Haibun Attempts xx
Global Haiku • Millikin University • Fall 2013
Short Story Writing Milo continued on with his life on the island and came across some other characters, surprisingly. As he explored the island more, he came across a giraffe that hated being so tall. The giraffe thought it was such an inconvenience because he was not close to the ground. Milo responded to the giraffe’s moaning and said: only tower After the giraffe contemplated what Milo had to say, he thanked him and told him the elephant down the way was struggling with her image lately. Milo found the elephant and was taken back by how depressed the elephant was. Milo cheered her up with: the only size The elephant immediately perked up and was taken back by Milo’s advice that he had for her. The elephant said there was one more animal down the way that was struggling with its confidence in anything it did. This happened to be the lion, which was all of a sudden unconfident when it came to hunting down pray and leading its pack. Milo invited all of the animals to this final episode, where he told the lion this: if you trust yourself Alex Koulos |
Dance Class flaws of the flesh Glancing down at his cell phone, he sees the time is coming as he bends down and pulls up the garments. Tights. Not exactly the most flattering of ensembles, especially when awkward curves are accentuated, no longer hidden by the guise of “normal” clothing. He rushes out the door, in the direction of the studio, muttering French terms to himself and holding his fingers in a traditional position. He pulls on the tight-fitting black shoes and enters the bare room. There she stands, before the class, all of five feet tall, blonde hair pulled back, spectacles resting on her nose, with a French vocabulary, steely gaze, and passion for the art locked and loaded. “To the corner,” she dictates. The women of the group walk over to the wall, as the men, only one aside from our subject, go to the back of the line: the proper place for gentleman in the dance studio. A simple exercise to cross the floor. Simple, that is, for those who have a decent amount of coordination, which he does not. Chasses coupe temps leve: words to fear. As those before him properly execute the step, he manages, as fate has it, to use the completely wrong leg and hold his arms in the wrong position. The classroom aide, perhaps in an attempt to help him, follows the group of gentlemen across the floor, executing the step perfectly. Even more crushed by this display of proper technique, our man continues walking to the corner, breathing deeply, trying to keep his cool. perfection Mirrors. Mirrors everywhere. Yes, of course it is best that he be taunted with his reflection. There is nothing better than seeing just how much you can resemble a penguin on roller skates. Voice Lesson “We can’t expect perfection from the beginning,” his voice teacher tells him once more. “Really, the progress we’ve made is astounding. It’s just going to take a bit more.” He exhales, his lips flapping as he trills them, a warm-up exercise for his lesson. The tension in his voice is slowly dissipating, but it would certainly be wonderful to become a male version of Idina Menzel overnight. He can dream of course, though nothing worth having ever comes easily. “Now we’ll switch,” his voice teacher says, “we’ll start with ‘mmm’, transition to ‘ng’, and finally release the rest of the breath on ‘ah’.” She smiles: mm-ng-ah “Mmmmmmnnngggggahhhhhhh,” he phonates, the sound shifting from his throat to the front of his face. The pitch goes up a half-step as he begins the syllables again, trying not to think of the increasing pitch that will threaten to make his voice crack. His own body is against him; such a cruel trick the mind and the vocal folds play, the former causing him to fear the pitch, the latter lavishing in the possibility of unexpectedly making him sound ridiculous. The fault is somewhat his , of course. It would be fruitful of him to practice daily as he is told, yet he continues to shirk this responsibility to himself and his improvement. They say mistakes are the way in which we learn. Let us hope that his lesson hits him hard about the head. The Audition Sweating, he sits in the chair behind the others, waiting for his turn to go before them. The time has come: the time to see if the lessons in singing and dancing will bear fruit. Water bottle quivering frantically in his hand, he glances up from the ground. A bright green sign is held up. “Quiet please,” it reads. However, those who have met this room before know the reverse side says: “Don’t fuck up.” A clever attempt at lightening the mood, but the pressure is still real. He mutters his chosen words to himself again and again, praying they will not vanish at the time they are needed, as is his curse. A glass shattering note echoes from beyond the wings. Of course, those with effortless talent are flaunting all that they have, no doubt to an impressed panel sitting before them. The time has come. As the shrill vision of perfection begins to speak, he gets up and walks to the smiling pianist. Smiling, he counts out the tempo to her, walking back behind the black curtain to the side and walking out into the bright light, completely blocking his vision. He ihales, thinking to himself: slating Brock Hayden |
Short Story two whole weeks “Okay. I can do this. I have two weeks to write the most amazing paper to ever grace the presence of my professor. Two whole weeks. That’s plenty of time! Not a big deal,” I thought to myself as I sauntered into the library after my final Monday class. I had the entire evening to myself, and I had come to the library with the intentions of getting a solid start on my research paper, which was due in two weeks. My goal was to finish the assignment early in order to make sure that it was perfect. It was my first major college paper, and I wanted to prove to the professor, and to myself, that I could handle this. I sat down at my favorite desk on the second floor of the library, pulled out my laptop, and got to work. I went online and started my research, and after two hours, I had most of my information found and recorded in my organized notes document on my computer. I smiled at my progress and decided that I had done enough for the day. I packed up my things and went to relax in my dorm. I was on the right track. I would be fine. I close my eyes “Alright, so I let a week go by and didn’t work on my paper. That’s not too bad. I still have an entire week to take all of my information and write it down. I mean, I already know exactly what I’m going to say; I just have to write it down,” I thought as I walked into a local Starbucks a week after my initial paper-writing session. I had spent most of the last week working on other homework and hanging out with my friends. I knew that I needed to work on my paper, I just couldn’t bring myself to go somewhere and write. I sat down at a secluded table by a window and booted up my laptop. I opened the document with all of my notes and sighed. I knew I had a long week ahead of me if I still wanted this paper to be perfect, but it was going to be worth it. I would just buckle down this next week and crank out the written portion of my paper. Just as I was about to start putting my ideas on paper, my cell phone buzzed. I picked it up and saw a text from a friend saying that a group of friends were going out to dinner. I looked from my phone to my laptop, debating just what I should do. “I don’t know what I’m freaking out about. I have an entire week to finish this. I’ll go out to dinner and then work on it tomorrow. No biggie.” the deadline in “Okay, now I’ve really screwed up,” I thought to myself as I collapsed into the desk chair in my tiny dorm room. I had avoided doing my paper all week and now, in just twelve short hours, my research paper was due. I knew that I could still make this paper good; I was a talented writer and I had a whole twelve hours to do nothing but write my paper. It was only eleven o’clock in the evening; I could be up for hours and just crank out one of my fantastic papers. I knew that I could. So, I opened up all of my notes and started writing. I worked diligently for three hours and felt like I was making great progress. The only problem was that I kept yawning and couldn’t pay attention. I was too tired. “It’s fine,” I thought to myself as I saved my almost-done paper and climbed into bed. “Just a short nap, and I’ll be good to go.” I set my alarm for seven o’clock and closed my eyes. No reason to be worried, I would wake up in time ... the empty seat Caitlin Husted |
Creative Writing: I could never get it right. That is, my ability to write creative haiku that people want to read. As I travel the world and admire the various sceneries, I am incapable of describing and painting the beauty that I see. Although along the way, I meet interesting people who transform my writing into something that I am proud of. As I reach the beautiful waves of the ocean, I meet my first teacher named Eleanor who is sitting in the sand. She asks me to tell her about the ocean and to use my own words and descriptions of the beauty that I see in front of me. the blue waves Eleanor explains to me that this type of writing is too simple and haiku writing must create a larger picture that many people can connect to. She explains to me that I need to create better imagery throughout my writing and illustrate a picture that many readers can see. Eleanor then writes the poem below. magnificent lengths Eleanor asks me what I see from the description of the poem. I state, "I understand that you are talking about something very large. At first, I think you are talking about a human because you state 'body', however, I then come to understand that you are discussing the ocean because you state 'seas.' The five seas are representing the five seas that make up the entire ocean that is one large body of water." She commends me for my reading and understanding. Eleanor ensures that I am beginning to understand the elements of good haiku because I am able to understand and imagine a picture that is very unique. As I begin to comprehend the desires of a well-written haiku, I know that my journey is still incomplete and I must travel to my next destination. After I had viewed the amazing ocean, I come to the beautiful mountains where I would learn more. Henry was the next poet that I meet in a cabin. As we converse, he observes my knowledge about haiku and comments that I still have more to learn. As we begin to hike and admire the lengths of the land, I write the ideas that intrigue me the most. the journeys I take Henry nodded his head and said that my writing was beginning to transform, however, he thought that I needed to step out of my comfort zone and express some ideas that are unusual for myself. Henry points to a small weed that is growing between a crack in the mountain. He states, "These little, unnoticeable and unusual objects and ideas are topics that I would like for you to pay attention to when you observe your surroundings." Henry closes his eyes and meditates. admirable lengths Once Henry is finished, I thank him for his wonderful advice and remember that I have one last stop on my trip across this wonderful land that I must travel to. My last stop is Hawaii, where I watch the sun set and appreciate the stunning beauty that takes place everyday. While rocking in a hammock, Johnny walks by and comments on the magnificence that lies in front of us. As we converse on various topics, we reach the topic of haiku that we both love. He teaches me the best advice I have received throughout my entire trip. As we watch the sunset together, I obtain a desire to write the many emotions that I feel as the landscape slowly transforms in front of me. an array of beauty pink orange blue Johnny states that I have come a long way, though he makes sure to note, "Don't ever give up on writing about the things you love. Always encourage yourself, even if you can not write good haiku about a particular topic." Johnny appreciates my poems and gives me the inspiration to always write no matter what life throws at me. I knew I had much more to learn, but for now, this trip had taught me everything that I ever needed to know. never forget Codi Gramlich |
SHORT STORY REVISION EPISODE 1: THE ASSIGNMENT Long ago, in a classroom far, far away, there lived two haiku students named Spon and Hyan. Actually, it wasn't all that long ago or far away... that part was simply for dramatic effect. Hyan spent most of his days basking in the glory of Spon's masterfully crafted three-lined poems, struggling to write good haiku of his own. He was very stubborn, however, and would not accept any advice from other people. Each haiku he wrote was just as bad as the last, for Hyan never learned from his mistakes. One autumn afternoon, their brilliant haiku professor, Master Caubrey Ox, announced the class's next project. Each student was required to write their own 750 word short story that must incorporate 3-5 haiku. The class shouted praises to the heavens, thrilled about their newest assignment. While most of the students began to jot down ideas for their stories, Hyan simply crossed his arms and pouted. Master Ox, the kind and caring teacher, ran to his side to discover the source of his vexation. Without breaking from his sulk, he responded: my poetry— EPISODE 2: THE STUDENT Concerned for his dear friend, Spon decided to reach out a generous hand to help Hyan to pass the assignment. He knew that if Hyan did not receive a passing grade on his short story that he would fail the course. Spon planned an rigorous training regimen that would prepare Hyan to write the best short story of his life. Early the next morning, Spon went to Hyan's house to begin his training. To Spon's disappointment, Hyan was sitting at his desk sulking, attempting to write his story without any help. Concerned for his friend's ability to pass the class, Spon begged and pleaded with Hyan to accept help. Hyan angrily declined Spon's offer, insisting that he was perfectly capable on his own. Feeling defeated, Spon slumped back home, hoping that his friend would soon change his mind. After an entire day of failing to write a good short story, Hyan admitted defeat. He realized that without help, he would never be able to write a story that earned him a passing grade. When he saw Spon the following day, he apologized for being stubborn and asked if he could still be trained. An enormous grin stretched across Spon's face. He agreed to help his friend and they immediately began working. Spon spent the rest of the week teaching everything he knew about short stories to Hyan. Indeed, there was a glimmer of hope after all. prepared by the best, EPISODE 3: THE MASTER The deadline approached for Hyan to submit his short story, Equipped with his new knowledge of writing haiku and short stories, he began typing the greatest work that he had ever created. It was as if his fingers knew exactly which words to type without even thinking. He finished the assignment, proofread it, and emailed it to Master Ox with minutes to spare. Feeling relieved by having completed the assignment, Hyan crashed into bed, falling into a deep slumber. Hyan woke up the next morning, knowing that he would soon learn whether or not he would receive a passing grade. Feeling more confident than ever, he leapt out of bed, harnessing his inner gazelle spirit. He dashed to class, his hair flowing in the wind like a majestic steed. As he arrived to class, Master Ox was beginning to hand back the graded short stories. She handed a sheet of paper to Spon containing a large capital 'A' written in the top right corner. Typical. She reached back into her stack of graded papers for Hyan's short story. Here it was... the moment of truth. She placed it down on the table where Hyan was sitting. His face lit up with joy as he saw the passing grade written on his paper. Hyan was so proud of his C- that he exclaimed a glorious haiku: Stinky poetry, John Spaw |
no story yet Keila Hamed Ramos |
Story Yet another day had passed and Jep still couldn't figure out what Tony meant by "feeling" cars or getting to know them, as if they were people. Over the course of two months Jep had recently taken up a summer job in a garage at Tony's Towing, Tinkering, and Trash. Tony had been a friend of the family for years. He stood short with dark leather skin, greasy scarred hands, and tough, tight muscles from countless years of work. From the start the two had a natural relationship, almost like brother. Tony would demonstrate all his skills on keeping an old car running years past her prime and wisely lecture about how cars had souls of their own. All the while Jep sat in awe absorbing like a sponge. Quickly Jep learned how to fix any problem a car might be brought in for, but it was never enough. "You're only fixing the problem," Tony would sigh, "You have to make her feel better, prevent her from getting sick again, comfort her ... show her a bit of love." It was enough to make Jep sick. Everyday Tony would say the same stupid thing... Her empty spaces ... claiming he could see the memories people shared with their cars as he worked on them. Jep stuck by his motto through and through, however. motor runs The more Tony tried to show Jep the less he seemed to understand. So, Tony backed away from the lessons believing with time and age experience would come. In the meantime, Jep's skills progressed rapidly. When people would bring their cars in for a simple oil change, alignment, or a tire change, they would ask for Jep. After the course of a year he could do work three times as fast as Tony, but still Tony refused to acknowledge him as the better. Jep would brag.. time wanders by ... Loyal costumers enraged Jep as well. With every job Tony would inspect all elements of the car. Check oil level, check transition, check tire pressure, check alignment, listen to the motor.. and on and on and on. His process seemed to take forever. "You're wasting valuable time with Tony!" Jep would yell at the older men. They would simply thank him for his opinion and state that ... bandages ... On the third summer while working with Tony, Jep finally learned Tony's valuable lesson when an old man brought in two old Firebirds. Both of these cars were classic Firebird Red with classic t-tops and looked as if they were brand new. The old man said he had once owned a garage but was long since retired. His lovely birds hadn't seen the streets in a long time and needed new tires and new batteries to run again. "I would do it myself, the frail old man muttered, "but my flesh ain't quite as strong as it used to be." The old man had two grandkids which he wanted to gift each of the cars too as soon as they could run. After ordering tires and a battery for the first one Jep said the old man could come back tomorrow to pick it up. With that, Jep went home for the night. Tony asked if the old man could stay awhile and have a look over on the second one for a few hours. Happily the old man agreed looking forward to sharing a few old stories with the mechanic. Next day the old man picked up the first firebird and drove home with it. However, tony sat in the back of the shop working tirelessly on the second car. He did this for weeks straight on what Jep teased as a simple job that Tony was overcomplicating. Tony responded with his usual ideals ... grandfather's gift ... weighing heavily on the memories of cars. It sickened Jep. When the old man came to pick up the second car, Jep saw the charges on the receipt. Not only had Tony taken two weeks to fix the car, but he had done countless things the old man hadn't asked for. Happily the old man paid the price and drove away. Fuming, Jep believed that after all this time he learned Tony's true lesson. Rob the customer blind. But then one day the old man returned with the first Firebird. It needed a new alternator. Two weeks later a new started. Then a new carburetor. Flywheel. Transmition. Swaybars. Belt. And on and on for months. Working with the speed of ten men Jep would fix the problem and send the old man on his way. After a solid year of working on the car Jep gave up. He gave the Job to Tony who spent two solid weeks on the car. Afterwards, the old man paid his bill and happily drove off. He never returned with the two firebirds. Jep didn't understand. Tony gave careful insight, "A car isn't a tool. It is made of thousands of parts working together. If you have strep throat, more things are going on inside your body to fix that problem than you or I can understand. If you just soothe the throats irritation the problem may seem like it is gone. Twenty years later you have heart disease. To know how a car needs fixed, you must look at how the parts interact, listen to the car, then address each problem." After his third and final year of working with Tony, Jep finally understood how to properly work on car. You needed one thing above all others... all things Mark Gehlbach |
Short Story She walked into the high school art room with tears in her eyes. Turning to the teacher she said "Remember my theme of love for the year? I found the dark side you warned me about. Now I do not know how to make art about love; every perception of love has been destroyed for me." The teacher looked at her student, so sorry that she had ever been right about the advice she had given her earlier. "Boys are trouble, you know? They'll shred your heart up and leave you crying if you're not careful. Don't be surprised if someone hurts you. People will always find a way to hurt one another." She never meant for the girl to fall apart in this way, though she knew it would happen eventually. The advice the teacher had given her the week before seemed to be lost on the girl who was too caught up in her emotions. The girl could not see past this lie that had been right in front of her face the whole time, but the teacher knew about this side of love. complete happiness As time went on the teacher watched her student heal. The girl began to see that to appreciate the good in life, there must be some bad to put things into perspective. The girl had gone back to the sappy view of love which she had clung to before. Her teacher tried explaining that because bad had happened, it should also show in her work. Focusing on only the positive will only make the hard times seem that much harder when they come around again. Forgetting the pain is no good because it happened for a reason; some lesson was meant to be learned. remember the past Finally the teacher's point came through to the student. The girl's intended project of covering the plastered heart in shards of glass evolved into something more. Parts of the plaster would show through symbolizing that what was underneath could not be forgotten, though it may be partially covered by new brokenness. A stand was added at the bottom; it held more bits of glass, and some scraps of metal. On the side she added a wire necklace, twisted upon itself. It was the necklace from their first date. Something once so beautiful had become twisted and no longer resembled its original form. Despite this, it was still beautiful in its own way and could be appreciated for a new reason now. glass of the heart Mikayla Mendenhall |
The Art of Patience - Day 1 monday morning Young Duke always walked with an air of confidence. He was intelligent, a hard-worker and well prepared for everything he did. He lived up to his name, Duke: “leader among men”. His passion for the arts, and particularly for the theatre had taken him down a path quite suitable for such a name; he had become heavily involved in directing. While he had trained primarily as an actor, he found that his analytical skills, inventive ability and keen eye for the whole picture had given him a natural knack for directing. While still an apprentice in the art form, he had landed himself a job for the summer directing a show at a summer camp. He walked in that Monday morning with his usual air of confidence, and 10 shots of espresso running through his veins. He had read the script multiple times, and written out preliminary blocking notes, as trying as it had been to read a children’s melodrama that many times. One can only take so many tacky puns and villainous cackles. 15 minutes early, as any professional should be, the building was quiet. He snagged these last few moments of peace, quickly looking over the notes he had written. He smiled; confident in the work he had prepared and that’s when it happened, an influx, a mass of energetic little children came running through the doors. These were not ordinary children; they were artistic children, theatrical children, the kind of children who attend theatre camps of the sort, these were dramatic children. Upon the children’s entrance, the screaming, the running, the swarming, the twirling, the cartwheeling, the utter chaos did not subside but only grew more and more in the minutes leading up to the start of camp. Duke’s face went white. His confident air disappeared in its entirety. He could already tell that every note he had written in the margins of the script was going to be useless. As he knew, a director must often change his course based on his actors. He had met his actors: tiny, crazy little beings. beware End of day 1 By the end of day 1, Duke went home exhausted and defeated. He had come into the job thinking that directing a short 10-minute play would be the easiest gig of his life and left questioning his choice to become a director at all. He crashed onto his bed completely fatigued, all because of tiny little children. The day had been full of events, minus the event that was supposed to take place, rehearsal. By the end of the day, Duke had barely been able to muddle his way through the first page of the play with his little actors and they had 8 more pages to complete in three days. There had been tears and fighting over how the parts were assigned. Duke had no idea he was also signing up to be a counselor. There had been bickering between two little girls who “really, really hated each other.” Duke had never known eight year olds had such a capacity to hate. children bicker There had been punches thrown, that were not a part of the fight choreography. There had been hiding under desks, shouting, running, cartwheeling and very little rehearsal. Every five minutes the children begged him to play another game, the only thing they actually stayed quiet and paid attention for. He had tried to keep them on track, but his patience had run out by lunchtime that day. second grade classroom All the preparation he had done had meant nothing. As he lay in bed, he realized he was going to have to come at this project from a different angle, with a little more patience, and an open mind. He decided the best thing to do was to sleep on it and hope for the best in the coming days. When Children Teach Adults - Day 2-3 quiet no more Halfway through camp, Duke began to gain a bit of his confidence back. His entire image of how the play was going to go had been revamped completely but surprisingly he was okay with that. He liked it, even. He had not been cursed with a group of 8 and 9 year old actors, but rather, blessed. It had been a challenge to learn how to keep their focus on the play and to get them to write out and remember direction, but with game breaks every once in awhile; the children had begun to develop a fantastic show. It was definitely much different from working with adults and almost every one of Duke’s original notes had been scratched out and changed, but interestingly enough, it was for the better. Duke was realizing in his work, that there are some things in the performing arts that children actually do better than adults. One of them was brilliant spontaneity. The children themselves thus far had created many of the most hilarious moments of the melodrama. A fearless young boy had willingly taken on the roll of the female circus owner, and created a hysterical high-pitched character voice. Two of the young girls had masterfully choreographed some of their own fight scene. Sometimes, Duke would suggest something blocking-wise to a child and they would do it entirely wrong, but the result was better than Duke’s original plan. For someone who was always prepared with a detailed plan, it was struggle to get use to the spontaneity of the children, but it was a struggle with a great result. The children’s creativity never failed to keep Duke in good spirits. old portrait The Show Must Go On: Performance Day - Final Day Of all the times Duke had been on stage himself, he had never felt the butterflies as much as he did waiting for his kiddos to come on that stage. Preparing them that morning had been hectic, it really is not easy to get children through a rehearsal, to the park for lunch and get them in and out of costumes and mics. Nervous, energetic children at that. He was now standing backstage, the children surrounding him, waiting to go on for their performance. He gave them all high-fives and a last minute break a leg pep talk. They were cute as can be all dressed up in costumes and smiles and Duke could not help but feel proud. Then, the announcer called the name of their show and the children pranced on stage to begin. Duke watched, his heart dropping in his stomach at every moment, praying that they would not forget or make a mistake. Luckily, his fears were relieved. The children performed with more fervor and enthusiasm than he had ever seen, and the parents clapped and laughed supportively at almost everyone moment. They loved it. Towards the end of the performance, Duke felt himself start to tear up. He had never been so proud of a show he had directed before. He felt so blessed to be a part of these children’s lives and was going to miss every single one of their individual and wonderful personalities. It was the end of a first experience. Duke watched as the children bowed for curtain call and the parents cheered wildly and thought about how much he had learned and how much had grown from working with these children for just 5 days. The struggle had really yielded a wonderful result. curtain call Morgan Oliver |
Short Story Laura closed the door of her practice room. Again. Everyday. Same time. Same place. Straight from a full day of classes, for two hours she shut herself off from the world, dedicating precious time for homework on practicing the piano. Throwing her backpack on a chair, she took out her books, a pencil, and her best friend—the metronome. Sighing, she started on her scales. Dr. Moore had just boosted her tempo. Four scales for each key—now at double time. Laura massaged her forearms as she got out her Beethoven Sonata. Tendonitis was simply one of the side affects of hard practicing. She had exactly one week to finish the first movement of the sonata. That didn't give her any time to fool around, pain or not. Her daily practice times were more important than ever. However, practicing hadn't been going well. Fingerings weren't always working. Her pedal was too mushy. She wasn't improving as much as she should considering her performance was in a week. Her hour-long lessons with Dr. Moore were basically torture. Her shoulders weren't loose enough. Her foot was getting lazy. Every single note was nitpicked. Plus she had that research paper to finish . . . Laura realized she had just played through half the piece without paying attention. She started over. It didn't sound any better than last week. Frustration overwhelmed her. She'd had it. Why had she ever decided to study piano in college? She hated it. Why did it matter if her thumb was too loud on one note? Why should she have to spend two hours every stinkin' day when she had hours of homework to do when she was finished? Laura may have loved the piano in high school, but anymore ... it was just a pain. It no longer soothed her to sit and play. Instead, it was a chore. It was simply a part of her homework. Laura picked up her stuff and left, locking the door behind her. Half an hour would have to be sufficient for today. Beethoven drifts ~~ "Hello, Laura. How are you?" Dr. Moore asked. For being as nitpicky as she was, Dr. Moore really was a sweet old lady. "I'm doing well," Laura replied, pulling out her books and sitting at the office piano. "How's the practicing going?" "Fine." She didn't mention how much she hated every moment of it. "You look a little tired. How is college treating you?" "I was up pretty late working on my research paper. Pretty run down, I guess." "Well, I hope you're still practicing two hours everyday!" "I try." "Let's get started." Laura played a scale and then they immediately started on Beethoven. She played all the way through it and was thankful it didn't sound awful. It actually sounded better than it had for a while. Dr. Moore sighed and sat in her chair next to the grand piano. "What were you thinking about while you were playing just now?" Laura thought about it and cringed. "My research paper draft that's due tonight ..." "I could tell." Of course she could. "You're struggling with your musicality, Laura." She paused. "You have for the past month." Laura didn't mention that she basically hated the piano right now. "Playing the piano is more of a mental exercise than a physical exercise. If you cannot calm your mind, your music will never reflect your true talent. You will never convey anything to your audience." "I know." "I want you to think about that this week before you perform next week. In the meantime, we need to work on your bass. At times it took over the melody ..." stroking ivory ~~ "Is Laura here?" a woman called, wanting to make sure the next performer was there and ready to go. Dr. Moore walked up to give her last words of advice before she walked out on stage. "You've worked so hard, Laura. The sonata is flawless. Do you realize that?" Laura shrugged. She kind of knew. She had worked so hard this week and honestly felt a little better about it than she had a week ago—though she was performing grudgingly. But it was entirely different to hear it come from her professor's mouth. "I know I haven't told you that. But I don't because I expect so much more from you. You're so much better than playing the notes. You've played pieces before that weren't flawless…but your interpretation was beautiful. I know you're thinking about so much right now. But before you walk on that stage, I want you to take a breath. I want you to breathe all your frustration at school and, yes, even the piano, out. Go out there and see what music you can make with that beautiful instrument." With that, Dr. Moore patted her shoulder and left her. Laura could hear the cello's final notes on stage. Accompanist and cellist bowed. She walked on stage, bowing. Taking a breath, Laura sat and focused on the shining ivory of the Steinway's keys. She thought back to years ago when she loved to play just to play. It'd been awhile since she felt that way. She smiled, thinking over her piece. Where it breathed. Where expression belonged. breathing music Rachel Mudd |
The awkward shape and size of the body did not fit 9-year-old Tommy’s body. The guitar was way too big; Tommy’s arms barely fit around it to stroke the strings. But to that boy, it was made for him and him for it. After seeing a humble homeless man stun a small crowd on a downtown street, Tommy wanted nothing more than to also have that gift. His first guitar would mark his growth as a musician and as an individual. As his fingers learned chords and technique he fell in love. His fingers stung until they became tough. Numb finger tips The red ink on lined paper was his escape from the world. His daydreams of her became the lyrics on the page. He was “that kid”. During open lunch he sat outside with no food, strumming chords on the guitar that became his only friend and his first love. No one dared disturb the peace, especially the girl that was Tommy’s second love. Erica. She was tall and dark. Not dark in the physical way. She was mysterious and hard to read. He knew every chord. He got bored with the work of others so he wrote his own. He learned techniques that took others several years to learn. But still he was nervous. He set his first gig at the coffee shop she visited every day after school. Tall cup of coffee Tommy looked out to the crowd. They screamed his name. He couldn’t hear them. Her silent stare captured his attention. When he grabbed his guitar he suddenly forgot that he really was only in Aroma, the small coffee shop on the corner across from the high school. The body of the guitar this time fit his every curve. The tender stroke of the first chord broke the silence. His hardened fingers reached and his arm swayed up and down. He sang to her. He was famous. She was his. Blinding lights Ramey Sola |
xxxxxx Rick Trask |
The chatty boy There was a very talkative boy who would always say what was on his mind, without filtration. He would talk on and on and would drive his English teacher crazy. In papers, as well, he would write and write with never a thought toward editing or condensing. She was troubled with what she should do: he had untapped creativity but couldn't expeditiously get his point across. She wanted to help this very eager writer to hone his skill. She finally decided on her course of action. She would introduce the boy to haiku. One day, as the boy was leaving class after the bell, the teacher called him over to her desk. She gave him a piece of paper with three lines of writing on it. The boy's eyes shifted across the text: From time to time "What is this?" the boy asked in earnest, "it's beautiful." "It really is beautiful," she replied, "it's called a haiku. A wise man named Bashō wrote it." She went on to tell him all about the art of haiku and the way the beauty is in the brevity. He pondered this as he went home with his first assignment: write one haiku when you get home about anything you want. He sat at his little desk in his bedroom, tapping his pencil on his desk. A million thoughts raced through his head. How could he ever condense them into three lines?! He made his first attempt: warming on the blue knitted rug He brought this back to her the next day. She was pleased with his attempt, but as she suspected, it could be cut down to size. She smiled at him and nodded her approval. Applying it to his work He sat at his desk as the teacher described the writing assignment. The class was to write a short story about a frog. She wasn't even finished describing the assignment, and the chatty boy was already furiously writing. She made her way over to his desk and asked him to try writing a haiku before getting to far into his story. Reluctantly, he agreed. He sat staring between his already started story and the blank sheet before him. He was so very frustrated. "This is not how I write," he exclaimed. The teacher rushed over to find out the origin of his distress. She reminded him of his favorite author, Ernest Hemingway, who was attributed with writing one of the best stories in but six words—very similar to a haiku. He still wanted nothing more than to continue spewing onto the page with the story on it. He shifted his focus back to the haiku, with a new determination because of Hemingway. He stopped and thought about what he wanted the story to really say. Then he wrote: green pond When he finished his haiku, he was amazed by the precision of his words; he began his short story. He was amazed, and couldn't believe how much he enjoyed haiku. He wrote with the same ferocity he always did, and finished before the rest of the class—a first!! He was so proud of his ability to write with precision. A change of heart The boy was sitting in the after-school program, working on another short story. He had become quite fond of writing with his newfangled technique. He decided on a theme, then would relish in writing a haiku to begin his story. This was his new favorite part of the writing process. He sat there focusing on his haiku when his teacher was walking by to go to her car. She saw the boy, and observed the fervor in which he was writing. She asked him how his story was coming along. "I am still working on the haiku," he replied. She listened as he told her all about his new favorite part. She stopped him before he got too far, and asked him to forget the story and write another haiku. He agreed with enthusiasm. He spit out another haiku right in front of her, she read it and was amazed by his talent. She offered to submit his piece into a regional competition in which the finalists had to have a haiku write off that next weekend. But the next weekend was the short story competition!! He had to decide what his calling really was... a fork in the road Ryan Hickey |
Short Story Revision: the monotony At least once a day, she presses her fingers to her temples in a wave of exhaustion. With her eyes closed, the office seems to have its own voice, weaving in and out with the timbres of the fax machine per-klunking, coffee station sputters, shuffling copies of licenses, waivers, attorney letters. A chorus of “How may I help you?’s fall in time, slow and lumbering. the final snap Without a moment’s hesitation, she shuts down the computer tower, picks up her purse and leaves the office. No looking back, wayward glances from coworkers recoil at the sight of her resolute facade. On the Boston shore, she steps into the refurbished boat of her childhood, a gift from a long-dead grandfather. Walking the deck, she lets a hand trail behind her on the rail, gleaming. Today, she will take off. land of the free? Sarah Mann |
© 2013, Randy Brooks • Millikin University
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