Bicycles

    The bike in the rack at the mouth of the cul-de-sac reminds me of what my grandmother's bike must have looked like back when she was young enough to ride it. Bright orange paint, not yet marred by a collision with a curb or lamppost, glints in the late afternoon sun. It emits this air of coolness and relaxation, leaning against the hot black bars, as if taking a quick rest from strenuous race, or maybe just enjoying the scenery after a leisurely roll around the town.

    My grandmother's bike rests against the stone wall in the shade of my backyard. With its flat tires and rusted handlebars, it just looks tired.

Conspicuous Considering the Circumstances

There's a trend in my family that requires us to by a whole bunch of souveniers for siblings and parents if we go somewhere, and I had heard a rumor that there was a bookstore/gift shop kind of thing in the floor beneath the dining area, so after the staff readings I went to check it out with Jamie and Carolina and what did I find?  The bookstore hours go from 8:30 in the morning to 4:00 in the afternoon, which is extremely inconvenient because at 8:30 I'm just getting out of breakfast and usually going back to my room to get my notebook and stuff and at 4:00 the second half of the workshop is just ending.
The feeling I got most from this is that "aw damn" type of feeling when you at first start thinking that everyone around you is plotting against you, so it's like the people who scheduled those hours knew I was coming and were trying to make things as difficult as possible for me, but I know that's not the case so I'm not going to rant and rave about it.  Stuff happens, I can't control it, no big deal.

Limited Exercise

Only a few days, hours even, after leaving my exercise regimen I am short of breath and heavy of step.  Alone for five minutes in a day of plentiful company, I utilize this brief companionless interlude with a stint of exercise.  A thin coat of sweat adorns my face and I draw my sky-blue shirt across my brow, darkening its hue with a smudge of salty wet.  Foul shots.  Focus, the cool down is nigh.  Quiet pervades the gym cracked by the sharp pounding of the ball dribbled on the slick floor.  My eyes bore into the hoop.  Doink.  My breath still comes out a bit labored.  Fatigue inhibits the focus.  Remove the fatigue.  Feel nothing.  Rhythm, concentration, motion, action.  I have improved.  My muscles' memories of the layups I was hurling before fade and dry with the sweat on my shirt.  Contentment seeps through me as I drill four more shots in a row.  Fabulous.  Depositing the basketball on the counter operated by a girl with a bored countenance I utter, "Thanks," and jog briskly off.  Five minutes of exercise is better than none, I suppose.

Thunder

Thunder.

My heart was racing, and I felt like an animal. Like a cowering creature, beneath the worn green blanket, frightened by the flash of light and the sky exploding above my head. I had a rabbit heart, beating a mile a minute. My eyes could not see in the dark cold room and I was drawn by some primal instinct to look towards the window once again. Boom. The sky split open, torrents of rain and a sound that seemed larger than life itself pouring out. I could feel my rabbit heart in my throat, jumping, hopping up and down, threatening to leap out and scurry under the bed. The lightening was a spider dropping down and coating everything in its web of light, trapping my rabbit heart and eating it alive. I had never before been afraid of thunder, never before felt my rabbit heart so alive and beating and pounding against my ribcage and howling to get loose. But I had also never been thrown from sleep by a falling sky. I tried to calm my rabbit heart, soothed it by turning over away from the window glowing with the angry white light and vibrating with the echo of the storm. I buried my fear in some dark muddy place inside me and sometime later, in the midst of the storm, my rabbit heart and I fell asleep again. 

Old Man in Form of Piano

I think I took my own advice on returning to Butler and Wallace, guys. The details came from our trip to the piano rooms, and I decided to give them a little leash in a brief narrative. Don't worry, you don't need to write two-hundred words! Focus on the details. Anything else is up to you.

Wooden. Damaged. Dusty. Hardly mobile but for a set of gummed up wheels, the piano waits alone in a small room, a well-worn and wheel-chair bound man, slippers switch-footed , by the phone resting on his nightstand, just desperate for a little music, for the ring of a few notes and a little company in this white washed place of rest.

Five keys have been replaced, ivory teeth in an otherwise yellowed grin. The joints creak where I apply stress, and here at the lid as well. There is an eagerness for a persistent slack-jaw in spite of silence, for fear that a chance to speak might be missed.

My fingers try the keys like lips lost in a foreign tongue. I press a little. He grunts, asks me what I am trying to say. I press again. He moans this time, disappointment plain. I don’t speak this language, can’t curl my fingers around its flat consonants and sharp vowels.

We sit together, silent. He grins. He wants me to know it’s alright if we just sit for a while. He is glad of the company. I hum for him, soft, something sad I half remember from church as a boy. For a moment, we have a little music. He is tired. The lid shuts easy this time. It is well, it is well, with my soul. I turn off the lights.

Goodnight. 

The devil is in the details...

Alright, players. Here's the first assignment: write down one poignant detail, one thing that caught your eye today, that gave you a moment of pause. Capture it to the best of your ability. Go back to our readings from Robert Olen Butler and David Foster Wallace. Pay attention to the way they push description, for words that jump off the page and present an image in your mind. Then, if you are feeling ambitious, run with your detail and see where it takes you. Is there a story in that detail that wants to be told, and are you the bird to do it?

Here We Go Again

Welcome to the Second Annual Dead Fish Afternoon!  After a spectacular debut last summer, we're back with an All New Cast featuring high school students from around the country, soon to be  contributing to this unique blog.  The directors and supporting players this year are Bobby Mitchell, a Susquehanna University Writing Major, and SU Writing Professor, Catherine Zobal Dent.

Please, place litter in designated receptacles, and enjoy the show.