Page created 11 Dec 2006 by blvdgirl
My applications are all coming due starting this week, so, of course, I've just finished my two stories for my writing sample. I am currently waiting for a package back from one of my recommenders (deR0ulet); if I get it tomorrow I will overnight stuff on Wednesday so it will arrive at the three schools that need/want it by Friday... If I don't get it from deR0ulet; I will overnight on Wednesday anyway and just mail his rec in late. In any case, there isn't time for major revision which is a pity because I'm sure much is needed. However, if you want to read and send me feedback, it would be very much appreciated. Also, which of the two should I put first?
(By posting these, I am procrastinating getting my statement(s) of purpose done...Stupid but definitely my way.)
Miranda's short escape to the mailbox ended in a disappointed slump on the front stoop, body leaning heavily forward over bent up knees, arms wrapping everything together tight. No mail at all today, not even a department store circular. Inside her mother hummed along with her sewing machine. Molly could hear the harmonic rumblings through the front window. Inside her mother worked, cheerfully ignorant of the desperate musings of her prodigal daughter, sadly returned home.
Four weeks and three days, Miranda considered. Four weeks and three days since she had finally conceded the fight and left the life that she had attempted: the life that had failed to be what she'd hoped for in every respect. And now what did she have? A gloating mother whose tight expression shouted ``I told you so'' with every word she uttered, a sad-eyed father whose inability to discuss anything with his daughter made his every gesture reproachful, and a nine-year-old son who asked her daily when they were going home.
Home. Miranda absently ran her fingers across the cement stoop. It slanted almost indiscernibly but determinedly towards her right. Funny, she thought, that in all the hundreds of sittings-mornings watching for the school bus, afternoons braiding and re-braiding her sister's hair, evenings watching fireflies and flirting with neighborhood boys-she'd never noticed the tilt. Perhaps some deep earth tremor had shaken it from level or perhaps erosion, but, she concluded that it was far more likely to be the result of quick, good-enough-for-now craftsmanship. After all, this neighborhood of single-family, cookie-cutter homes had never aspired to any false grandeur. They were good, clean, and working class. The bare minimum of minimum at affordable prices with kitchen curtains. She tried to recollect whether or not the porch had always been slanted, apparent from the beginning but imperceptible to her child-eyed self, but could decide nothing.
Home. Miranda took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, concentrating on the physical sensation of forcefully emptying her lungs. Inside, her mother's sewing stopped. Miranda didn't need a watch to know that the time must be 3:30. At the same time every afternoon, her mother would move from the den where she sewed to the kitchen where she'd prepare the evening meal. Then at 5:30 when her father arrived home from work, some warm delicious thing would adorn the table-it had been so every day of her childhood life and the maturation of two daughters apparently hadn't impeded the ritual. You should go inside, Miranda's conscience prodded, you should offer to help. But, the weight of her mother's judgement, real or imagined, frightened her, and Miranda kept her seat on the concrete, wrapping her arms around herself once again.
Three jolly dandelions peered up at her from the small oasis of grass between the house and the sidewalk, so cheeky and yellow that she felt suddenly as though they must be mocking her. ``Where were you yesterday?'' she whispered, her voice hanging small and flat in the thick March air. Where were you yesterday when the mailbox wasn't empty? Yesterday, before divorce papers, crisp and white, adorned my childhood desk?
Miranda had gone for the mail, and there they had been in an official brown envelope. And she had faltered. She had felt like one of those soldiers that you see in the movies-the ones that stumble into the barbed wire in the fog, the ones that the audience know with certainty will soon be nonchalantly shot by some unseen, distant enemy with a machine gun. All she could do was look at the postscript, her hand trembling.
She had made the mistake of taking the mail inside immediately, and her mother, a bloodhound for her suffering, had stopped her work and come to find her standing in the hall shaking like a lunatic. It was she who had opened the envelope, who had read the documents aloud, who after enunciating each passage with cold precision had carried them to Miranda's room and placed them on her desk which had held nothing so foreboding since her days of high school Algebra, and who had returned to Miranda, patted her on the shoulder absently, and stated brusquely, ``Well, that's that.''
Tears blurred Miranda's eyes. Well, that's that? Nine years spent trying to create a beautiful dream of a life, a life that she wanted desperately, and ``that's that'' was all the comfort her mother had to offer when that dream of a life was broken by the bitter reality of divorce papers?
But, she couldn't think of divorce papers; she didn't want to think of them; she wouldn't think of them. Not yet. Better to wonder at the smug dandelions. They wouldn't survive long, not in her mother's yard. Her whole life she had watched her mother wage a maniacal war against the flowers. ``They're not flowers-they're weeds '' An echo of her mother's voice corrected. Miranda had had many a white-headed dandelion ripped from her hands just as she'd pursed her lips to scatter the seeds ripe with her childhood wishes by her mother who'd ranted that they were a menace to fine yards everywhere. They didn't look like a menace to Miranda who'd watched enviously as other children blew the seeds loose into the air; to Miranda they looked like white-winged angels dancing on the wind.
Her father had been sympathetic. He had always been sympathetic. ``No dandelions to make wishes on, my darling girl? Well, don't you cry now. How about we take a walk together?'' When she was small, walking with her father had always made her feel better, no matter what the trouble had been to begin with. They'd walk together and point out things that they saw to one another. He was a man of few words, but he always saw the things around him with astounding clarity. And, as they'd walk he'd make Miranda laugh with stories about the antics of squirrels or trees or the other people that they'd see. Of course, when Miranda reached high school, the walks tapered off by her choice. And, as her disagreements with her mother had increased in both frequency and severity, her father had withdrawn behind his sad, sympathetic eyes and wry half-smiles of encouragement.
Starting at a noise, Miranda looked up. A harsh, lonely sound that reminded her of the cry of a very young child in pain filled her senses and triggered her nerves to be on alert. Her son, Andy, had made a similar sound when he'd fallen from a slide and broken his wrist at his fifth birthday party. She hoped against hope that the sound wasn't coming from him. As if her fears had summoned him, her son suddenly appeared around the street corner looking both well and whole. Her muscles relaxed minutely, and she self-consciously wiped her eyes, hoping to erase the tears that she'd almost shed.
He was walking with two bigger boys and, in his hand, Miranda saw that he was swinging a plastic shopping bag in circles, slowly up and over his head and around and around again. A faint smile arose at the familiarity of the sight; she'd always been fascinated and awed by the physics of centrifugal motion. As a child, she had experimented with it for hours, swinging purses and baskets and water buckets over her head, always delighted and amazed at the result-nothing ever fell out: not pennies or fruit or water. Like mother, like son; she surmised.
She thought that the two older boys might belong to the Hansens across the street. Her mother may have mentioned them at dinner some night, but, for the life of her, Miranda couldn't remember what had been said. Still, looking at the contented smile on Andy's face, Miranda was thankful to them for walking with him home from school and delighted that he seemed to be making friends so easily. After all, he was a shy child.
These complacent musings were interrupted by the ear-scratching shriek again and again her body responded, ready to act. Then, she saw it, and her heart clenched within her chest as anger and disappointment replaced both gratitude and delight. She saw movement in the shopping bag and a glimpse of what appeared to be orange fur.
``Andrew Jason McCormick '' she shouted as she leapt to her feet. Running down the sidewalk, she watched a series of emotions flit across her son's face-surprise at seeing her, wonder at her charging towards him, and fear of her sudden anger-he was her book to read. Reaching him, she grabbed the arm with the bag still swinging. ``We do not treat animals this way '' her voice was grating and shrill. ``Never Never Ever '' His face was white as he looked from her to the bag and back again.
She tore the bag from his fingers as he stared at her, his mouth agape. Deftly, she opened the bag and reached a too-ready hand inside to rescue the mewling tangle of what she surmised must be an unwitting stray, but the traumatized animal, knowing neither friend nor foe, was prepared to take advantage of any opportunity and quickly seized Miranda's wrist with extended claws and pulled through the skin on both sides of her arm. ``Damn it '' she swore, dropping the bag. At her feet, the white plastic twisted. A lithe and tawny tomcat emerged, hissed with general disapproval at the lot of them, and bolted away. Already, blood was rising from the scratches on both sides of Miranda's wrist. She clumsily clutched at the cuts with her other hand.
``What on earth were you boys thinking?'' she asked the three boys, her voice pleading and her eyes tear-filled. The two Hansen boys eyed her with stoic disdain; her son was starring wide-eyed at the red rivulets evading the grasp of her hand and running merrily down her arm. ``What? You should all be ashamed of yourselves for treating a helpless creature that way '' Her head was fuzzy, the shock of the scratches trying to overtake her, but she knew these were the words she must say. She was the mother, and she had a responsibility to teach, to impress upon her son that, that-Oh, damn Her wrist felt like fire.
The oldest Hansen boy scoffed. ``Who the hell are you? You're not my mother to tell me what not to do.'' He plucked his brother's sleeve and rolled his eyes. ``Come on,'' he said.
As Andy watched the two boys retreat, his pale-face shifted from concern for his mother to despair at his abandonment to indignation at and disgust with the cause of that abandonment. He glared at Miranda, his father's dark eyes radiating anger fiercer than her son's boyish features should permit. ``I hate you '' His words stung like wasps.
Miranda stood on the street corner squeezing her wrist and staring at the spot where her child had stood, dripping blood onto the white bag that still lay near her feet, squeezing tightly in an effort to hold everything together. She heard his footsteps slapping on the pavement, she heard the door of her parent's house slam, and she heard his words repeating again and again in her head. ``I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!'' Like daughter, like son; she recognized reluctantly.
She stood there for many minutes, before she felt a light hand on her shoulder. Her mother was there. Looking at Miranda's wrist, her mother made a grimace and a tisk sound. ``Those look deep. You should go inside and clean them.'' Then she paused, trying to read something in her daughter's face. Shaking her head almost imperceptibly she continued, ``There's a roast in the oven. Could you watch it for me? Andy and I are going to go for a walk.'' Miranda's eyes went wider and whatever color was left in her cheeks disappeared. ``Miranda?'' her mother's voice wavered. ``Miranda?''
Miranda grasped her wrist still tighter and squared her shoulders. She sighed audibly. ``Yes, Mother. Yes, I will watch the roast while you and Andy go for a walk.'' Then, looking directly at her mother's face, she tried to put on a smile. ``I just need another minute alone, ok?
Her mother nodded and then was gone. Miranda stood listening for the sounds that would indicate that the house was empty, safe for her return, and, as she waited, she mumbled in resignation to herself, ``Well, that's that.''
Paul Wilson, thirty-eight, sits elbows-on-knees examining his Styrofoam cup of vending machine coffee. The two a.m. bustle of St. Katherine's Emergency Room proceeds to go on around him business-as-usual. If he'd check the clock on the wall near the nurses' station, he'd see that he'd been contemplating his coffee for exactly twenty-seven minutes without really seeing it and without taking a swallow. It was now decidedly cold. He had been holding it for too long.
Too long. The thought lingers, an empty echo in Paul's mind as he waits restlessly for Sheriff Rodriguez to arrive. He'd called the sheriff himself to report the party and to ask him that to come down to the hospital. Cal had agreed, saying he'd be over as soon as he got the party in hand. That had been twenty eight minutes ago. The coffee in the cup is motionless; his hands are steady.
High-pitched and startling, a woman's voice causes Paul to look up. He sees his neighbor, Darlene, yelling at the senior nurse on duty. She has left work early to come here. Dressed in her aquamarine dress and a red cardigan sweater, her name tag is still attached. Darlene looks near hysterics as she gestures wildly to the confused nurse and continues to form words that come out as incoherent noises. Paul rises from the waiting room chair, his left knee aching from a long-ago injury, and strides over. Slowly, so as not to scare her, he touches her arm. She turns and, seeing him, floods into his arms crying out, ``Where is she? How is she? Oh, where is my baby? I want to see my baby.''
``Shhhh,'' he soothes her, rocking her back and forth like a child. ``She's here. She's here. You can see her soon. The doctor is with her now. She's going to be okay.'' His voice is calming and confident, but, as he says it, his heart pounds and his pulse rises. Fear grabs at him from the inside out, fear for his own baby who isn't here, his own baby who's lost. He'd promised her mother he'd find her. He'd promised her, and he'd promised himself. He'd gone looking, but, all he'd found was her sweater and a bastion of trouble.
Paul intentionally slows his breathing as he comforts Darlene. It's an effort to cool his nerves and to steady himself, and he certainly doesn't want to frighten her anymore than he already has. He remembers hearing a sob catch in her throat when he told her that he'd brought her daughter down to St. Katherine's, a slight sound that resounded across the distance of the phone call. A sound that he recognized as identical to his own fear. He pats her back gently. Her tears are sinking into his shirt. Incidently, he wishes he wasn't sober.
He rocks her gently for a while, until she pulls herself together, releases her hold on him, and runs a hand over her falling ponytail. Her dark roots are beginning to show, the false blond fading. ``Thank you,'' she croaks, her voice hoarse from the crying.
``You're welcome,'' he replies. He is watching her carefully-single-mother, far too young for her burdens. She is still crying, but it is quiet and controlled. He tries to offer her a reassuring smile as he asks, ``Tom let you off early?'' Over the phone, she'd told him that her boss was going to keep her until the end of her shift at four. Paul had told her he would wait with Sierra until her arrival, even with his own daughter to find, he couldn't leave Sierra on her own in the hospital, not with what she'd been through.
Darlene straightens her shoulders, ``Tom can kiss it where the sun don't shine. I told him that I was coming down here no matter what, and then he told me that I was fired.'' Paul moves as if to say something at this revelation, but Darlene holds up her hand. ``Don't worry. He won't really fire me. He needs the help, and no one else will take the night shift.'' She looks back at the nurse's station. ``And now, would you please take me to see my baby?''
``Sure thing.''
Calvin Rodriguez is talking with a doctor at the nurse's station when Paul returns to the waiting area. The Sheriff is jotting down notes on a pad of paper. He gestures that Paul should have a seat for a moment. Paul does so, folding into an orange plastic chair, his mind scurrying through the events of the night, events that he will not be proud to recount. It had all gone wrong, he knows and it isn't what he'd intended, but, thinking it through, he doesn't know what he'd have done differently.
Sheriff Rodriguez finishes his conversation with the doctor and casts his eyes to where his friend sits. This is going to be one hell of a story, he thinks, but not a good one. Pushing aside his discomfort, he approaches his friend. ``Paul,'' he begins, ``There's an office behind the nurse's station that we can use.'' His friend looks up, nods, and rises to his feet. He is resigned to tell his tale and get it over with, Cal surmises with satisfaction.
Together the two men head into a small office used for billing during the day. Cal takes a seat behind the desk and removes a small tape recorder from his pocket. ``Do you mind?'' he asks as Paul takes the seat opposite him at the desk.
``Nah. It's easier I suppose.'' Then, shrugging his shoulders he adds, ``Saves both you and me the trouble of trying to write everything down.''
``Actually, I'll probably still have to write it all down, if either of the families decides to press charges, but this still makes it easier.'' He studies his friend. ``You need anything before we get started?''
``I could use a drink.'' Paul tries play it off as a joke, but both men know that he's serious.
``I could get you a coffee.''
``Nah.'' Paul studies his hands. ``Let's just do this.''
Cal nods. ``Ok,'' he says as he presses record, ``Let's get started. The following is a statement by Paul Wilson regarding the events of the night of Wednesday, October 4, 2006.'' He smiles in an attempt to reassure his companion. ``Go ahead, Paul.''
Paul takes a moment to compose his thoughts and begins. ``I was coming home from work. I'm an engineer with the railroad, and I'd been away for four days this time. When I pulled up at the house, Cheryl was sitting on the front porch crying. So, I parked in the drive and jumped out of the car real quick to find out what was wrong.''
It had been a long week, and Paul had been looking forward to a quiet night at home. He'd wanted a home-cooked meal and the arms of his wife and the comfort of his mattress. But, when he'd pulled up to the trailer, he'd seen Cheryl on the steps crying, and it looked like none of those things would be fast in coming. ``Honey, what's wrong?'' He asked squatting down before her despite the protestations from his bad knee. ``What's the matter?''
She brushed her knuckles across her eyes and under her nose. ``Grace is gone '' she spurted out between sniffs and sobs. ``She ran off just a few minutes ago... She was supposed to stay here... She's grounded... We had a fight... And, she left... She drove off.''
Paul looked at his wife's splotchy face and saw frustration and fear intermingled there. ``Cheryl, you're gonna have to calm down. I can't understand you. What happened?''
Cheryl took one big breath and slowly let it out. Then, she started over. ``I got a call this morning from the sheriff-you know, your friend, Cal-telling me that they had Gracie down at the station. She and her friend, Sierra, had been ditching school to go shopping, except they weren't shopping-they were shop-lifting.'' Cheryl looked at Paul and put a steadying hand on his arm as she watched his face fill up with anger.
``Then what?'' he asked trying to keep his voice level.
``Well, then, I went over and picked her up. I took her over to the school, and we had a meeting with her counselor. Apparently, she's been missing a lot of school lately and her grades are bad. So, I told her that I expected her to ride the school bus home and that we'd talk more after school, and she did. She did ride the bus home, so I thought that we'd be okay and that we'd be able to talk it out. But, when I told her that she was grounded, she had a fit and started yelling about how I was unfair. Then, she stormed into her room and slammed the door. And, then, I left her there, thinking that she was just mad, but that it'd be okay and that she'd come out for dinner and just be mad, like a normal teenager. So, I let her be and I started cleaning the kitchen-you know how I get when I'm mad-and I started work on dinner when all of the sudden I hear a car honk. It was real loud, louder than you'd hear from the road, so I went to the window, and I see Gracie climbing into a truck and driving away before I can even get outside. So, I ran out the door and chased the truck down the drive and screamed and waved, but it didn't stop. And, here I am and here you are and Gracie's... Gracie's gone.''
Cheryl's story had been punctuated with gestures and sobs, and Paul had listened to her until she was done. His face was pomegranate red and his hands were clenched into fists. His fourteen-year-old daughter had ditched school, had shoplifted, had disappeared, and had made her mother cry-boy, did that little girl have a lesson coming when he found her. He stood resolutely.
Cheryl, seeing the steel in his eyes, asked hesitantly, ``What are you going to do?
``I'm going to go find her is what I'm going to do. I am going to go find her and bring her home, and she is going to be in a heap of trouble.'' He questioned his wife, ``This truck that she left in, what'd it look like?''
``Um,'' Cheryl pondered, ``It was big and red, and it looked brand new.''
``And the driver?''
``The driver was a boy.''
``A boy?''
Cheryl pursued her lips for a moment, considering. Then, she added, ``He had dark hair.''At this, Paul sighed and shook his head, looking nonplused at his wife, so she continued, ``I know that's not much to go on, but it's the best I can do. I wasn't thinking that I'd have to describe him or his truck. I was too busy yelling for them to stop and too busy worrying about what was happening to notice any of those things.''
Paul turned on his heel and headed back towards his truck. He called back over his shoulder, ``Don't you worry, Cheryl. I'll find her, and I'll bring her home. I promise.''
Paul drove down all the major streets in the town. It wasn't a large town, and, on a Wednesday evening, things tended to be slow. He saw no sign of a new red truck cruising through the streets which meant that they must be parked somewhere. He redirected his attention from the commercial to the residential blocks. Up and down streets and around corners he drove, trying to keep his cool and hold his head together.
After two hours of driving, he found it by chance. Following a stray dog, he turned up a little-used dirt road and spied a large house that was buried in cars. He parked along the side of the street and walked past row upon row of vehicles towards the front door. Mid-way up the drive, he spotted a new, red truck. He crossed over to it and peered in the windows. There was a black sweater on the cab seat that might have been Gracie's, but he couldn't be sure.
Looking at the imposing brick house, Paul thought that he had a pretty good idea about what he'd find inside. After all, he had gone to high school, and it didn't seem like that long ago. But, stepping through the doorway, he realized that something had changed in the interim-him. He was an adult and a parent, and his eyes evaluated the mayhem that suddenly surrounded him suspiciously. It was loud and dark, and it smelled like cheap beer. Some kid's parents were going to be none too pleased when they got back from wherever it was they'd gone, he thought to his own surprise, and his anger, which had festered during his long search, flared at the apparent disrespect born into every teenager in the universe.
His appearance in the room had disturbed noone. There were kids all around him, but none had appeared to notice his entrance. He aggressively collared a tall, gangly boy as he walked past. The kid paled when he felt himself jerked eyeball to eyeball with a stern-faced adult and felt a wiry grip on his shoulders and collarbone. ``I'm looking for my daughter,'' the man said, his fingers tightening.
``Ok. Geez! Lighten up on the grip,'' said the kid sarcastically, trying to save face in case anyone was watching, only the size of his eyes revealed his fear. Paul could smell the diluted fragrance alcohol on the kid's breath. ``Come on, man, that hurts. Ok. Ok. Who's your daughter?''
``Grace. Grace Wilson.''
``Grace Wilson. I don't think I know her.'' The kid's eyes moved wildly around the entryway searching for help of some kind, but the two of them could have been invisible for all of the attention that they were getting. The kid's voice took on a slightly more desperate tone. ``Um. I really don't think I know her, man.''
``Then, the kid with the red truck? The new Dodge?'' Paul's voice was cold.
His captive visibly relaxed; it seemed that he had this information, ``Todd? Todd Moore? Man, that is a sweet truck! Um, Todd's probably in one of the back rooms.'' The kid indicated a hallway over his left shoulder with a movement of his head.
``In one of the back rooms?''
``Yeah, you know, in one of the bedrooms.'' Probably due to the assumption that his captor would free him based on this surrender of information, the kid was regaining his nonchalance and with it his stupidity. ``Lucky guy, if you know what I mean...''
Paul's eyes narrowed and the kid's eyes widened at the horror of what he had just insinuated. The hostage quickly attempted to backtrack, perhaps in fear for the consequences to himself if he was labeled traitor. ``Wait! Hold on! My mistake, Todd doesn't drive a red truck. I don't know what I was thinking. Todd, in-the-backroom-Todd, drives a blue truck. A blue Dodge-that's why I got confused.'' The kid swallowed hard. ``Grace, you said? Did you check in the den?''
A brief and furious search up the hallway of backrooms followed this conversation. Most of the rooms that Paul found were momentarily vacant though he did upset one couple in a mutual state of undress, but, then, he encountered a locked door and, from within, he heard a muffled cry. Using his shoulder, he burst into the room and, in a second motion, strong-armed a muscular kid off of the bed, throwing him towards the far wall. At the moment when the kid hit the dresser and the resounding pop of a shoulder dislocating filled the air, Paul registered the simple fact that the girl on the bed was not his daughter.
``That all?'' Cal asks.
``That's all.'' Paul replies as he wearily rubs his eyes. ``After that, there ain't much more to tell. I loaded both kids up in my truck and brought them down here. I called you. I called their parents. I called my wife.'' He pauses, considering his predicament. ``So, what do you think? Are the Moores gonna press charges?''
``Hard to say at this point. I imagine that they're waiting to find out what the little girl's mother is going to do. After all, their son is up for a track scholarship to State, and the last thing that he needs right now is this kind of publicity. Do you think that she'll press charges?''
Paul shakes his head slowly. ``I doubt it. I think she should, but I don't imagine that Darlene is going to want to deal with this whole mess for any longer than she has to. She'll probably try to act like nothing's happened at all.''
The Sheriff looks disturbed by this. ``If she were my daughter, that kid would be facing some serious prison time...''
``Well,'' Paul nearly succeeds at a wry smile, ``We already know what that kid would be facing if it were my daughter.'' The smile left his face, ``So, it'll be an assault charge, right?''
Cal nodded. It wouldn't be Paul's first, both men knew.
The two men sat in silence together. Both of them were contemplating possible outcomes-either the boy's parents would press charges or they wouldn't. Neither option was good. Neither would feel just.
A nurse interrupts their reflections; she knocks lightly on the doorframe. ``I'm sorry to disturb you,'' she says, a cheerful smile firmly fixed in place, ``But your wife just called, Mr. Wilson. She wanted me to tell you that your daughter is at home and that she's safe.''
``Grace is at home? How'd she get there? Did my wife say how she got there?''
``Your wife said that she walked home.''
Surprise and relief animate Paul's features, ``Thank you.''
Cal, too, is relieved, relieved that at least one child has made it through the night seemingly unscathed, and he is glad for his friend.
The nurse leaves, and Paul looks over at Cal. ``That house was a good ten miles from mine. Ten miles.'' Wonder is apparent in his voice. ``They must have been a cold and lonesome ten miles.''
Paul Wilson, thirty-eight, enters his home, silently removing his coat and his boots by the door. The television is on, adorning the walls and the furniture with a dance of gray-blue light. It's muted; the late night reruns play silently for an absent audience. He leaves it as is. The VCR clock says that it's nearing five in the morning. Paul is exhausted.
Moving cautiously, he approaches his bedroom door which is slightly ajar and looks inside. Moonlight from a high window surrounds two figures in the full-size bed, his wife and his daughter. The mother's arms are around the girl and there are mascara marks on their cheeks and pillows. All of Paul's rage and resentment are gone, all that had failed to fade with the passing hours and his growing fatigue cannot rival this scene; it bows out gracefully. Paul is content to see his girl home in one piece-he thinks of her friend, Sierra, and shivers.
Moving quietly, Paul walks back across the living room to the sofa. Finding the remote in a cushion, he turns off the gray voiceless images. He lies down carefully, his body heavy, soaked in tiredness. Cal will call him, he knows, when something is decided. There is nothing more that he can do at the moment. He pushes aside the wrestling thoughts of doubt and guilt, and gradually, very gradually, he accepts the peace and relief of sleep.
I overnighted my first three applications today. I still didn't have my third letter of rec, but I figured I'd get everything else in on time. Two of today's schools required a critical writing sample, so I spent most of last night brushing up something from college. It worked pretty darn good, if I do say so myself--I wish that creative writing was as easy for me as critical writing, but, if it was, what would be the point of going to school for it?
I really liked both stories. I think I like the first one better... but they're both really cool. I think that "postscript" in the first story should be "postmark," maybe?Anyway, very cool. Thanks for posting.
(gumbling) I didn't want to go to the University of Michigan anyway....
By the way, pedro--thanks. You're right, it should most definitely be "postmark", and, tragically, there are some tense errors in the second story. Evidence that waiting until the last minute is/was stupid as there is nothing that can be done about the errors now... Hopefully, the readers won't be red-penning anything; hopefully, they will see promise rather than mistakes.
(And hopefully the Princton Review people who designed the stupid embark application system will get inexplicable rashes...)
Received rejection #1 in the mail yesterday. Looks like I will not be attending George Mason next year. They were a bit early as I wasn't expecting to hear anything until the end of March. At the moment, I'm not too disappointed. Obviously, I would be have been stoked to have my first response be an acceptance, fragile ego and all that, but I keep telling myself that there are still 7 schools out there that haven't rejected me...yet.
I applied 6 places. I got four rejections. Then I got a wait list letter. Then I got a phone call from the sixth place asking me if I had considered their offer (which I had never received). I accepted on the phone. Two weeks later I got an old wait list letter from them that had been bouncing around between my old residences. I don't think I ever got the offer letter. After I was at 1rvine a year I got up the nerve to ask about the wait list letter and the professor I asked (one of the two full time people) said he didn't think I'd been waitlisted, that that must have been a mistake. So sometimes it's a mystery...even to them.
I got two more rejections today (actually, four envelopes, but three were from the same school--I guess they wanted to do it thoroughly.), so I can scratch Cornell and University of Illinois off the list... Thanks Amy for your reminiscence above--it makes my three rejections seem a little less hopeless. Though I am still a bit sad, feeling unwanted, untalented, etc. (And, I'm cursing my decision not to submit that ninth application...)
you should just show up and demand to be let in. show em you're a go-getter. might work.
at least that would be consistent with the consumerist nature of today's America and today's educational system.
A, it is very hard to do what you are doing, but it is the other part of writing--trying to have an audience. You are trying to get into MFA programs but it just as well could be you trying to get something published. I think you should consider two things:1.Writing is a lot of work. By your own admission you haven't put the work into your stories that you could. If you don't get in this year then you can keep working on your writing and try again next year. It is what people have to do when they are trying to get published. Related to the fact that writing is work is the fact that writing makes you a better writer. It is simply not the case that your best ever product is being put out now and that if you don't get in this year you won't the next. If you try a few times, each submission will be much better than the last.
2.You have already done more than most people do. Lots of people wish they were in an MFA program or wish they were published, but they don't do anything about it. One big reason is that they are afraid of failure. Just the fact that you are going through this now means you are far ahead of all the people who just sit on their work, wishing somehow it would magically appear in the pages of a journal they admire. So you should be proud of yourself for your bravery and keep following this trajectory.