Faulkin' Around

In the same class as the Sherwood Anderson imitation paper, I was asked to choose another famous author for a 1000-word short story imitation. Naturally, I chose the most famous American author of all time - William "Big Money" Faulkner. The class marked my first reading of his classic As I Lay Dying (if you read a book in your life, this should be it), whose neat perspective-changing dialogue I blatantly stole for this story. It is important to note that I made a low C for this paper, because (a) my teacher said the characters weren't on par with those in As I Lay Dying (he said my characters were too advanced for their age), (b) this story is immensely tragic in Faulkner style but without his dark humor, and (c) I will never be William Faulkner.

This story is about something I think about a lot - how much pressure there is to be a parent. The tragedy in this story is not how I figure parenthood should be or what I think it leads to - I just want people to realize that having children and being a parent are both things that should be immensely respected.

One more thing before I set you loose on this bitch: it has made 2 out of 2 female readers burst into tears. Enjoy!

“The Child”

Child

Today is a good day because Daddy is here now, and he is hugging Mama in the kitchen, and she is smiling. Usually he comes back from his work when it is pitch dark outside, but he must have gotten real tired and bored and wanted to see us, so he came home when the sun is up.

I am a boy, and my birthday is coming up, and when it does, I will be five, which is about as many fingers as you have on one hand. I have one Mama and one Daddy, and we live together in a house, and I like it. My room is big enough to hold all of my toys at once, plus it is right across from my parents’ room and right next to our bathroom, which I think is good. Whenever I throw my toys into the TV room, Mama gets mad at me, but she always helps pick them up, because she is a good Mama. She must be cooking something, because I can see hot water boiling out of the stove from where I sit next to the TV.

When Daddy came in, I hid from him behind the bar separating the TV room from the kitchen, and when I couldn’t wait anymore, I yelled and ran and grabbed his leg and bit it.

“Wow,” Daddy says and tries to grab me. “Someone needs to be in bed by now,” but before he can grab me I run away and hide behind the TV, but he finds me.

Daddy is strong and smart, because he can always find me. There are other people’s Dads who cannot run as fast or keep up with me and my friends out in the yard, but Daddy is so strong, he can keep up with us, and Mama can too. I think they even look different from other people’s parents, and I like that because I plan to marry Mama as soon as I am old enough, and she says that is probably when I’m eighteen, which is a number so big that it is more fingers than you have, and when I asked Daddy how old eighteen was he said it was about as old as Mama, so maybe she will wait that long.

Daddy puts me in bed, but I am almost asleep so that I don’t even remember touching the pillow.

...

It is much closer to my birthday now, but today is not a good day. Mama was mad at me today, because I think I was mean to her, and when she yelled at me I cried and she started crying too. Then Daddy came home, and he got mad at her and yelled at her, and she started crying again and now they are in their bedroom, and sometimes I can hear them. I think Mama didn’t take her medicine today, and Daddy got mad, because he wants her to be happy which is what the medicine is for.

Now I can see through the crack in the door. Mama is still crying hard, and Daddy is hugging her and petting the back of her hair like a puppy dog and saying, “It’ll be all right, it’ll be all right” into her ear but she keeps crying.

If Daddy told me it was all right I would believe him, because he is always right.

Daddy

Sometimes I think she is getting better, but then sometimes she’ll surprise me. Why won’t she take her medicine? Insurance will cover it for as long as she needs it – I just wish she’d take it if she knows it’s going to help. Whenever she breaks down like this and I ask her all of these questions, all she can say is “I know” almost like she doesn’t care and that makes me even more worried.

I am trying to make things work. I moved back home and quit school to marry her and get things straight – I just want to do the right thing. I really want things to work, but I can’t work these hours and be home all day too. I think I will schedule her doctor’s appointment and get him to look at her thyroid again.

Mama

Every day is getting so hard. I used to wake up feeling so good, but now by the end of the day I hate everything. And even this morning when I woke up, I still feel the same as when I went to sleep, like I just can’t do it anymore.

He doesn’t understand. He is a good man, but he doesn’t understand what I am thinking, he just can’t relate, maybe just because he is a man. I am so tired. Mama said it would be hard raising a child even as young as I am, and she was right. She thought and the doctor said it was post partum, so I guess it is. I am so tired.

Our baby in the other room is asking me questions, but I can’t really think to answer any of them. I found the new bottle of prescription pills and swallow one of the little blue pills and try to feel better.

Do I not have friends anymore? Angie – oh, God, Angie – I forgot all about her. How could I have gone so long without talking to my best friend? When did I ever go this long without talking to her? I call her, but she doesn’t answer – and that’s when I remember she is probably in class. I was hoping she’d call me at lunch, which I told her in the voicemail, but she doesn’t call. I guess I don’t really blame her, but I am still a little upset. Another blue pill buries those feelings down a little bit deeper.

Watching my son is like watching my childhood die. When he gets old, I will be old too – but where did my childhood go? I feel like I still am a child. If we hadn’t had this child I’d have been out of high school by a year, maybe in college right now. He’d still be in college – maybe we wouldn’t even know each other, much less be married in this tiny house. God, I’m scared – I can feel it welling up inside of me so I take another pill.

He promised me things would get better, but I can’t tell if they will anymore. My life feels like it’s gone, and I can’t help but feel like I’m ruining his and our son’s by pulling them down with me. I am so tired, so I take another pill.

It is dark outside, but I don’t remember it becoming such. Our child says he is hungry, but I am too tired to cook. I tell him to wait for Daddy, and I go and lay in bed. I can’t remember if I’ve taken my pill for the night, so I grab another one before I lie down. Did I take more than one? I can’t really tell, but I swallow anyway, and get to where I don’t care, and I don’t feel anymore.

Child

Mama is cold, so I gave her a blanket, but she didn’t say anything to me. Daddy comes home later than usual and asks me why I am still up, and I tell him because Mama is sick. He walks into their room and is talking to her really quietly so that I can’t hear him. Then I hear him yelling her name very loud, and I think he may be crying, but I can’t tell.

I hope Mama is feeling better.

Sherwood Anderson Wrote Weird Stories and So Do I

For the first edition of "Story Time with Clayfer," I give you a 500-word paper I turned in for a 200 level English class two years ago. Why do I do this? Because no eyes save my 200 level English teacher and my own have ever graced these words...plus I want some feedback. I love you guys.

A little background: Sherwood Anderson was one of the first "modern" style writers and really seemed to hammer down on describing the weird in every person out there. The odd personalities he describes in most of his short stories make the early 1900s seem that much more real. The following is from an exercise where I attempt to imitate Anderson's writing style. The dude in this story is based on a guy I saw everyday in my Classic Civ class a few years ago. I don't think that man is homicidal, but wouldn't it be neat if he was?

No, it wouldn't.

"Desperate"

Walter Tomes entered the enormous stadium seated auditorium and made his long descent to his seat in the very first row on the very left side. He had been seated on a bench just outside the room a good twenty-five minutes before class started as usual. He waited until the students inside would pour out, so he could take the seat of his choice for his own class. Hunched over so far he could easily make out the various perforations in his dated Reebok’s, his books clutched in both hands, he descended the length of the classroom’s steps.

Walter is a thirty-three year old man. A thin moustache that barely covers half of his upper lip is the result of a week that got away from him years ago, a mistake he decided never to correct. He dresses as one would expect an aging father of four to, though he has no children or family to call his own. He currently holds a full-time job as a janitor for the University of Tennessee, the same school he is currently attending part-time. He is an excellent student – and desperately lonely.

Walter is a man that feels the judgmental eyes of those around him every moment he steps from his home. Though he hardly ever speaks and is regarded by others as much as they would address the clouds overhead, he still carries this insecurity on his sleeve. This is especially true regarding the subject of his major, which is Classical Civilizations, a subject he finds interesting but utterly useless.

“They laugh at me because of it,” he could be heard saying to his closet of mops, “If they would think less of me for that, then I would think less of them.”

“They” refers to a group of students that sit on the opposite side of the room from Walter. They are young, good-looking, charismatic students who ask questions often and are known throughout the class. A recent remark made by his teacher in this very classroom before the entirety of the room, including them, has made Walter on the verge of hysterics like never before.

“Please, Mr. Tomes,” the teacher had said, as Walter was turning in a freshly completed quiz, “keep them for now – I will take them all up together.” This comment was accompanied by a snicker from one of them, Walter was sure of it. The comment devastated Walter, and, face flushed, he returned to his seat (and later to his home) with less self-confidence than he had ever experienced.

And that is why he has a gun with him today. It is in the right pocket of his jacket. His plan is to kill his teacher at the end of the class period.

“They will understand me then,” he had told his mops. “I will take back what my teacher took from me.” But of course he received no response.

A bead of sweat slid down from his eyebrow as Walter waited for the final moments of the class. He breathed heavily as his instructor paced back in forth in front of the crowded room, reviewing slide after slide of his PowerPoint lecture. From the corner of his eye, he could see them – all were in their seats as usual, sitting straight up, attentively.

“OK,” said the lecturer sometime later, “I’m going to pass back the papers from Thursday, and then you’re free to go.”

As his teacher approached, Walter could barely contain himself. He felt light-headed, but still managed to wrap his fist around the gun’s handle.

“Mr. Tomes,” the teacher said, extending a paper toward him. “Excellent work. It’s good to know someone’s paying attention.”

Walter blinked several times and said nothing. He didn’t even extend his hand to accept the paper, merely allowed it to fall on the desk in front of him. The compliment faded through him and restored his heart beat to normal, and as everyone in the room packed up to leave, he sat with his head down, hand still in his jacket, staring at the paper. He was the last person to leave that day.