Now in the style of James Joyce, for English 306

Hope you enjoy :-)

John laid out fork, knife, knife, fork, glass behind the plate, napkin on top, muted clacks on white cloth matching the muted rhythm of his hands. Years of setting silverware had made him fluid and his hands flowed like a quiet pink flame as he placed the candles, lit them, extinguished them. Better to burn off a little of the wax and leave the wick exposed so there wouldn’t be problems when the guests were sitting, watching you while they waited. He finished and look up at the clock, and there was still an hour to spare before the wedding, so he sat down at the head table, feeling both bored and superior

He sat staring at the little black dots on the tops of the unlit candles and soon he was absently flicking his lighter and remembering the time he’d stolen kitchen matches as a child. He had grabbed the box then fled, only to run back seconds later, striking them and snaking through the house, little half-flames sputtering in the wake of his flight, until his father drove him outside, screaming and calling him a pyromaniac, and the cold of the grass on his feet and the heat of the match on his fingers were like the lighter and the cold silverware..

John’s father taught him music when he was young and he learned quickly, covering in months what the other kids worked at for years. His fingers were uncommonly quick, crackling over the piano keys like wet wood burning, and his voice was high and strong. His father said you have talent and should really go to the conservatory, but we don’t have the money, so he worked instead, first busing, then at the airline, now at the reception hall, but always with the piano somewhere in the mostly covered up parts of his mind; covered up even when he played it for the receptions and it was there in front of him and he was touching it.

So he was here, setting tables, playing for weddings. The wedding march, hundreds of times, thousands of times, an obstacle he just couldn’t flow past. He collected and he pooled and brides and grooms came in and went out again, but they were all the same, caricatures projected on the screen of polyester flowers behind the alter. Lilies and gardenias. Tonight, rose petals on the floor – the smell was making him sick, so he went outside for a cigarette.

He walked to the balcony, leaned on the cold aluminum railing, and looked up at the sky. It was only 6:00 but the stars were out, lightly glowing through the blue curls of his cigarette smoke. He searched for constellations but couldn’t find any. A clump near the horizon looked something like a tuna-fish, and he thought it might be Pisces, but it also looked something like a bowling pin and he began to doubt himself. The reception hall served tuna steak last week and his head was probably full of it. Such a prosaic thing, really – grilled, with rice pilaf and zinfandel, or mashed in the can with mayonnaise, what was the difference? He considered how many tuna steaks he had served and would serve, and they grew in his mind into a kind of myth: he pictured them in vast array, an infinity of tuna stretching from horizon to horizon, caught in a net of stars and bound for the plate.

I’ve posted the intro to this before, but don’t browse away if you’ve already read it - I finally finished the thing and theres a lot more now. I polished that intro for over a year and it seemed almost to good to use, but I had a midterm project due and couldn’t come up with a different idea. This is sort of a final rough draft - it’s been revised and it’s pretty strong, but still needs refining. In particular, the final paragraph lacks impact, but as the writer it’s tough to judge. Anyway, please leave constructive criticism!!!

Landscaped palms filed alongside the road, wedged into the thin strip of habitable dirt between the pavement and the sand. The sky was covered with sheets of beige cloud, wrinkled in the delicate geography of a crumpled blanket, and as Adam walked the clouds meandered west, blown by the same light wind that carried troops of gulls home from their night encampments a few hours earlier. The sun had just crested the eastern hills and Adam was only a mile from where he had slept, but already he wanted to stop. A vague sense of neglected duty had been hanging like mist over the past few days, and that morning it finally condensed - he wanted to write down what was happening, what had happened, so he wouldn’t forget. The night had passed quietly, so he decided it was safe to spend a few hours making notes. A drain pipe was protruding from the gently sloped embankment a few yards ahead - hot tin covered in the penetrating, sticky dust characteristic of exposed California hillsides. He brushed off the fine brown powder and sat down.

As Adam opened his notebook, he considered simply leaving it, along with the rest of his property, and returning for it later. His guitar was especially cumbersome, pulling him to the left and banging awkwardly against his hip as he walked. It had been with him for years and had absorbed some part of him, as things that are well loved often do, but it would be better to loose only a part..

He felt these choices were becoming increasingly important - his foresight was clear in the silence of the cost and he could see his actions reverberate through time as the future compressed into the present. That silence, however, at first a welcome relief from the unnerving noises of the city, was growing sharp. It had become a tangible negative, a felt presence instead of a mere lack of sound, and it colored all his experience. He glanced up and the atmosphere offered no resistance: it looked as if he could pluck a tree from one of the nearby mountains. The air moved and the hairs on his arm stirred individually.

Adam sat quietly and considered his position. He had been traveling for two days, searching for food, and had found nothing… His plan had been to head south along the coast, in the hope that whatever was growing or grazing would still be edible. The coast of Southern California veers east, though, as it drops from Los Angeles towards San Diego; Adam knew this and he was troubled. He thought about the shadow that slid in from the east, the shadow still covering most of the city, and his right eye started twitching violently. But the raw energy of the sun and the clear air were wearing on him and there seemed to be no alternative.

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Current mood: calm

I’ve decided to post some serialized fiction, both because I’m not done writing it, and to shamelessly force you to keep coming back to my blog to drive up my hits. There should be weekly installments, hopefully..

Landscaped palms filed alongside the road, wedged into a thin strip of habitable dirt between the pavement and the sand. The sky was covered with sheets of beige cloud, wrinkled in the delicate geography of a crumpled blanket, and as Adam walked the clouds meandered west, blown by the same light wind that had carried troops of gulls home from their night encampments a few hours earlier. The sun had just crested the eastern hills and Adam was only a mile from where he had slept, but already he wanted to stop.  A vague sense of neglected duty had hung like mist over the past few days, and that morning it finally condensed - he wanted to write down what was happening, what had happened, so he wouldn’t forget.  The night had passed quietly, so he decided it was safe to spend a few hours making notes. A drain pipe was protruding from the gently sloped embankment a few yards ahead - hot tin covered in the penetrating, sticky dust characteristic of exposed California hillsides. He brushed off the fine brown powder and sat down.

As Adam opened his notebook, he considered simply leaving it, along with the rest of his property, and returning for it later. His guitar was especially cumbersome, pulling him to the left and banging awkwardly against his hip as he walked. It had been with him for years and had absorbed some part of him, as things that are well loved often do, but it would be better to loose only a part..

He felt these choices were becoming increasingly important - his foresight was clear in the silence of the cost and he could see his actions reverberate through time as the future compressed into the present. That silence, however, at first a welcome relief from the unnerving noises of the city, was growing sharp. It had become a tangible negative, a felt presence instead of a mere lack of sound, and it colored all his experience. He glanced up and the atmosphere offered no resistance: it looked as if he could pluck a tree from one of the nearby mountains. The air moved and the hairs on his arm stirred individually.

Adam sat and quietly considered his position. He was mostly troubled by the lack of food (partially because it was such an ordinary, prosaic concern, and thus grounding as well as troubling). He had been traveling for two days and had found nothing… His plan was to head south along the coast until he got to agricultural land, in the hope that whatever was growing or grazing would still be edible. The coast of Southern California veers east, though, as it drops from Los Angeles towards San Diego; Adam knew this and he was further troubled. He thought about the shadow that slid in from the east, the shadow still covering most of the city, and his right eye started twitching violently. But the raw energy of the sun and the clear air were wearing on him and there seemed to be no alternative…

Current mood: listless

Once upon a time there was a porcupine named Oliver. Oliver was special because he didn’t know he was a porcupine. His mother abandoned him when he was very young and he was taken in by beavers, so he grew up thinking he was also a beaver.

As Oliver grew older, he began to feel like something was wrong with him. He looked different from the other beavers. Where his friends had soft, smooth fur, Oliver had hard, pokey things. He would try to make friends, but he was bad at playing beaver games and the children just laughed at him. There was an especially popular game called riverball, where the players passed an inflated rubber ball across the river with their tails.  Whenever Oliver touched the ball it popped with a great whoosh, and soon no one would pass to him.  All of this made Oliver feel sad. Sometimes he would walk up the river, away from the sounds and smells of the city, away from the other beavers, and just sit by himself.

When Oliver was sitting alone by the river, he liked to think back to when he was a very young beaver. He remembered how his adoptive mother would wrap him up in a blanket (to protect herself from the quills) and rock him. Oliver had a favorite story when he was young, and his mother read it to him every night. It was called The Ugly Duckling. The story talked about a little duck that didn’t look like all the other ducks. When the duckling grew older it found out it was really a swan and became big and beautiful. Oliver always felt he wasn’t quite what he seemed, and he secretly hoped he would grow up to be a swan too. Oliver knew he wasn’t really a swan. As he grew, he just got weirder looking. He still liked to pretend though, and it helped him get through the day.

Oliver was sitting in his usual spot one Tuesday morning, nestled between two warm rocks along the riverbank. There was grass and moss between the rocks, and Oliver found it a comfortable place to daydream. This wasn’t an ordinary morning though. All of a sudden, a big, blue-black crow came crashing through the trees and startled Oliver out of his reverie. The crow flapped noisily down on one of the rocks, and, after catching it’s breath, it began to speak.

The crow had been flying his morning rounds, crossing back and forth over the river, looking for jays and robins to terrorize. He soon became upset because his usual victims were missing - the valley was oddly quiet. He perched on a branch to survey the land and to think, when he heard a distant rumble. The crow knew deep down what that rumble was. His mother told him a story when he was little, too; a story about a flash flood that came rumbling through the valley many years ago, destroying everything in it’s path. He soon realized what he had to do. He had to go warn the other animals in the valley, otherwise they would all be killed and he would have no one to caw at in the morning.

When Oliver heard the crow’s story he was shocked and terrified. In ‘82 the beavers had moved out of their dams and onto the surrounding land. The local chamber of commerce had commissioned a new cineplex, and the surveyor found the riverbed wasn’t stable enough to support concrete footings. Years had passed since the big move and by now most of the beavers could no longer swim.

The beavers owned several life rafts to guard against floods, but the rafts had been decommissioned and put in storage that past May. It was an election year and the mayor had promised to lower log taxes. Spending was reduced to cover the tax cuts, and there was nothing left in the budget for raft maintenance. Oliver thought there was still a chance the rafts would work if they could be brought out and inflated, but only if the beavers worked quickly. He asked the crow for help, and the crow promised to fly downriver and warn everyone.

The crow took off with a low croak and a flap of his great wings, and Oliver started waddling back into town. He told himself if he hurried he might be able to help with the rafts, but he was really just scared and didn’t want to be alone when the flood came.

Oliver had short legs, and by the time he got home the rafts were already inflated, with beavers piling into them. There were three rafts, and Oliver jumped into the first one he saw. As soon as he landed there was a loud pop, a hiss, and the raft deflated. Oliver’s fellow beavers looked at him with terror and rage - everyone scrambled for the second raft, the pounding of their feet echoing the distant rumble of the flood.

Oliver was undaunted and headed for the second raft himself. A thick-chested, graying beaver, perhaps 50 years old, was in charge of this raft. He had a bad leg from the Great Badger Wars, and he walked with a stick. He was a prudent sort, and when he saw Oliver coming he picked up his stick and beat Oliver back. The flood could already be seen through the trees, breaking against the valley walls in a tumult of rocks and spray. Oliver frantically circled the raft, but wherever he went he was met with the whistling cane.

Water crashed about the beavers with a terrible fury and flung them high above the valley floor. The third raft was immediately capsized; two of it’s crew were lost before it could be righted. The beavers in the second raft paddled frantically and kept it stable, narrowly missing jagged rocks that stuck like teeth out of the angry current. Meanwhile, Oliver tipped his head back and looked up. Some lines of verse he read in high-school came into his mind:

Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting heaven…
So wild that every casual thought of that and this
Vanished, and left but memories…

but he didn’t know why. The flood was melted snow, bitterly cold, and it felt like knives against his skin. As the water crested, time slowed to a bare crawl, and Oliver had a peculiar sensation, as if his vision had been cloudy his whole life and was now clear. The past, the future, everything was spread out before him, crisp and transparent as fine glass, and knowledge came, keener than the icy water: He was a porcupine.