that I might build writing momentum here and transfer it to my paper...
---
The only thing more distracting than a beautiful woman is her absence.
A few hours ago there was a woman who sat across the table from me. I had never seen her before and, with all likely-hood, never will again. With this fact I am more than content.
She was genuinely cute. Her face was slender, eyes were soft and (I'll be honest) her lips were inviting (though, there was no invitation from her, expressed or implied). Her hair, shoulder-length and dishwater, brushed across her brow. It was difficult not to look at her.
There was, to be fair, an awkwardness about her. Her shirt, which had a sketch drawing of an Eastern woman's face, was tucked in to her dark-gray shorts, which seemed better suited for a safari than a college-town coffee shop. She was studious. Her light-brown eyes rarely moved form the stack of neatly printed cards in front of her. There were moments, however, when her eyes would assume a sharp restlessness; they darted around the room, starting at the espresso bar, to the whole-bean stand on the far wall, and, almost as if accidentally, to me. I was flattered, and on occasion did the same.
She didn't carry herself well. Her shoulders, strangely broad for her thin figure, seemed to be in a permanent cower, no matter how erect she sat. I am convinced that she had not worked for her slim body; her arms had clearly been used for little more than lifting small books and crossing her arms in thought. Still, there was something. There seemed to be a depth to her that often eludes the beautiful. I should not say 'eludes.' I believe that all have a depth of soul. There are some, though, who are rarely asked to venture into it and even fewer who allow their countenance to admit that they had. Her look was one of satisfied despair.
She didn't stay long. I was disappointed when she left, especially when a decidedly unattractive man took her seat.
---
---
The only thing more distracting than a beautiful woman is her absence.
A few hours ago there was a woman who sat across the table from me. I had never seen her before and, with all likely-hood, never will again. With this fact I am more than content.
She was genuinely cute. Her face was slender, eyes were soft and (I'll be honest) her lips were inviting (though, there was no invitation from her, expressed or implied). Her hair, shoulder-length and dishwater, brushed across her brow. It was difficult not to look at her.
There was, to be fair, an awkwardness about her. Her shirt, which had a sketch drawing of an Eastern woman's face, was tucked in to her dark-gray shorts, which seemed better suited for a safari than a college-town coffee shop. She was studious. Her light-brown eyes rarely moved form the stack of neatly printed cards in front of her. There were moments, however, when her eyes would assume a sharp restlessness; they darted around the room, starting at the espresso bar, to the whole-bean stand on the far wall, and, almost as if accidentally, to me. I was flattered, and on occasion did the same.
She didn't carry herself well. Her shoulders, strangely broad for her thin figure, seemed to be in a permanent cower, no matter how erect she sat. I am convinced that she had not worked for her slim body; her arms had clearly been used for little more than lifting small books and crossing her arms in thought. Still, there was something. There seemed to be a depth to her that often eludes the beautiful. I should not say 'eludes.' I believe that all have a depth of soul. There are some, though, who are rarely asked to venture into it and even fewer who allow their countenance to admit that they had. Her look was one of satisfied despair.
She didn't stay long. I was disappointed when she left, especially when a decidedly unattractive man took her seat.
---
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