Shai

got your attention? here goes



Coffee

He stepped into the coffee shop, the same one he had started his day off with for the past eight years. The Mexican lady behind the counter never learned English in that time, but she did know that he liked his coffee with sugar, and milk on the side. He paid and took his morning drink with no smile, without even looking up.

The street outside was empty. In the distance he could make out the pastelled silhouettes of the rolling hills he had moved there for. He had loved to get lost, both physically and mentally, in those hills. Those were the hills on which he had mastered his own brand of meditation: where he was able to, by completely clearing his mind and concentrating intensely, separate his physical world, that shallow world of animal instincts, wants, and needs, completely from the world of his mind and spirit.

He stood there, outside of the coffee shop, staring at those hills. He had never tasted coffee so bitter. There was something too, about the Styrofoam cup in his hand that irritated him. What the hell was it made from anyway? He couldn’t even begin to imagine what it was exactly, or what disgusting mechanical process it took to change whatever the ingredients were to the final product. If there was a devil, he was sure that it was Satan himself who made Styrofoam.

It took a tremendous amount of effort to start his walk to work. His only comfort was the knowledge that in nine hours he would be able to go home and sleep.


Jonathan Dayton High School looked prestigious from the outside. Inside, three quarters of the lockers were vacant, the bathroom had been de facto converted into smoking lounges, and according to the graffiti on the walls Kenny G. was not a famous alto saxophone player (he couldn’t be, he only graduated in ’87). This is where he worked. He always thought his position as gym teacher gave him the most real view of the kids. Not even the parents, especially not the parents, knew how these kids really thought. Some days it would make him happy. Nothing was more enjoyable to see than a bunch of kids playing basketball, or a group of girls giggling at some boy they liked. It was cheesy, he knew that, but he loved those days. Lately though, the days were not like those good days. Lately, the days were filled with disgust and headaches. Giddy girls were at once shallow creatures shaped by The O.C. or whatever show the kids liked these days. A group of them, he was sure, would go out and spend fifteen dollars on some small salad that they’d all share for fear of becoming fat. And he knew the kids playing basketball would rather be doing drugs or fighting or even touching themselves at home, and on these bad days he wanted the same thing.

There was one person he liked more than the others at the school. But even then there were days when he just could not handle any meaningless bullshit conversation, even with her. She was a biology teacher and her name was Glenda. In class she had a subtle sense of humor that was only understood by a quarter of her students and even less of the faculty. To most of the students and the teachers though, Glenda was just a small awkward woman that knew every bird call in the state of New Jersey and could list the top three most prevalent enzymes in a newts liver (and the variations in that list depending on where the newt was from).

But where others saw nerdy over enthusiasm for science, he saw passion. His conversations with Glenda had never reached topics of God or spirit, but he was sure she thought about these things. Every chance he had he snuck away from the smelly locker rooms he was in charge of to talk to the woman. Glenda didn’t mind his company, but she didn’t find it overly enjoyable either. And sometimes, though she knew it was sophomoric, she was embarrassed to be seen with him. She knew, and the kids knew, that he was just a high school gym teacher.

Arriving home he wondered if he was the only twenty seven year old to have a mid life crisis. Every passion he used to have had collected dust, especially the guitar he kept leaning against the wall to his attic. He hated this new lifestyle. He always had a certain contempt for people he suspected of having no real passions. It was arrogant to think like this, but he had trouble respecting those who could not be moved by beauty. There were many people who annoyed him simply by stating they did not listen to music all that much or that they didn’t really see anything special in a painting by Dali. But the people who enraged him the most were those skinny, lackluster people who did not enjoy food. To him there was no one as disenchanted and he wondered if these people could truly love.


He was in a suit standing on the fifty third floor of the office building where he worked. His eight coworkers walked in just as expected, according to plan. They were all dressed exactly the same as he was. He said a joke, one of those corny office humor kind of jokes, and they all laughed. At once he grabbed one of them and forced him through the window. He saw his coworkers’ body rush down towards the ground, in slow motion. The body hit the street with no noise, but he saw the crowds on the street move out radially from the point of impact, and a cloud of dust rise like in those videos for atom bomb testings. The whole scene was surreal, and he finished the task in the same way for the remaining seven coworkers.

He turned on the TV. They were already reporting the deaths. He walked over to the next office where he saw Glenda was crying. He began to cry too, not for those he killed, but in fear of his being caught by the police.


He tried, as he always did when anxiety consumed his whole being, to think of a worse situation. But the thought was quickly seized by his apprehension. For a second he found it funny that his soap still smelled the same, still cleaned the same, given his current state. He continued to wash himself with despondency. If there was one thing he learned from watching all three seasons of CSI it was the impossibility of getting away with murder, especially in the manner that he had committed it.
It took him until the middle of his shower to realize and then convince himself it was a dream. He didn’t kill anyone. The police were not after him.


The big news all over the school that day was the birth of a group of ducklings. A mother bird had flown into the enclosed court yard and was forced to give birth there. The children thought it was cool, and the news made some of the teachers smile, and after a day no one really cared. But he was interested in the ducks. He was amazed at how they all waddled in line after their mother. During breaks he would go into the courtyard and follow them around. At first the mother duck would attack him. The children watched from their classroom windows and laughed. But after a while the ducks reached an understanding and allowed him to come close. The girl students thought it was cute and the guys still pointed and laughed.

Glenda noticed the gym teacher in the courtyard. And after a while she began to realize that his affinity for the ducks was not the result of immaturity. She had never thought of him like this, and she had to admit to herself that there was something about him that she liked. She went to the courtyard to talk to the gym teacher. The conversation mainly concerned the ducks. He was amazed, but not surprised, at the wealth of information she knew about them. She thought about the last time she had even kissed a man. The bell rand and she had a class to teach.


He was either horny or in love. But he had been horny before, and this was something more. He didn’t know what it was exactly and he didn’t really care. The feeling consumed his whole being as only something fresh and discovered can, whether it was love or not. But for all the newfound excitement the feeling gave him, it was also something old and familiar, something, he felt, that should be taken as some sort of revered inherent tradition. The days had reverted back to those good days and he hadn’t even realized it until now.

The next morning he woke early and decided to go back to the hills he used to enjoy. He sat down besides a huge maple, the same one he had always sat by. At once he felt something new. All those times in the hills before he had separated from himself, concentrating on the surrounding environment. But now he felt more himself than he had ever been. The hills were defined by his being there, every leaf was an extension of his fingers, and every branch was his arm. He thought of Glenda.

He wasn’t dumb; he knew that everyone thought of him as some crazy gym teacher. And he knew that Glenda hardly respected him, much less liked him, until she saw him with those ducks. Yes, she was the same as everybody else, but he decided that he would fuck her anyway. He went to get his coffee like he did on every other day. The cream swirled through his hot drink. He thought of the galaxies and looked at his hills. Today was a good day. He could only hope that the day he died would be one of these good days too.

strangedaze

I'll give this a good crit later on, but why, why, why did you have to spell masturbation wrong - in the title, no less!

(I think you can edit the title )

Andrew

__________________
His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.

Shai

its changed. thanks. how embarassing.

waylander

Where and when does the man masturbate ? No action, nothing, I am rather disappointed...
He just dreams of killing people, that was another disappointment, because the transition came as a shock, wham ! he throws seven people out of the window, then it is just a dream...

Shai

the masturbation thing was just a joke...

sorry you didn't like it.

journyman161

He stepped into the coffee shop, the same one he had started his day off with for the past eight years.
- better as He stepped into the coffee shop, the same one where he had started his day for the past eight years.


But even then there were days when he just could not handle any meaningless bullshit conversation, even with her.
- this image of Glenda contradicts the later pieces we see of her, as well as his conversations with her

Glenda didn’t mind his company, but she didn’t find it overly enjoyable either. And sometimes, though she knew it was sophomoric, she was embarrassed to be seen with him. She knew, and the kids knew, that he was just a high school gym teacher.
- here we are suddenly in Glenda’s head in her PoV. If this is his thoughts about how she feels, it needs re-writing.

He was in a suit standing on the fifty third floor of the office building…
- the dream sequence is unfair to your readers.It needs to be separated out from the rest in some way. I don’t mean you need to give away that it’s a dream but it needs to be obvious it’s a new scene. There are too many contradictions to what comes earlier & it creates confusion as to what’s going on.

The big news all over the school that day was the birth of a group of ducklings. A mother bird had flown into the enclosed court yard and was forced to give birth there. The children thought it was cool, and the news made some of the teachers smile, and after a day no one really cared. But he was interested in the ducks. He was amazed at how they all waddled in line after their mother.
- this just doesn’t seem real. It’s written as if it’s all happening that day & ducks don’t give brith, they lay eggs. This would have been a process over a couple of weeks from laying through to hatching, then a few days more before they can leave the nest.

He wasn’t dumb; he knew that everyone thought of him as some crazy gym teacher. And he knew that Glenda hardly respected him, much less liked him, until she saw him with those ducks. Yes, she was the same as everybody else, but he decided that he would fuck her anyway.
- again, this doesn’t ring true for the character you’re developing. Suddenly he’s a lecherous male who, just after he thinks this is more than just lust, decides he’s just going to screw her. This is not the character (even a bit strange as he is) we’ve been reading about.

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*He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary - William Faulkner (about Ernest Hemingway)
*Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words? - Ernest Hemingway (about William Faulkner)
*Thank you for sending me a copy of your book; I'll waste no time reading it - Moses Hadas
*He can compress the most words into the smallest idea of any man I know - Abraham Lincoln

waylander

I liked it, it was a joke. Don't take much of I say serioulsy, he he.
It's odd, I wanted to read your story again, it sorta lingered in my mind, don't know why. After re-reading, I liked it more, the ducks, the gym teacher (they're all supposed to be dumb, aren't they ?), the woman teacher who doesn't like him, but..can't help wondering about him..
That's good. Yeah, pretty good, even though I can't say exactly why..

colvin11

I have to agree with journyman, that doesn't seem like the character you are building when he says he is just going to screw her, especially after just saying he thinks he is in love.
But you could indicate that its because of his cynical world view that he decides to dump on the one person who is actually nice to him.

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Three men walk into a bar, one of them is a bit stupid, and the whole scene unfolds with a tedious envitability