INTRODUCTION TO MODERN FICTION

Some Stories from the Class

DIGITAL TOOLKiT FOR STUDENTS!!!
LearntheNet: From "getting started" Internet basics to the web, email, newsgroups, searching, web publishing, and multimedia. Clear explanations and useful links.
The WWW Modern Fiction Discussion Board Where You Post Your Stuff
Introduction to English 201--A Virtual Version
The Calendar: What You Need to Read, Write, and Do Day by Day
Details on the Analytical Papers Assigned in This Class
How to Write Excellent Analytical Papers
Some Sample Analytical Papers Written by English 201 Students
Frequently Asked Questions
Discussions of ESL Problems at Dave's ESL Cafe!!
Stories and Their Origins
Weekly Prompts for Writing Your Short Story
Some On-Line Fiction Sites
Some Sample Stories Written by 201 Students
Writers' Gallery of Pretty Good Liknesses
Home Page Resources
Writers' Gallery of Pretty Good Liknesses
Home Page Resources

A Glossary of Literary Terms and A Handbook of Rhetorical Devices

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Date: Sat, 07 Jun 1997 16:48:27 -0800 (PST)

From: A NERVOUS SYSTEM <drsmith3@csupomona.edu>

To: eng20103 <eng20103@csupomona.edu>

Cc: DRSMITH3@csupomona.edu

Subject: Aperture

Aperture

The shadow and the light were the only things that Allen could

capture in a moment. Nina sat in the plastic chair as the second hand

swept over the white face. She dragged on her cigarette, then looked

nervously out of the window. She dialed his number.

The phone rings several times and he moves over to it. He sets

his drink on the table near a pile of photographs, curled, yellowed at the

edges.

"Allen?"

"Yes?"

"I need you to meet me. It happened again."

"Happened?"

"Well, it's not that simple."

"I see. I'll be there."

"When will you come?"

"It's too late tonight. I'll be there in the morning, tomorrow."

"After ten remember."

"I remember." Allen sits at the table and listens to the dial

tone.

Allen pulls up his long black socks. He pictures her light skin

somewhere far from shadow. He sucks on a cigarette. A long draw, slow,

then his chest falls with the exhale. He flicks the ashes, glowing red

exposed from under the white and gray.

Allen locks the door. In the hallway, the woman in the long coat,

older with children, swings her hips like she's in a slow dance as she

walks. She stops, looks up and and half of her face is hidden in the

darkness of the doorway. She smiles a faint smile. The door closes with

a quiet click, and she is gone then, a fluid movement fades into the black

of shadow at the end of the the hall. He exits through the old door,

painted and pealing, dry wood exposed. Allen touches the broken

windowpane with spider web patterns as he steps into the white daylight.

Nina sat and smoked at the end of the long table. She remained

expressionless as daylight slanted into the hallway through the chicken

wired windows.

The winding roads on the coastline flow like the waves that wash

white over the dark rocks. Gulls circle slowly above the water. The

radio offers only static, noise. His hand reaches out, fingers touch

the nob nervously. He spins it until it clicks.

He pulls off at a small diner and grabs his camera bag from the

passenger seat. An old man, sitting at the counter with a cup of coffee,

doesn't look up. He curls his wrinkled index finger around the spoon.

Allen listens to the crash of dishes in the kitchen as the waitress fills

the old man's cup. The old man looks up then and smiles. His head dips

low. He reaches for the sugar and cream he stirs them in the black coffee

until it's light and sweet.

"Coffee to go."

"Take sugar or cream in that?"

"Black."

"Dollar eight with tax."

Allen fishes in his pockets for the money as the old man looks up

at him.

"What do you take pictures of?" The old man's lips quivered.

"Huh? Oh, I shoot landscapes mostly."

"You can make a living doing that?"

"That's my hope anyway." Allen smiles. The old man smiles, but

only with his eyes, then returns to his coffee. He stirs the coffee in

slow circles.

Nina shifted in the plastic chair. She frowned at the sight of

her keepers through the chicken wired windows in the hospital as they

walked by. A thin man moved over to her. He carried a checker board

under his left arm and held a small box in his hands. His hair was gray

and thin and trimmed around his ears. His eyes darted back and forth.

"I bet you play. I thought, she'll play. Not many people around

to play with you know."

Nina looked up at the man, now shifting his feet. "Play?"

"Chess. You play chess?"

"I learned a long time ago. I'm terrible at it though."

"Maybe I could show you a few things."

Nina smiled, then it drifted from her lips. "Thanks. I can't now.

I'm waiting for my brother."

The man looked up at the ceiling. "Okay then. Okay."

The heavy door opened. Allen stood partly in shadow, speaking

with a man in a short white coat. He saw Nina at the end of the hall and

moved over to her.

"I've missed you." Nina embraced her brother. Allen noted the

gauze bandages still around her wrist and closed his eyes. He felt his

sister's shape pressing against him. "Doctor says I'll pull through

Allen." There was the tremble of frustration in Nina's voice.

"I brought photos for you to look at later, if you'd like."

"You know I love to see your work." She smiled and her hair fell

in front of her face. She flipped her head back. "Allen, you have a

cigarette?"

"Yeah." He fumbled in his coat. He handed her one and their blue

eyes met. "Here." The cigarette glowed as he lit it.

"Thanks, I haven't had a cigarette all day."

"I'll leave some money for you so you can buy them from the

machines."

"Thanks. So tell me about your life?"

"Just working on my book."

"Did you find a publisher yet?

"No, seems there are plenty of art photo books out there."

"It'll happen."

"Thanks Nina." Allen sighed a long sigh. There was silence then

as the man in the white coat passed again. "Can I sign you out for

lunch?"

"Probably still too early. It's only been a couple of days."

"Well, that's okay. Maybe next week then."

She walked to the window. Cars streaming in the bright daylight.

Tears fell down her face. "I hate this Allen."

He walked to her. "I know."

"It's all so complicated."

Allen had no words then. He pushed her hair out her face and

stood near her as the cars rushed by, under a bright sky. They stood in

the shadows of the third story room, behind the thick glass crisscrossed

with thin wires.

In the long hallway, the thin man sat at a table with his chess

board and pieces, a white pawn out in front. His first move. He waited.

A woman paced slowly, moving her lips, but remained silent. She walked

alone. The bright lights fell quickly into shadow. Allen stepped to the

glass and felt it. It was cold. It was as he imagined it would be. The

man in the white coat talked to an old woman. Head tilted to the side,

his hands gestured with quick movements. Allen looks back to Nina. The

man in the white coat moved further down the hall.

The photographs, curled at the edges, yellowed, sit in tall

stacks on the table near a cup of coffee. The coffee had grown cold.

Thin dark lines mark the white cup as the coffee sits there and disappears

over days, leaving only rings as it evaporates. Only the smallest marks

on the inside of the cup and Allen stands in the hallway. Eight steps to

the small wooden table, nine steps to the window, and ten steps to the

phone. It rings and Allen hears it like he hears his heart pounding after

a long run. A long run. He paces to the phone across the while tile,

cool under his bare feet. He answers and the man is talking then. He

pictures him in a short white coat talking softly into the mouthpiece.

Beat, beat, his heart pounds and the white daylight slants shadows across

the table and continues to the floor and a far wall.

"Thank you." Allen puts his thin hand on his face. "Yes, I'll

make arrangements. Good bye."

He sat at the table then, and waited for something to move.

darin ray smith.

_________________________________________

[\] drs 8005077656 drsmith3@csupomona.edu

http://home.earthlink.net/~godheadltd/

A Glossary of Literary Terms and A Handbook of Rhetorical Devices

Date: Sat, 07 Jun 1997 17:04:40 -0700

From: Bill Warman <wpwarman@csupomona.edu>

To: eng20103@csupomona.edu

Subject: Short Story

Message-ID: <3399F718.B23@csupomona.edu>

The Sirens

Bill Warman

"Those damn sirens," he thought as the needle broke 90. "They're

giving me a headache." This was pointless, and he knew it, but what was

he supposed to do. When someone is chasing you, you run. "Well, chalk

this up to yet another way that she's ruined my life."

The local news was in one helicopter overhead and the police had

dispatched another. They circled like vultures, as the fuel gauge

neared empty. He could keep going for a while. "Hmm," he thought.

"It's a lot different than when you see it on TV." It was.

It was far more rhythmic than the montage of on the scene reporters and

interviews you would see on a "special report". The sirens blended

together with the helicopter's chopping blades and it was almost like

the techno music she always listened to. She liked it because she

thought it was "European". She was always talking about "Europe" and

about all the things she had done. In fact, it was her stories that

first caught his attention. They would walk for hours winter quarter of

their junior year, and she would talk. She talked about the great

performances she gave as an actress at the community theatre when she

was 12, and about the wonderful reviews she had gotten. She talked

about how she much she hated high school and about how she was the only

"interesting" person on the pep squad. She talked about all the

projects she had done in her freshman year as an engineering major.

Now, she was undeclared.

The road kept moving under the car, he could feel it on the

floorboards. He was heading towards the desert, and the sun was

setting. Maybe he could make it to dawn, he thought. He always loved

dawn in the desert. It always reminded him of the trips he would take

to Arizona with his friends. The colors were always nice in the

mornings before the heat of the sun made the world too intense.

His friends always said that there relationship was a bad idea. He

remembered the camping trips. He always loved to fish. It was great to

be outdoors. Mountain air in the morning makes you feel alive. He

would ditch his friends for a while to hike alone. He never went that

far, and he always found his way back.

"But, that was then," he thought to himself, and turned the radio on.

They walked on the beach a lot late that spring. He had never been one

to walk on the beach. He preferred skin diving. Before he met her, he

would go with a lunch and a towel, and swim for hours in the cool, blue

water of the Pacific Ocean, bringing whoever he could find to go with

him. His favorite "buddy" was Jeff. Jeff was a great swimmer and knew

the coves and reefs even better than he did, but best of all Jeff could

survive on his own. Jeff never panicked. He was as calm as the water

on those perfect days when the visibility seems infinite. They would

explore on their own, and find each other every so often to compare

notes. They always seemed to lose track of time out there, drifting in

the currents, exploring the thousands of nameless reefs, sunk like

galleons off the coast.

He took her a few times, but she was always too cold, or too tired out

there. She always stayed right on the surface looking down on him

swimming below, exploring the reef. He would try to stay with her, but

sometimes he would lose sight of her for a minute. He found her again,

quickly.

"We're supposed to stay together," she would say in a frenzy "Don't you

ever leave me again. Do you hear me." He did, and he agreed. She

calmed down. He knew full well that they would lose track of each

other again, but she need to cling to something and a comforting lie can

be like a life vest.

After about twenty minutes, she would complain about how tired and cold

she was, and they would go in. She had a pool at her house and she

would talk about how much she loved to swim, and that they had spent

whole summers swimming in the pool when she was little. She would spend

the rest of the day laying out, while he fidgeted or walked to the tide

pools thirty feet away. He listened while a teacher explained something

to some class on a field trip. He would touch the anemones and make

them squirt, then, after a while, walk back when she was ready go. He

always came home sunburned when they went together. He never got

sunburned before. The whole way home she would talk about how much fun

they always had at the beach and how he never took her when he went

places. They stayed at his house until three and then she went home.

The lights bounced off the windshield punctuating the harmony of the

helicopters and police sirens. Red. Blue. Red. Blue. Red. It was

dark by now and the headlights proceeded the car with a saintly glow.

The road continued and he wondered if the media was tired of him yet.

It was always so dark in the desert at night. Not like in the suburbs

where she lived. No, in the suburbs and the day held on even after the

sun set. She always liked the suburbs. Everyone smiled at you when you

walked through the neighborhood, and all the houses lined up in a row.

They left for school at 7 in the morning with all the neighbors

smiling. This had been the routine for several months; she would stay

until 2 or 3 and they would be driving to school the next morning by 7.

He was exhausted, but she always started to cry if he said that he was

tired and that they should get some sleep. It wouldn't be so bad, he

thought, if we did something, went out somewhere, but they would just

lie around the house and watch TV. She had her daily screaming fits,

but at least they were usually in private. She would cry and say that

he didn't love her, and that he was going to leave her. He would fight

for a while, but she made no sense. How do you fight with someone who

just shouts random screams? He wondered if she even knew what she was

saying, and if he was the only one in the argument who cared. After a

while, he would give up and just say what he thought might pacify her

this time. Eventually, she would calm down and say that no one

understood her as well as he did, and how they were made for each

other. That felt good.

The quarter ended and summer began. He had a grant which more than

covered his living expenses, but he usually worked in the summer. Work

gave him something to do, and a little extra cash for the rest of the

year. This year, he never got around to applying for any jobs. His old

boss had offered him a job working in his office delivering mail and

running files all over the building. Bob, the guy who did the job the

rest of the year, always took the summers off. He was an old hippie,

who drove a battered Volkswagen bus. He would go on a road trip up

north every summer, sort of a pilgrimage to Haight-Ashbury. He went to

visit other old hippies, and complain about the nineties. He always

liked Bob, even though the others in the office laugh at him from their

cubicles.

It wasn't exactly fun work, but it beat working out in the summer heat,

and he didn't have a manager looking over his shoulder every second.

Sometimes, when it got slow, he could sneak into the break room and

read. He had worked there for the last 3 summers and they liked him.

He did a good job, so they always called him late in the spring, as soon

Bob would leave in a cloud of exhaust, Janis Joplin screaming over the

clacking of the engine.

But this year he told them he was going to summer school, which was a

lie. She had said there would be an opening with her dad's roofing

company for the summer. He would make more money. It sounded good, but

whenever he asked about it she would change the subject. In late July,

he finally gave up asking and resolved himself to a summer off.

They never went anywhere now. They just stayed at her house all day,

while her roommates were at gone, and at his apartment all night. He

lay in the sun, by the pool; by this time he was tanned to a dark

brown. The yard was small and very green. It was carefully mowed with a

solid fence enclosing it. He looked up at the mountains and the sky,

the clear blue sky. He had taken a world religions class once, a few

quarters back. He thought about the monks he had seen in a

documentary. They had this monastery deep in the mountains. They shaved

their heads to denounce the material world. They grew all their own

food and spent their days read from ancient wisdom and walking through

the woods. He spent his days reading the TV guide and sitting by the

pool. It was getting late and soon they would be driving across town to

his TV.

He walked inside to get something to eat and she was sitting in the

kitchen. They would eat and she would talk about what she had done that

day. He would smile and laugh at the appropriate times. He knew what

she had done that day. He was there. In fact, he didn't think there

was a single event from the last month that she could relate at which he

was not present. She cooked diner and he watched an old movie. He

hated old movies.

About August, he signed up for classes in the fall. Nothing

interesting. He used to love school. The classes were always great.

He even loved the general education classes that every one complained

about. Once he had liked all the classes and always had a tough time

deciding what to take. Sometimes he even thought about staying in school

for a while, postponing his graduation. As he sat remembering, he

suddenly realized she was staring at him, looking like she looked the

time she locked herself in the bathroom for two hours, looking like she

looked before she fell crying onto the floor. He knew that look by now

and he realized how sick of saving her he was. One of these days he was

going to leave her to the wolves of her own mind. Let them tear her to

pieces for a change. He was sick of being a Rodeo Clown for her,

distracting her demons while she ran to safety. All the pieces seemed

to fall together in that moment. He remembered all the garbage she had

put him through. He remembered what it was like to leave the house.

She said that she wanted to go out and get something to eat. He drove

the car, even through she resisted. He drove past the houses, all in a

row. He thought about her stories, and about how stupid they seemed

now. He thought about the job in the cool office, and about Bob back

from San Francisco by now playing The Doors on his Walkman as he

delivered mail. He thought about the summer, and the heat. He was angry

like he had never been before. He looked at his arm and wanted to flay

the tan skin off.

They broke up in a violent fury. They went to the park at the end of

her block, and on the swings, he told her. She threw him on the ground,

into the sand, crying. The lights were intense and surrounded the sand

pit, like a prison yard during an escape. He scrambled. She kicked.

When he turned over, still in the sand, her face eclipsed the harsh

white light, becoming a vacuum-like void. He could hear her crying

still in rage and contempt, like a child screaming at her parents in a

toy store. He got up and she charged him again, but this time he was

ready. He made a break for the car and she sat on the swing. He looked

in the rear view mirror saw his own dead eyes and her small, dark figure

still in the sand pit. He took one last look and swallowed the spite.

She sat in the spotlight, face in her hands, as if she were thinking. He

turned on the radio and drove home, his home, and went to sleep early.

He woke up late the next day. He packed his diving equipment and got

in the car. He stopped at a grocery store along the way to the beach to

buy some lunch. He brought 2 liters of water. The first thing you want

when you come in from the ocean is a bottle of cold, fresh water. The

sea was calm in the cove. The visibility was perfect and the water

cool. He swam out to the reef and the poked around the rocks, chasing

Garibaldi and getting lost in kelp forests. On the reef right below him

a starfish was eating a sea urchin and an octopus was trying to blend

into a rock, but he preferred to swim with the bright orange fish who

weren't afraid to swim up to a diver. They would even eat out of your

hand, if they were hungry. He spent the day swimming and in the early

afternoon left for home. There were 12 messages on the answering

machine. He hit delete without listening to them. He showered up and

rinsed the .....