We're going to try something a little different: We're going to have a IUSB BLOG WRITING CONTEST. Dedicated blog readers should take a moment from exam review and paper-writing to WRITE A VERY SHORT STORY (200 words max) based on the following prompt.
Post your story to the comments section before 12:00 noon on Friday 3/8. Winners to be decided by anonymous creative writing teachers and posted later that afternoon. Winners will be listed on the blog and will receive warmest wishes for a wonderful spring break.
So, here's the first contest prompt:
Write a 200-word short story that begins with the following line:
"When I came home from school for lunch my father was wearing a backpack made of stone."
(first line originally from Aimee Bender's story, "The Girl in the Flammable Skirt")
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Friction
When I came home from school for lunch my father was wearing a backpack made of stone. I saw it in the way he slouched at the kitchen table, turned so that he wouldn’t have to meet my eyes as I walked in. The smoke of a black clove cigarette rose over his left shoulder; the steam of thick, sugary coffee over his right, tauntingly. The room smelled heavily of both, as it usually did.
It wasn’t the type of stone you’d know how to place, darker than onyx and it had been ripped from a deeper part of the earth than any quarry you might stare into, wondering about the bottom. It was the weight of five marriages, and of debt.
“It was on Lincolnway. The right turn, by the car dealership. I told her those tires…well. She slid right into the oncoming lane,” he said, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke with an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
In my mind I nodded, said something that meant nothing, and in his mind he heard me.
* * *
First attempt at anything even resembling prose in a long time...
When I came home from school for lunch my father was wearing a backpack made of stone. I asked him, “What’s with the backpack?”
“Its for a show tomorrow.”
My father was a magician at elementary schools. I remember being a kid, like ten years old, he put on a show about once a grading period. I should have recognized the stone. He used to lug a foam boulder around the stage and then throw it in the audience, scaring the littler kids. It maybe weighed as much as a bag of cotton balls. He always ended each show by giving Mrs. Allen, the 3rd grade teacher, a set of magically appearing paper flowers. Mom was the schools secretary.
“What’s the gag?” I asked.
Apparently, he also had a stone back pack (I always wondered where he got some of his gimmicks). In a feat of strength, he was going to lift this easily, while the principal would be unable the other. He would then lift a pencil off a box, in which the principal would attempt and fail, and ultimately look foolish.
I’ve been his son for over twenty-one years, and he has yet to tell me how to lift the pencil.
“Do you want a bologna sandwich?” He asked as he unhooked the bag.
“It’s alright”, I said, “I have tuna casserole”.
its a little longer, and really i wanted to go so much more detail, but here we go.
When I came home from school for lunch my father was wearing a backpack made of stone, it crippled him, bent the spine in half and anchored him to the ground. He moaned. Tiny little cries escaped between bites of cereal. His finger slipped from the spoon and landed not by, but in, the bowl. It reminded him that he was alive. My father took long pauses in-between digesting and just sat there, his face getting longer by the minute. He told me days later that he felt like he was drowning. Literally. I wanted to scream at him about China and the Yellow River floods, but I just smiled and counted the tiny prepubescent hairs on my upper lip. His finger was cuticle deep in warm milk, unable to reach a Wheatie to save its life, the spoon, the ultimate life boat, missing him at the last minute as a wave concealed the finger. I’m still not certain how he ever pulled his finger out, whether he mustered up the courage or waited for hours passing the time, reading the news paper or playing solitaire with the other hand, just waiting until they dragged the lake of milk. Searching.
When I came home from school for lunch my father was wearing a backpack made of stone. That's when I knew Aunt Medusa had come to visit.
When I came home from school for lunch my father was wearing a backpack made of stone. His backpack. Mother's was over on the sofa, weighing heavily on the cushion and surrounded by the palest corona of matching rock dust.
"We've just had the most exhausting and invigorating walk," Mother announced loudly over the sound of running water in the next room. "If only you would allow us to keep you home from school sometimes, you could have joined us."
The table was already set. Heavy pale bowls, generous dollops of porridge, pale warm whisps curling upward. The smell of melting butter and starch and steam.
"We'd love to include you," Father said. "We wish you had more room for us in your life." The age lines in his face exaggerated the semi-sweetness of his smile. Most days I couldn't blame him for his genetic disposition to look ridiculous.
I heard the plates shifting in the cupboard. Mother brought in a dish of toast, and we all sat down. "Anything interesting happen at school today," she said, barely raising her voice at the end.
"Grits again," I muttered as I brought the spoon toward my beautiful young face.
Not eligible to win the contest -- playing for the fun of it.
Prelude to Adulthood
When I came home from school for lunch my father was wearing a backpack made of stone. He slipped out of the straps and let it crash to the tile below. I’m not allowed a stone backpack and I’m not allowed to know what my father keeps inside his. We sat on stools at the island in the middle of the kitchen, him across from me. On a cutting board between us were slices of ham, turkey, salami, provolone, Swiss, and cheddar, in a bowl a salad, and on our plates bread. We reached for the mustard at the same time but his hand made it first. I watched him spread the mustard with his knife until a thin layer covered one side of each piece of bread. Afterward I noticed I didn’t spread mine, didn’t even use a knife. Our dog was sniffing around his backpack. The tiles underneath were cracked. The coffee table in the living room was broken. He bit his ham and cheddar sandwich and I asked him a question. I can’t say exactly what he said, he wouldn’t have that, but I now know in the future everyone will wear a stone backpack, me included.
(200 words)
So I wrote this story before reading the prompt and it is too damn late to write a new one so this is the one I have.
Imaginary Angels
by David Kobb
Her arm like a sling hurls stones. The smooth grey ovals walk across the water. Her arm aches more than her swollen cheek. The July sun rages upon her. From inside the house, just a few yards from the pond, her fire and brimstone minister husband sits staring into space, clutching his Bible while white spittle crusts the corners of his sweaty mouth.
Her supply of rocks exhausted, she looks back at the white, farm house on the hill. Through the walls she sees the man she once knew playing out his inward catechism, arms folded, bound arguments in his hand, and thoughts misting his eyes. She walks her stones, playing her miracles while he imagines angels.
Feeling her cessation and watching through a dust opaque window, he sees the setting sun play across her back the shadows forming wings on her shoulder blades.
She’ll never leave, he prophesizes as he stands. I’ll never leave, she admits as she hears the screen door open and stoic footsteps approach.
She drops her dress and walks onto-into the pond and her lungs fill. Disregarding his convictions he drops to his knees and crawls to the water. Drowning, she realizes miracles do happen.
When I came home from school for lunch my father was wearing a backpack made of stone. Bits of lichen
and moss clung to its sides that left trails across the carpet as he wobbled across the room. I do not like to speak ill of the dead, but they’re messy and rather cold. We talked awhile about the afterlife and what a fucking nightmare it is being entombed. I couldn’t remember what he liked to eat so I made him a grilled cheese sandwich with provolone. After he was gone I remembered he liked eggs fried inside buttered bread and that I had forgotten to tell him that Tom was brewing beer.
When I came home from school for lunch my father was wearing a backpack made of stone. I don’t think I would have noticed at first, but the sound of it falling to the floor startled me, and I knocked over my glass of milk. He yelled and lifted his foot in pain and then peered at me as if it was my fault. I usually stay away from him when he’s like this. Mom refers to this as a sullen spirit. He skulks about the house as she runs interference, rushing to enter every room ahead of him, saying things like, “Don’t bother your father he’s feeling a little blue today.” I stop for a moment and wonder if it is really possible to feel a color. If it is, what color am I feeling right now? She acts as if this is something a fresh cup of coffee and a hot off of the front lawn newspaper will fix. I grab my chicken salad sandwich from the paper plate, ignoring the glop of diced pickles and mayo that have landed on the Formica.
Although I act a bit older than most kids my age, it doesn’t give him the right to forget that he’s the parent and I’m the kid. Yes, we’ve heard all the stories about the workers walking out in the middle of their shift. We get it! A man needs something to do everyday. A real man has to provide for his family or what good is he?
When I came home from school for lunch my father was wearing a backpack made of stone. On the kitchen table was a matching stone backpack, and I was like What the hell? Next to the second pack was an open Bible. I knew this particular copy but had never seen it actually open. Just knew the gold binding from its place on the living room bookshelf—a rare and proud household power tool moment for my dad. Anyway, so I was a little freaked out. Apparently, while I was failing my Algebra test, my father was finding Jesus.
“Put it on,” he creaked. Not sure how long he’d been standing there with all that weight on his back. Thankfully I got home on time.
“Why?”
“It weighs the same as Christ’s cross.”
Jesus. Is this another one of his mother-fucking life lessons?
“Um, no dad?”
His pack dragged him an inch backward. I expected him to ask me why I had forsaken him or something, but at this point he couldn’t speak, just implore.
I threw last night’s into the microwave, ignoring dad and focusing on the timer’s countdown.
*Beep*
*A mighty crash.*
Lesson learned: don’t wear stone backpacks.
That would be "last night's pizza."
if anyone feels like making any comments about my story you can email me at DavidKobb@gmail.com
thanks
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