4 posts tagged “writing class”

Exercise from week 4 of writing class.

Chris began to question the wisdom of this trip.

“Why am I headed to Seattle?” he muttered to himself. He looked at his watch. It was coming up to 7 am and he was stuck in rush hour traffic. His car engine hummed away as it sat idly in a sea of traffic.

It had been a rough couple of days for Chris. His dream was of the verge of dying. His little startup was on the brink. The only thing keeping it and Chris going was this trip. An investor had shown major interest. This could be the break that Chris needed. He had worked too hard for too long to see his dreams extinguished. Too many late nights. Too many unhealthy meals.

“Why did it have to be Seattle?” he sighed. He did not hate Seattle. This had been home.  He had spent many years here. So many good memories. Growing up. College. Friends. Family. Her. Suddenly it felt painful to be back. His heart ached with a deep unyielding loss. All those years running away had not lessened the hurt.

His mom and dad still lived here. He called them last night when he found out that he needed to come up to Seattle today. He saw them last christmas. He had bought them plane tickets to visit him in San Francisco. They always complained that he never visited. He swallowed ever so slightly. He felt guilty.

The car in front of him started moving. Slowly but surely traffic was beginning to flow. Before he knew it, he was speeding past the towering buildings that dotted the downtown skyline. He was coming up to his exit. Without thinking, he retraced a route he had taken a decade ago.

He parked the car and got out. The air felt crisp. He breathed in deeply. The cool clean spring air filled his lungs. He shuddered from the cold air entering him.

Up the path in front of him was a smallish undistinguished house. He was back home.

Exercise from the third week of writing class.

It’s late.

The annoying klaxon of the pager sounded at 2:30. I dragged myself out of bed to log on and see what the problem was.

It’s now 3:30.

I stare blankly at the computer screen in front of me. For the last hour, I’ve been hounded for status updates, impact assessments and possible root causes by minions from various parts of the company. Talking to these people is an exercise in frustration. “I don’t know” is my honest but unsatisfying answer to their queries. Rather than going away to let me focus on the problem, they keep pestering with their petty questions.

“Just fucking leave me alone already!” I shout at the computer screen.

I scan the work log of the high severity trouble ticket. Buried within that verbiage is the clue I need. It’s hard for me to think clearly. I’m so sleep deprived. All I want is to fix this problem so that I can go back to bed. My sweet sweet bed.

I get up and lay on the couch next to the desk. I won’t doze off. If I do doze off, they’ll page me for another status update. That will wake me up.

“Why am I doing this?” I say to the ceiling. I can’t take it anymore. I start to sob slowly. I look at the pager in my hand. I start choking the life out it. I want to slam it against the wall. My shoulder muscles tighten. I could destroy it so easily.

“I don’t know what to do. Leave me alone!” I say to the infernal device.

It doesn’t respond. I sigh. The solution is simple. I just need to quit this job. Get a job where I don’t have to carry a pager. But I mostly like my job. I just don’t want to carry a pager.

A kettle starts to whistle. Coffee is a good idea. It might be a long night.

Exercise from the second week of writing class.

From behind the steering wheel, Mick peered into the darkness. Little snow flakes floated down from the heavens and landed on the windshield. The wipers periodically devoured those unique pieces of nature as the metal beast hurtled down the quiet highway.

“It was nice to see Alan and Heather again”, Mick said out loud. His eye lids felt tired. Saying things out loud seemed to help. The hint of bourbon lingered amongst his words.

Two accusing eyes glared at Mick, boring themselves like lasers into his chest. Mick winced. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. The leather felt slick against his sweating palms.

“When was the last time we saw them?”, he paused waiting for an answer.
“We’ve not seen them…..”, his eyes closed infinitesimally longer than he wanted to.
“Watch the road!”, Loretta screeched. Mick’s eyes popped open in a sudden.
“I’m fine. I’m fine”, he said trying to appease his concerned passenger.

Her eyes looked away. Loretta leaned her head onto the window. She looked out at the little flakes going by them. She sighed and started making little patterns on the window with her finger. She turned her head to him to say something.

It sounded like thunder. The entire car shuddered. Her seat belt locked as her body snapped forward and then slammed her into the seat. She closed her eyes as pain filled the back of her mind. Squealing brakes filled the darkness. She opened her eyes. The acrid smell of burning brakes made her eyes water. Her hand reached to the dull pain in her head. MIck was choking the steering wheel. Knuckles white. Eyes wide open.

“It was just one last drink”, he said defensively.
“That’s always your excuse”, she snapped back.
“C’mon I have not seen those guys in ages, are you alright?”, Mick’s hand reached out to Loretta.
“Don’t touch me!”, she slapped Mick’s hand away.

The car door slammed.
“C’mon Loretta! I didn’t see anything. I didn’t have that much to drink”, Mick shouted from inside the car.

Loretta glanced at the car. She could not see anything in the dark. Her coat flapped in the wind. She pulled her coat closer, extracting all the warmth she could from it. Mick reached into the backseat for something before exiting the car.

A beam of light shot out from Mick’s hand. He shone the light into the distance but all they could see was the road fading into the night.

Exercise from the first week of writing class.

I rub my eyes. They feel tired. It had been a real struggle getting out of bed this morning. My streak of sixteen hour work days was wearing me down. My coffee had not kicked in yet. I glance at my watch. 8:39. Where is the bus? I pace up and down the pavement. It’s supposed to be here at 8:39. I have tons to get done today. I breath a sigh. It helps me to relax. I look around.

Next to the bus stop is the Cafe Dolce. There he is. The old man is sitting at his usual spot by the window facing the bus stop. I see him there every morning always with his cup of coffee. He brings the cup of coffee to his lips and tentatively takes a sip. He winces for a moment, purses his lips and blows onto the cup. He sips again. He closes his eye to savor the hot aromatic liquid. He opens his eyes and looks out towards the road.

He could have been fifty or sixty. Maybe even older. It’s hard to tell. I see him every morning. Whenever I drag myself out of bed and run to this bus stop. Quietly sitting in the coffee shop, sipping his coffee. He brings the cup to his mouth and takes another sip. He looks directly at me. I realize that I’m staring at him deep in my thoughts. A little smile forms on his face and he gives a little nod to acknowledge my presence. He takes another sip.

A ray of sunlight hits the window. The light plays a strange trick. My face overlays the old man behind the window. The morning chill cuts into my fingers. There is an ache in my joints. It’s a pain I’ve not felt before. I massage my fingers and it eases the pain. Something blocks out the sunlight. I see the old man sipping on his coffee. He looks at me and then smiles quizzically.