One Event: Two Stories

I found another writing exercise from the fiction writing techniques course. This time I remember what the instructor asked of us. She wanted us to recall an event from our early childhood and write down what we remembered and how we felt about it, all from our perspective as children. We were asked to then write about that same event from our adult perspective. I chose to write about a man I remember seeing at the bottom of a flight of stairs one night when I couldn't have been any older than four years old. Years later, I asked my mother about that night and the gaps she filled in for me blew my mind.
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According to a child:

There was loud knocking on the door one night. Mama got up from the table where she read her books and opened up the door. A nice lady that came by the house all the time started laughing and pulled on Mama’s arm to come outside with her. Mama told me to stay there in the living room and then she left with the lady. I was so scared because I heard noise outside, people were opening up their doors and coming outside like Mama had done. I waited a little while then opened the door anyway and went outside too. Our apartment was right next to the stairs that went down to where the big tree was. People stood at the top of the stairs and looked down. There was a dead man laying down there. He looked like the dead people that were on tv and had some leaves in his hair. He had on some jeans and was laying on his back. There was a man standing over the dead man pushing him but he wouldn’t move. The lights on the side of the building were shining down on him and I saw that his eyes were closed and his mouth was open. He had a lot of hair on his face. More people came up behind me to look. People just stood around looking at him. Mama and the woman were still talking like nothing was wrong. I was so scared. Mama saw me and started yelling at me to go back into the apartment. Mama stayed gone for a long time and I sat on the couch watching the flashing lights on the curtain. I was so scared because Mama was still out there with the dead man. When she finally came back in she told me to go to bed, but I kept asking her what had happened. But she just kept saying that I was too young to know. I had a nightmare about that man because he was so close to our front door and he was dead.

According to an adult:

My mother was up late studying at her desk in the living room of our off-campus apartment. I was sitting on the couch doing whatever it is that only children do to occupy themselves. I heard a commotion outside and then a frantic knock at the front door. My mother rushed to open it and there stood her friend and neighbor who always came by to visit us. She was laughing and practically pulled my mother outside; it made my mother laugh too. My mother told me to stay put, and I really did try, but I was such an anxious child and rarely listened to her warnings. I stood at the closed door for a few moments while listening to the hurried footsteps and excited verbal exchanges on the other side. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore and opened the door, peeked my head outside, and looked to my left where the stairway and the people were. We were on the top level of the two-level building. Being such a small child, everyone seemed like giants. I didn’t spot my mother right away. I made my way between the denim clad legs until I made it to the top of the stairs and was able to look down to see what held everyone’s gaze. It was a man in a contorted pose, mouth agape, with leaves and debris in his hair. I remember being very frightened at the sight of this man. At my young age, I thought that he was dead, what child wouldn’t think it, he was lying there motionless with someone standing over him poking him. It took years for the memory of this night to return to me and for me to ask my mother if I was finally old enough to know what happened that night, and for her to tell me exactly who that man was. She laughed and told me that she couldn’t believe that I remembered that, I couldn’t have been any older than two and a half years old she said. My mother said his name was Smitty, a university police officer that had actually just left our apartment along with her friend and neighbor. I’m amazed that I didn’t remember my mother having company, only she and I having a quiet evening at home. Smitty, who had a tendency to drink in excess, and the neighbor left leaving my mother to continue her studies. Some time later, as he walked down the stairs, he tripped and fell to the ground below, and during the tumbling, picked up some debris. It wasn’t a dead man that I remembered, just a man who had passed out from an over indulgence in alcohol.

A Little Respect in a Big World

Hello all, I know it's been a minute, I'm sorry. That thing called life sidetracked me. Tonight while searching for a document on my hard drive, I came across one of my writing exercises for a fiction writing techniques course I took in 2007. I don't remember what the instructor asked us to write about, but whatever it is, this is what I came up with. A story about a petty boss. What do you think?
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A Little Respect in a Big World

I learned too late of the harsh upbringing of our new boss. Had I known before he arrived, I could have warned the others so that things could have turned out differently. If we had known, perhaps now we’d be able to endure the day without periodically excusing ourselves to go outside to contemplate whether or not to return to our desks to resume the tiring, thankless, dreary, confidence shattering hours that define our workday under Mr. Boss’s reign.

But how could we have known that his father, a well respected and tough as nails state prosecutor, upon hearing of his son’s desire to one day follow in his dad’s footsteps, told him that due to his height he would never be effective in the courtroom, that jurors and judges would side with authority figures, men they could respect. That people didn’t respect short men and that law school was not an investment he’d be willing to make for his son who’d be better suited for business and sales. And how was this cruel father to know that those words would drive his son to despise himself and to develop superior intimidation skills to mask his inner turmoil. And that this negativity, like a foul and persistent odor, would remain with all he encountered.

Kevin Richard Boss strode into our 6^th floor editorial office one morning last May with a bloated chest and an expressionless boyish face. He stood there and surveyed us, his new underlings, with the same intimidating glare as an established prison yard bully. We knew the new boss was starting that day, but were caught off guard by this dramatic entrance. Since we’d never spoken a word to this man, his assertion seemed uncalled for and looked absurdly animated. I initially thought that this could be his way of breaking the ice and making us laugh. I wanted to and almost did, but then realized as I studied the coldness in his eyes, that this man, our new leader, was not there to entertain us but had drifted in from the outside to forever change the atmosphere of our cozy little home away from home. The others, Patricia, Tamela, Mike, Judy and Nesim didn’t seem to pick up the vibe that I had. I saw in their eyes, and so did he, a slight amusement at a harmless sourpuss, a tiny man standing not an inch over 5’2 and weighing not a pound over 135; the snug fit of his pinstriped slacks and the rolled up sleeves of his dress shirt only drawing attention to his diminutive stature. He didn’t bother to introduce himself, not that day anyway, continuing on to his office and quietly closing the door so that only a slice of light from his office shone onto the dark hallway carpet.

“I wonder who he’s riding at the Preakness this year?” Pat, our resident comedian, blurted inappropriately. Oh how I wished she’d exercised restraint, all of us really. We laughed and howled and stomped our feet, I perhaps the loudest of them all, at my mental image of him hunched over on top of a speeding streak of brown and black. No one but me seemed to hear fists suddenly slam down on the desk in the boss’ office or notice that the slice of light had vanished from the carpet.

He’d heard our mockery, and if I recall correctly, a collective laugh hasn’t been shared amongst us about anything since.

One year later, here we sit on a Tuesday afternoon, tired from the long hours of the previous two weeks and hungry for food that we were promised but will not receive. Kevin liked to play tricks on us, well that’s how Tamela, the editorial assistant described it. Like today for instance, we smell him eating pizza. Yesterday he told us that today lunch would be on him if his favorite team, the Cavaliers lost a game to the Suns. I blame myself for us not eating pizza today, as I got a little too comfortable with the ‘good natured’ ribbing that ensued and laughed that Cleveland sucked. I and a few others joked that the Phoenix Suns would kick the Cavaliers’ butts. And they did. Like a fool, I believed Kevin would own up to what he promised. I opened the two liter orange soda I’d bought to drink with our pizza, while Mike, our graphics guy, walked down to Hooters to pick up the wings and fries that we agreed to share. But all we could do was rub our bellies to contain the hunger as the delivery guy walked past us with only one medium pizza and headed straight to Kevin’s office.

The End

I'm In Love Again....Yes, This is About Music

I want to introduce you to Stalley. I'm "feeling him" right now. I first heard him on a track with Curren$y called "Address" and was very intrigued by his beard, his smooth flow, and calm delivery. His rhymes made sense. And so I listened. Tonight, I found myself in need of something to mellow me out. I have a project I'm working on and needed something to put in the mood. Not for love or romance, but to help me interpret the written word. I went looking for Stalley and to my surprise found some good tracks to share. He seems to be a conscious thinker, which I love, and his producer has found the right beats to accompany his style.
[Editor's note: Stalley, are you single? If not, will you consider becoming my husband? Let's talk offline. Thanks in advance.]

Here's "Wet Dreams," in which he asks his love interest what she can do for him besides turn him on physically. Wow, not just taking what's offered, but asking, "what else can you do?"





And here's "Babblin," where he visits New Orleans to commemorate the 5th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. He's accompanied by Jay Electronica and Curren$y, who both rep the Crescent City and are two of my faves.




Don't worry, I'll be back with some more musings of an editor, writer, and storyteller. I'm tied up this week with something though, but I will deliver to you.

Thanks for visiting, and if you're a lover of hip-hop, show my man Stalley some love.