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northwest-writing · 3 years

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Jackets: Controversial: an Abecedarian

At last, I have decided to touch on this, my most heated opinion.

Beginning as far back as I can remember, this recurring problem has caused me unparalleled frustration.

Can I describe for you a scenario?

Dinner time has arrived once more, some evening in a winter of my childhood, and my family is preparing to head out the door to drive to a restaurant.

Even though I have donned my shoes and socks and am all ready to go, I am stopped by my mother.

"For crying outside, Gracie," she exclaims, "aren't you going to be cold?"

God.

How could my young mind formulate a response that fully communicates my argument against her point?

I, of course, am not wearing a jacket, which my family sees as pure suicide.

Jacket's are, to me, for wearing when you are going to be outside for an extended period of time--not for putting on for two seconds to walk from my warm home to my warm car, where I will take it off until it is time to walk ten feet from the warm car to the warm restaurant, where I will once again take it off and have to babysit it and keep it from sliding off of the smooth booth seat and onto the filthy restaurant floor and try not to forget to take it with me when the meal is complete and it is time once again to depart the establishment and reverse the entire process once again, concluding the journey back at my centrally heated house.

Knowing all of this intrinsically does not help young me to articulate the silliness of the matter.

Like a good daughter, I go put on a jacket anyway.

My life has been riddled with these sorts of situations.

No one seems to ever be able to deal with the idea of me not wearing a jacket for the cumulative sixty seconds a day that I might be spending outside.

Of course I still wear appropriate garments if I'm going for a walk or someplace that might actually be cold, but I'm not going to bring an outer layer with me if I'm going to be wearing it for two minutes and carrying it around with me for an hour.

Perhaps you think I am being unreasonable.

Questioning my sanity even.

Really though, I bet more people agree with me than are willing to admit it.

Stop giving in, I say.

Tell the pro-jacketers in your life that your wardrobe choices are aspirational.

"Um, you're supposed to dress for the job you want, not the job you have," you must say, "and I want to be inside."

Very likely they will roll their eyes and give up on trying to reason with you.

Wow, that means you've won the argument.

X-rated films show more skin than me, not that I consider that the bar, just sayin'.

Yes, I am cold sometimes, but I am always a form over function type of woman, and if the outfit doesn't call for a jacket, the weather doesn't call for a jacket.

Zip your cute crop top into that ugly Eddie Bauer shell and see if I care.

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northwest-writing · 3 years

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An Open Letter to the Alaska Flight Attendant Who Gave Me Extra Biscoff Cookies

Dear Flight Attendant Who Gave Me Extra Biscoff Cookies,

I’d like to issue you my sincerest apologies. I’ve worked in food service and retail, so I know what it’s like to have to deal with the general public, but I have no idea what it must be like to be trapped in a big metal tube in the sky with them for hours at a time, knowing full well that you could die at any point and your last breaths would be partially comprised of their farts. That alone would be a lot to go through every day, and I only complicated things further. I do my very best to avoid being “people,” but on that fateful flight from SeaTac to JFK, I failed us both.

Maybe it was the fact that I was on my way to college that made me feel entitled to an extra packet of Biscoff cookies, or perhaps it was a blind, uncalculated fervor spurred by my borderline-animalistic passion for those delicious little brushed suede-colored biscuits. I should’ve known they would one day be my downfall. I need you to know that when you pushed your little drink cart up next to my aisle seat, I was not thinking straight. The box--no, we’ll call it a crate. The absolute crate of cookie packets that couldn’t have been more than three inches from your shins, poking out of the bottom shelf of your trolley, entranced me like a siren luring in a horny sea captain.

My plan--if you could call it that--seemed flawless. I was only going to filch myself one extra packet; there was no need to be greedy. I would be quick. Maybe you wouldn’t even notice my heist over the sound of your little shovel digging up a scoop of ice for the ginger ale you were serving to the passenger across from me. What I hadn’t planned for was my hot little hand’s perfect caper to be blocked by an unforeseen extra layer of clear plastic that bound together all of the cookie packets into one big, impenetrable, crinkly temptation. My cellophane mistake instantly triggered your fight attendant or flight attendant instinct, which manifested itself as a curt, effeminate “oh, you can just ask for some,” and the disappointed distribution of an extra pair of Biscoffs to my desperate little folding tray table.

I think this is how Adam and Eve must’ve felt when God caught them being gross in the forest or whatever. I wouldn’t have felt more ashamed of myself if my own mother had scrunched her German face at me and said my full first, middle, and last name. I pondered whether I should even eat my guilt-flavored treats. Did I even deserve them anymore? Should I just put my name on the no fly list? This inner turmoil of course only lasted two whole minutes before I remembered that I had unopened Biscoff cookies in front of me. They tasted fantastic, made all of my regrets melt away, but they could not rewrite the past. So, from the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry that you got caught up in my speculoos-inspired crimes.

Sincerely,

Pilfering Passenger from PST

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northwest-writing · 3 years

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Hardly the First Lyrical Analysis of "Stacy's Mom" by Fountains of Wayne

This morning I was doing my usual routine of completing household chores (bed making, laundry folding, etc.) and listening to my carefully curated boogie playlist while dancing around my room, when I found myself doing something I’m sure every person born after the release of the Sony Playstation has done at least once in their lives--engaging with the lyrics of Fountains of Wayne’s 2003 hit, “Stacy’s Mom”. Absurd and uncomfortable enough in both its subject matter and execution, this favorite of every roller rink and bowling alley DJ for the last seventeen years need not be absorbed with much of a critical ear at all in order for any listener to feel its discomforting effects. The chorus alone already tells the very clear story of “I’m hot for some poor teenage girl’s single mother.” It is important here that I digress for a moment to clarify: I like this song. It was in my boogie playlist for a reason and that reason is because I believe there is a time to dance and a time to think critically and they simply do not overlap. Would a lot of people disagree with me that “Stacy’s Mom” is even a song you can dance to? Probably. Make your own playlist. You can include all of your dumb songs about being attracted to people your own age. People that have more important things to do with their time don’t often extend their critique of the story of Stacy and her hot mom very far beyond the well known chorus or perhaps the first verse. I have found, however, that the more carefully I listened to the lyrics of this song, the more thoughts I had about the plotline being presented to me. Without further delay, I would like to share those thoughts with you.

Introduction

Stacy's mom has got it goin' on

Already, the piece starts off strong by introducing us to both the main subject of the song and a rough idea of the narrator’s perspective on her. Thus far we don’t quite know the full nature of the relationship between Stacy’s mom and the narrator, so we are enticed to continue listening. The repetition of the same line four times could perhaps be representative of an obsession based in desire. This section evokes the image of a young man rocking back and forth in a corner somewhere, repeating to himself the one thing he still knows to be true, “Stacy’s mom has got it goin’ on.”

First Verse

Stacy, can I come over after school?

(After school)

We can hang around by the pool

(Hang by the pool)

Did your mom get back from her business trip?

(Business trip)

Is she there, or is she trying to give me the slip?

(Give me the slip)

Now we are clued in to the narrator’s connection to Stacy’s mom through Stacy, who we know has both a house and a pool and lives with her mom who sometimes goes on business trips. We can assume based on this one sided conversation that Stacy and the narrator are classmates, most likely in middle school or high school. At first, it seems as though the narrator has a genuine interest in spending time with Stacy herself, but any hopes we might have of a happily ever after for her are quickly dashed by the second half of the verse, where we get an even deeper view into the narrator’s fixation on Stacy’s mom. He has even begun experiencing irrational concerns as to whether or not the adult woman who occupies his every thought has been deliberately avoiding him.

Pre Chorus and Chorus

You know, I'm not the little boy that I used to be

I'm all grown up now

Baby, can't you see?

Stacy's mom has got it goin' on

She's all I want

And I've waited for so long

Stacy, can't you see?

You're just not the girl for me

I know it might be wrong but

I'm in love with Stacy's mom

Several contradictory pieces of information have just been presented here. After the narrator explains that he is in fact older than he used to be, which is...duh, he goes on the claim that he is “all grown up now” even though just moments prior, he was discussing hanging out “after school”. If the narrator is truly as grown up as he claims to be, he is either a sad college student or an even sadder adult man whose only friend is a school age girl with a hot mom. We are going to continue to assume he is a delusional teenage boy. He then goes on to boldly state that Stacy’s mother is all that he wants. We are already aware of the unhealthy infatuation the narrator feels for Stacy’s mom, and now our concerns are even further confirmed.

The narrator also briefly touches on Stacy’s possible disappointment at not being pined for by the narrator, but we aren’t actually given enough evidence to suggest this was even something on Stacy’s mind. In fact, we cannot confirm based on the lyrics alone that Stacy is even friends with the narrator. It is possible we are being told a story from a very skewed perspective by a teenage narcissist completely consumed by his feelings for a suburban woman. The final nail in the coffin of this section of the song is when the narrator acknowledges that his feelings “might be wrong”. We can infer that the reason this fantasy relationship “might be wrong” is because the narrator is much too young for Stacy’s mom. This refreshing awareness could lead us to believe that the narrator understands that his love for his classmate’s mom is nothing more than an ordinary teenage crush.

Second Verse and Second Pre Chorus

Stacy, do you remember when I mowed your lawn?

(Mowed your lawn)

Your mom came out with just a towel on

(Towel on)

I could tell she liked me from the way she stared

(The way she stared)

And the way she said

"You missed a spot over there"

(A spot over there)

And I know that you think it's just a fantasy

But since your dad walked out

Your mom could use a guy like me

That’s it officer. That right there is the line that fucked me up in the middle of my morning. Up until now an argument could be made that the narrator is just wrapped up tight in a daydream that he is somewhat rationally aware of. But now we can see that he is, in fact, really trying to plead his case for why he should bone down with Stacy’s mom.

Outro

Stacy's mom, oh, oh

(I'm in love with)

Stacy's mom, oh, oh

(Wait a minute)

Stacy, can't you see?

You're just not the girl for me

I know it might be wrong but

I'm in love with Stacy's mom

The most resonating line in the whole song is perhaps that parenthetical backup vocal line, “wait a minute,” I agree. Pump the brakes, Fountains of Wayne. You’ve just divulged way more than I think anyone--including you--were prepared for. This track should have included one full minute of contemplative silence at the end of the original release. And yes, I do mean for the radio version as well. The least a music producer could do for an audience is allow a moment to regroup and reevaluate after hearing such a Donny Darko-esque confession by a grown man representing the character of a teenage boy. Therapists don’t schedule their appointments back to back, and I’m even less qualified to hear something like this.

To view this song simply as bowling alley pop music would be a waste of time. “Stacy’s Mom” by Fountains of Wayne is a macabre, absurdist microscope on early-2000’s American suburbia, and the failings of a sex-negative modern culture on the mental well-being of sexually frustrated teens, masquerading as a charmingly perverted Top 40 pop tune.

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northwest-writing · 3 years

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Commissions Starting at $0.02/Word!

Have a headcanon you want written? A short story idea you don’t feel like writing yourself? Need an idea for a gift for someone? Or maybe you just want to pretend like you’re some sort of renaissance dignitary who commissions artists and writers for fun.

Come to me!

I’d be more than happy to write you a...

Short story

Essay

Article

Poem

Fan Fiction

Play

Screenplay

Voice over script

DnD character backstory

And much much more!

I can write for any fandom and have no issue with researching shows/movies/games I’m not familiar with.

Check out my blog for samples of my writing.

Looking forward to writing for you!

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northwest-writing · 3 years

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An Updated List of Official Gynecological Terms

We here at the WHO would like to address some of the complaints we have received from women and men across the globe about some of the official medical terminology for common gynecological health related issues. We’ve listened to your problems and have assembled a committee of dedicated professionals to cook up some brand new medical terms that will be incorporated into the curricula of all accredited medical schools starting in 2022. We are excited to announce some of the new terms you can expect to be hearing in the gynecologist, the endocrinologist, hell, maybe even the dentist!

Period→ Full Stop

A word that many have said “is gross,” “feels bad in the mouth,” and by one testimony we received, “my least favorite English word, and yes I’m counting moist,” has now become a thing of the past. Paying homage to its original shared title with the classic “.” the part of your menstrual cycle in which you shed your uterine lining and cry when someone cuts you off in traffic will now be referred to as a “full stop.” We hope this new term will serve not only to ease some of the tension for those who find themselves needing to discuss the subject, but also put a greater emphasis on just how detrimental this part of the month can be for every aspect of some people’s lives.

Vagina→ Coochie*

Everyone was already saying coochie anyway. Now you don’t have to be afraid your doctor will think less of you for telling them your “coochie itches”. Many are reluctant to use the word “vagina” for many of the same reasons that they don’t like saying “period” but even ignoring all that, “coochie” is irrefutably a more fun word to say. We hope that this change will spur people to talk more openly about their coochies and promote a more coochie-positive global culture.

Yeast Infection→ Gunk

While we understand that “gunk” can refer to anything from gum on the bottom of your shoes to the dead bugs on your windshield, we would like to make the official statement that within a medical context, this term specifically refers to an overgrowth of yeast in the coochie. Over-the-counter products designed to treat this common affliction will also be required to change the labeling on their packaging to reflect the change.

Breasts→ Gazongas

If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

Estrogen→ The Good Stuff

Sometimes referred to as the “female sex hormone,” we thought it was high time to start calling this hormone what it is. Responsible for things like gazonga growth and proper coochie lubrication, as well as bone health and cognitive health in all genders, this great juice is finally getting the recognition it deserves. We also wanted to grant the opportunity to those seeking to undergo Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT) to say to their doctor or pharmacist, “gimme some of the good stuff.”

Discharge→ Slime

OK, we admit we didn’t do a good job making this one less gross, but we were looking at it from more of a Flubber angle. The WHO is all about buying into the whimsy and not taking life too seriously. We also feel that this term more effectively communicates what healthy excretion from the coochie should look like. If your slime turns into gunk, well, there you have it.

Although these terms won’t be official in the medical community until 2022, we would like to encourage all members of the public to begin using them in regular conversation in place of the outdated terms and phrases in order to ease the transition. We hope that this will pave the way for more open and serious medical discussions with your healthcare providers.

*It should be noted that words like “vaginal” and “vaginosis” will also be replaced by “coochinal,” “coochinosis,” etc.

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northwest-writing · 3 years

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My Son’s Arms

Dear Abby,

I need your advice about how to deal with my son. My husband and I love him dearly, but he is getting to that adolescent stage in life where he is beginning to get on our family’s nerves. He sleeps all day, talks back to his father and I when we tell him to clean his room or do the dishes, and he stays out late with his friends every night, but by far the biggest issue we have started to notice is that his arms seem to just keep getting longer. I’m aware that every boy goes through the occasional growth spurt, but at this point it is getting a bit ridiculous. By the time he was sixteen, his hands were down to his knees. Now his seventeenth birthday is a few weeks away and it’s like he’s dragging a pair of garden hoses around the house! More times now than I can count, I have nearly fallen on my face from tripping over his wrists that he has left in the hallway. I just know it’s only a matter of time before someone is going to get seriously hurt. And god forbid he actually try and use the floppy things, he ends up smacking them into just about anything and anyone in the room. He’s knocked family photos off the walls, pushed the cat off of the back of the couch, and gotten tangled in the ceiling fan in the living room on more than one occasion (don’t worry, we stopped turning it on a long time ago). Teenagers just have no self control.

His hazardous appendages don’t seem to be negatively impacting his grades so far, but it does make it difficult for him to operate a steering wheel, which has not made it easier for me to get him to stop dragging his knuckles about getting his license. Of course, I know he’s not a baby anymore, and I wouldn’t be raising such a fuss about his changing body if he just learned to take more responsibility for the way he is affecting others. I have tried reminding him time and time again not to leave his arms all over the house, and still, every day I find myself having to step over his elbows just to get to my own kitchen. As a parent, I am not sure what I should do. Should I put my foot down and play the hard-ass mom card? Or should I be taking the whole thing in stride, accepting that every young boy goes through phases? Please help me

Sincerely,

Perplexed Parent in Philadelphia

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northwest-writing · 3 years

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The ABCs of Juice and Art

AIDS killed Keith Haring in 1990 and still, thirty years later, I am filled with an anger at the violent injustice of such an infant soul ripped from the world early as if he were my own offspring.

Blossom Galbiso enters my sphere of knowledge by accident as the Hawaiian school teacher somehow solely responsible for the popularization of the now largely-forgotten game known as POGS.

Cordless drill is a drink I named for its resemblance to a screwdriver, sharing almost every ingredient except POG stands in for the OJ.

Death and juice have little in common.

Everyone dies.

Forget about death; drink some juice.

Good things came out of Keith Haring until his very last moments of his very last day.

He believed that art--something previously only available to the wealthy--belonged to everyone.

I think about this--and many other things--for only a moment as I sit on my bed with a fat-tipped Posca paint pen in my shaking left hand and an old, time-tattered school photograph in front of me that is of someone I have never met and will soon erase completely from this physical receipt of existence with my own renditions of the vivid, thick lines that are uniquely mine yet unmistakably reminiscent of the iconic style of a man I never met who I know, even still, would feel only loved and touched by this act of domesticated, imitative graffiti.

Just like Keith Haring, I believe art is for everyone, even those of us with an unsteady hand.

Keith Haring probably never heard of Blossom Galbiso.

Letting yourself work with a permanent medium like paint when you do not fully trust your own body to follow the instructions given to it by your brain is made vastly easier by painting only on bits of trash.

My brain tends to dart from one thing to another in randomly spaced intervals.

No one fixation is ever granted very much time in my direct line of sight.

One day I will decide to buy a pack of paint pens from Dick Blick and a stack of vintage ephemera from Etsy upon which to loose the pens, and when I get tired of that, I will decide to learn as much as I can about a woman whose effect on an elementary school classroom must have been so strong to have popularized a game to an entire country from a tiny Pacific island.

Perhaps before any of this, I will set out to do a school report that will lead me to a deep connection to a man who was famous even among the NYPD officers who would arrest him for vandalism.

Quite possibly, Blossom Galbiso never heard of Keith Haring.

Realistically, I do not exist as some sort of connecting thread between these two people.

Still.

Unrealistically, I could reach back through time and join the hands of two people who brought light into the world with their own simple devices, from their own simple stations.

Vibrant colors and wholesome philosophies are at least commonalities between Keith, Hawaii, and POG, so maybe they would have enough to talk about.

When a college student walked past Keith Haring painting a mural commissioned by the school and asked him what it was for, Haring answered: "It's for you."

Xanthan gum is not one of the ingredients listed in POG.

Years on, Blossom Galbiso has been largely forgotten by the people of Hawaii, yet New York struggles to omit Keith Haring's colorful cartoons from any gift shop or post card or t-shirt in the whole city.

Zero dollars is how much it would cost me to go down to my kitchen right now and make a cordless drill.

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northwest-writing · 3 years

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Commission a Short Story for the Holidays!

Having trouble coming up with a gift for someone important in your life that’s unique and personal? Do they like to read? Do they like fantasy? Sci-Fi? Romance? Maybe you have a lot of inside jokes with them that they’d love to read in a fun short story that’s just for them!

I know it’s a federal crime to talk about the winter holiday season before Thanksgiving happens, which just goes to show how much of an edgy badboy I can be. Enticing.

Don’t know anyone who likes short stories? No problem! I also write:

poems

short plays

screenplays

etc.!

This is also a notice that I am changing my rates to $0.02/word.

Happy Holidays/winter season!

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northwest-writing · 4 years

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A Letter to Paper Towel Lady

Dear Paper Towel Lady,

From the bottom of my heart, as if to serve you a bowl of gratitude soup, I would like to thank you. If you were to look at your ratio of time you spent in my life and things you taught me, you would probably be one of the wisest people in my life, if that’s the math you’re doing. Our encounter was long enough ago and benign enough to you that it’s very possible you don’t remember me, but I remember you clear as day. You were tall (probably) and you had long dark hair and glasses that...had frames I think. I was perhaps four years old and I had just finished up some important business in one of the stalls of the McDonald’s restroom. You had just finished washing your hands as I approached the sink. You dispensed yourself the necessary number of paper towels and dried off your hands, then once they were dry, you grabbed one more.

“Y’know,” you said to me in the infinitely unquestionable tone a late-twenty-something can only possess when talking to a four-year old, “when you dry your hands, you should grab another paper towel to grab the door handle with, because some people don’t wash their hands.” You did the actions you described as you spoke, and then, like an ancient fast food bathroom witch, you vanished. After you left, I grabbed an extra paper towel and used it to open the door when I left the bathroom, and I truly don’t think I have touched a bathroom door handle with my bare hands since that day.

Neither of us could have possibly known then just how vital this information that you bestowed upon me would become some fifteen years later, or perhaps even sooner. Maybe somewhere along the way, there was a bathroom door handle with measles on it when I was ten, or a doorknob with pink eye on it when I was thirteen, or even an automatic bathroom door sensor with some kind of malware in it when I was seventeen, but I wouldn’t know, because I have survived effortlessly in this cruel, filthy world, thanks to you. I came to terms long ago with the fact that, in a certain way, I owe you my life. I can only imagine that, even now, even in one of the sickest countries in one of the sickest times in many of our lives (and I don’t mean in the Tony Hawk way), you are safe. If not by virtue of your flawless and perhaps even cutting-edge personal health habits, by sheer karma alone. Because I assume I was not the only little girl you spread that life-saving piece of information to, the universe has likely rewarded your efforts to make the world a better place.

We don’t often take enough time to acknowledge and celebrate the world’s most influential women, and many would categorize this letter as not really doing that, but to those people I will say this: I haven’t gotten sick for more than four days in my entire life, I only catch cold once a year, and I have never experienced any of the symptoms of COVID-19. And when considering the (albeit small) number of people I have come into contact with, and the people each of them have come into contact with, is that not a butterfly effect?

Could it be possible that my personal hygiene habits are more a result of my father going through kidney failure and transplant when I was three and thus being rendered immunosuppressed for the rest of his life, subsequently forcing me and my family members to develop very strict hand washing rituals to avoid killing him? Perhaps, but that’s so morbid. I would much rather give the credit to you, the Paper Towel Lady. So once again, thank you.

Sincerely, The four-year-old girl from the McDonald’s bathroom

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northwest-writing · 4 years

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Seven Things You Could Say When Someone Asks “Why Are You Shaking?”

The Classic “I have Essential Tremor. It’s a neurological condition where my brain doesn’t produce enough of a certain protein, so some of my motor functions are slightly impaired. I’m perfectly healthy and not contagious. Thank you for your concern though.”

The Play Dumb “I’m what? Oh man, I have no idea. Probably I have low blood sugar or something. Could you bring me a snack while I take a rest?”

The Quick Misdirect “Oh, looks like I had a little too much coffee this morning!”

The Half-Lie “When I was three years old, I fell out of a window onto my head and it stunted the growth in parts of my brain. I also can’t taste cilantro at all.”

The Full-Lie “I was in a coma for a year and when I woke up I had this tremor and also I could speak fluent Canadian French.”

The Get-Out-of-Jury-Duty Caliber Bogus Lie “Five years ago this October, on the eve of the harvest, I was abducted from my chamber by a race of technologically advanced, cosmic beings who spoke to each other in clicks and buzzes. They took me aboard their interplanetary vessel and conducted a series of tests and experiments on my brain that left me with the ability to interfere with radio signals with my mind, and an incurable phobia of pre-Toy Story Tom Hanks that would make it so I can never watch the movie Forrest Gump. Oh yeah! Also I have a tremor because of it. Oh, I’m dismissed? Ok, thank you anyway.”

The Other Classic “I don’t know. Fuck off.”

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northwest-writing · 4 years

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Where Real Estate Was Most Valuable

She kept her eyes now

on her fingernails.

While her mind wandered elsewhere,

her gaze rested on the water

spilling over the topsoil

caked under her manicure,

paying occasional visits

through her kitchen window

to the purebred passers by.

Clark and Debby and Spots.

Pools and pearls and ten page pedigrees.

They were all just furniture

but she was an instrument

and just like a grand piano becomes a side table

she had become decorative.

As she watched the water

spiraling down the drain

fading from red to yellow to clear,

her vision became obstructed

by a single blonde lock

drifting calmly but hastily

from its assigned place

in her flawless and organized updo

and coming to rest

against her nose.

It did not contain a single strand of grey.

She left it there.

After turning off the faucet,

she glanced once more

out the kitchen window,

this time at a single daisy

situated at the edge

of the driveway and the front lawn.

It would continue to grow.

No one would be mowing the grass.

She kept her eyes now

on her fingernails.

There was a single chip in the scarlet polish

on her left ring finger.

#poetry #poems #creative writing #writing #suburbia #creative writer #commissions #commissions open #writing commissions #creative writing commissions #art commissions

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northwest-writing · 4 years

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This Week’s Numbers: A Short Play

Four coworkers sit in the breakroom at their minimum wage retail job. TIM, twenty-two, is sitting up in his seat at the breakroom table, shaking his left leg and holding a cup of coffee with both hands. EMILY, nineteen, is leaning slightly back in her chair, looking at her phone. MATT, thirty, leans over the table, writing something down on a piece of paper. KEVIN, thirty-eight, is leaning way back in a chair with his feet up on the table and his hat over his eyes. TIM stares up at the clock.

TIM

D’you guys know if anyone’s ever thought of fixing that clock on the wall?

EMILY

Still looking at her phone

What clock?

MATT

I didn’t even realize it was broken.

TIM

Yeah it’s like always four fifteen? (Beat) Could you imagine if it was always four fifteen?

KEVIN

I tried asking the old store manager about it once. He just said “why do you care about the clock in the break room?” and he had a point so I stopped worrying about it.

There is a silence as TIM stares at KEVIN

TIM

I sort of feel like that story’s not true and you just want me to stop talking before the team meeting.

KEVIN

It’s seven AM, Tim.

EMILY

Yeah, Tim, it’s like seven AM.

TIM

I know what time it is I just--

Enter KATE, twenty five years old, in a good mood one would find inappropriate for a retail employee

KATE

Okay, it’s Monday! You guys ready?

TIM

For the meeting?

KATE

She gets very close to TIM’s face, forcing him to lean back

Tim, look me in my eyes. I’m the store manager. I hate this store just as much as you do, I just get paid ten extra cents an hour to do it. (Straightens back up) NO! I want to know (digging into her jacket pocket) if you guys are ready...for this she holds up a lottery ticket.

Everyone perks up except for MATT, who is still focused on what he is writing down. Even KEVIN moves his hat back to reveal his eyes.

EMILY

Oh shit that’s right it’s Monday!

KATE

That’s right,

as she speaks, she removes her jacket, tosses it onto the table, and begins arranging a chair backwards at the head of the room

which can only mean two things: I am required to hold a team member meeting or I will lose my job, and I bought a new lottery ticket.

KEVIN

Three things.

KATE

And a pack of cigarettes for Kevin

she pulls a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and tosses them to KEVIN who catches them effortlessly.

Matthew, whatcha workin’ on?

MATT

I’m writing to my penpal who’s stationed overseas.

KATE

Well put him on hold. This is important.

EMILY laughs quietly

MATT

Hey, would it be cool if I went first this week? I had a really good one last week and--

EMILY

Maybe you should’ve shown up…

KATE

To EMILY Dude--

EMILY

It took us like an hour to close on Tuesday night.

MATT

It was in the schedule--

TIM

He has gotten up and fixed himself a second cup of coffee since he last spoke

(timidly to EMILY) Well maybe if you had actually--

KATE

The airing! Of grievances will take place after the ceremony...or preferably after you’ve stopped giving a shit about them all together. Beat Aaaaaanyway

she climbs up onto the chair she previously set up

I would like everyone’s attention. *ahem* Oh yeah, everyone clocked in right?

TIM EMILY

Oh shit Oh yeah

Begins to leave the room she reaches into her pocket and pulls out her ID card

Hang on one sec Wait, Tim--

TIM looks back, takes EMILY’s ID card, and exits.

All sit silently as they wait for TIM to come back from swiping their cards.

TIM enters and sits down as he hands EMILY her ID card.

KATE

*ahem* Thank you all for joining me today. According to physics, (a collective sigh) there are two major forms of energy: kinetic energy and potential energy. I hold here in my hand one of the greatest sources of potential energy that money can buy from a Seven Eleven. Now, the rules are very simple: everyone will have their chance to tell us what they would do if this were somehow, miraculously, a winning ticket. We will then vote on who has the best version of what one might call The American Dream and then the winner gets riches beyond their wildest dreams and also they get to pick the numbers for next weeks ticket. We will begin this week by hearing from our dear Matthew. Matthew, you have the floor.

She steps down from her makeshift podium and applauds softly, prompting the rest of the room to follow suit as MATT steps up.

MATT

Alright, so pretty much there’s these like buildings in Germany that were built during World War Two that were designed to be these totally indestructible bunkers that couldn’t be blown up, and so now they’re just still there, because you can’t tear them down no matter what you do. Then the other day I went to clean the men’s room (a noticeable shudder from everyone in the room) and some guy had literally shit like all over the wall. Like he had just fuckin’ exploded. So while I’m in there cleaning it up and just wishing I was dead, I thought that’s what I’d do. I’d fill this room floor to ceiling with that indestructible German concrete and turn the whole thing into a big fossil. So that hundreds of years from now when we’re all dead and gone and this whole store has rotted away to nothing, that guy’s fuckin shit stain would be frozen in carbonite forever, like the Han Fuckin’ Solo of shit.

This speech is met with rousing applause as MATT takes a few small bows and steps down.

KATE

I love it! Very colorful, Matt.

EMILY steps up next.

EMILY

(To MATT) That’s kickass by the way. Alright um, ok so Friday, or I think it was Saturday. Yeah so Sat-- no I didn’t work Saturday. It was Friday anyway FRIDAY I was driving into work and I was stopped at that light that’s like right by Taco Bell, and when I went to go, my car started making that noise again. I’ve shown you guys all the noise right?

TIM

I thought you said it stopped making the noise?

EMILY

Yeah because I kicked my hood really hard that one time and it stopped for like two weeks but it’s back now!

KATE

Wait what’s the noise? I haven’t heard it.

EMILY

It’s like a...(she thinks for a second then begins making the most ridiculous sound. Get creative.) or kind of like a (she makes a variation on the first sound. Kevin is laughing hysterically.) It happens every time I like rev the engine or drive with the windows down or like go about forty miles an hour. I think it’s just like a thing. But anyway I was like oh if I won I would totally pay to fix my car right? But then I was like well why would I pay to fix a 2003 Honda Accord that used to be owned by like a heroin dealer and sounds like it was dragged out of a river when I could just buy a whole ‘nother car? Duh. But anyway now I have this like shitty car I don’t know what to do with. What am I gonna do with it? So then I thought I’d hire a bunch of guys to like take the whole thing apart piece by piece...and then put it back together in Todd’s office.

MATT

What if it was in his living room?

EMILY

Oh my god yeah! Yeah and the best part is, it still makes the sound.

The room breaks into applause. As she steps down

Thank you. Thank you.

KATE

Taking it straight to the district manager. Very cool. Very senior prank. I like it. A tough act to follow. Tim, uh, last week…

TIM

(Getting up from his chair) No no, this one’s not as long.

KATE

(As TIM steps onto the chair) Ok cool.

TIM

(Looking at a note in his phone) Ok. I’m not exactly sure if this is like illegal or not but... (shrugs)

uh so I would fake my own death.

EMILY

Oh shit.

TIM

I didn’t really think through like where I would disappear to but I would disappear like super mysteriously. Don’t worry I wouldn’t make any of you guys look guilty and I’d make sure to disappear on like a night when everyone’s busy so you’d all have an alibi. THEN like a year later, after most of the “oh where’s Tim?” has sorta worn off, I’d start sending postcards to the store.

MATT

Oooooh shiiiit.

TIM

They’d all be from different places. Yellowstone, Dubai, the Eiffel Tower, fuckin’...Des Moines. And they’d each have like one letter on them. And over the course of like five years this collection of postcards would build up and detectives would be like trying to unscramble the letters to figure out where I went. But here’s the best part: they wouldn’t spell out anything. They’re just letters. It’s a goose chase.

KATE

OH SHIT!

TIM

Yeaaaah oh shit.

Everyone passionately applauds as TIM steps off the chair and sits back down

Catch me in Barbados or something sipping on a coconut, just writing ‘E’ on the back of a picture of a palm tree.

KATE

Alright. Kevin?

KEVIN

(From his chair) Just like every week. I’d keep all the money and stay working here so all of you’d have to think about the fact that I’m the one sittin’ on it.

TIM

Bummer, Kev.

KATE

I’m confident one week that’ll be the winner. Don’t ever change, Kevin. Beat. She starts to rise Well. If that’s everyone--

MATT

What if we actually won?

KATE

Well we just talked about that. (She points at MATT) Han Solo of shit (points at EMILY) Casa Del Car (points at TIM) Unsolved Mysteries--

MATT

Yeah but I mean what if we really won.

EMILY

Well then whoever we voted--

MATT

Well but that’s stupid.

KATE

Matt--

MATT

I just keep thinking lately like, it’s stupid that whoever has the time to come up with the cleverest way to quit their job gets to have the money if we won.

KATE

Matt, that’s not the point of--

MATT

I think we should give it to whoever deserves it the most...and I think I should get it.

TIM

It’s not--

MATT

No, I’m the best employee here. Like I really come in and do good at my job every day, and I don’t think I’ve ever been recognized for it!

KATE

Matt, it’s not a bonus. It’s just a game.

EMILY

Yeah, besides, you wouldn’t deserve it the most anyway.

TIM

Jeez!

EMILY

What? Matt’s thirty years old and he’s never acted like he’s wanted to do anything besides work here. I actually have a future. If I had the money, I could actually go to nursing school.

KATE

(Making a feeble attempt to reign things in) Ok, this is--

TIM

You wanna go to nursing school?

EMILY

I’ve told you that like twenty times!

TIM inhales to respond

KATE

Tim, please.

TIM decides not to speak

EMILY

Oh come on! Why don’t you ever stick up for yourself!

TIM

Ok fine! I will stick up for myself! I think you’re a bitch! (EMILY gasps) I think you’re bad at your job and you’re a bad friend. (She gasps again) And I think you’d be a bad nurse.

KEVIN

I think I should get the money.

KATE

Oh my god (She crosses her arms and puts one hand over her face)

KEVIN

I smoke like four packs a day. What if I got lung cancer?

EMILY

I bet that’s the first time you’ve ever asked yourself that question.

KEVIN

Hey!

The room erupts into overlapping arguments. Actors should ad lib their own grievances. KATE is irritated but knows yelling will only add to the ruckus. She thinks for a moment, then walks over to the light switch and starts rapidly flipping the lights off and on. The employees become confused and slowly cease their arguing. They all look at KATE.

KATE

God, I knew that would work. You’re all like a bunch of birds! Listen, there’s a woman that comes into this store every day. Her name is Donna. You’ve all rung her up. Her brother had a stroke and he’s in the hospital and they’re not sure if he’s gonna be alright and she doesn’t know how she’s gonna pay the medical bills. And you know what? If this ticket won the lottery, we still wouldn’t give the money to her. Because she doesn’t deserve it.

EMILY

What the fuck, Kate?

MATT

So you think you deserve it?

KATE

NO! Of course I don’t deserve it. And neither do you!

MATT

So who does?

KATE

Nobody! It’s the lottery! Nobody deserves to win the lottery. It shouldn’t exist at all, just like none of us should have to be here every day. The whole system is rigged against us. This is just a dumb game I made up so that we could all survive. Once a week. Once a week we all remind ourselves that if we really wanted to change our lives we could. And then for the rest of the week we can all earn a paycheck not doing it.

There is a long pause as everyone considers KATE’s statement.

EMILY

(Hesitantly) So it’s...like an office holiday party?

KATE

Yeah it's. Yeah.

Beat

TIM

You guys know the guy who comes in every Tuesday and buys a lampshade? And then the next week he brings it back in so he can exchange it for a different lampshade? And he just does that like over and over again every week? Roger? Beat. (He starts to smile. Starting to laugh on the next line) I think he deserves it.

Everyone begins to laugh slightly

KATE

(Laughing still) Why him?

TIM

(Laughing more) I don’t know he just needs something. That guy’s not ok.

The laughter builds with each line

EMILY

(Laughing) What about that guy that always comes in asking if we have any copies of that one Adam Sandler movie?

MATT

(Laughing) Oh Click!

TIM

(Near tears at this point) He gets so mad when we say no!

EMILY

(Struggling to breathe) I think we should give it to him.

KATE

You mean the guy or Adam Sandler?

Everyone is beside themselves with laughter by this point, completely unable to continue for several moments. Banging fists on the table, clapping, etc. KEVIN laughs like an old prospector. Finally everyone settles down enough to continue the meeting.

KATE

Ok…we still need to...we still need to vote.

EMILY

Tim.

MATT

Tim.

KEVIN

Tim.

TIM

(Giggling slightly) Roger.

Everyone lets out one last small laugh.

KATE

Alright. Looks like Tim has it.

She applauds gently and everyone else follows suit.

Emily can you look up the numbers for last week.

EMILY

She has already taken out her phone to look up the numbers

I’m on it.

KATE

Everyone!

She gestures like she is conducting an orchestra to begin, then digs into her pocket and pulls out a different lottery ticket.

Everyone drums on the table, stopping when EMILY begins reading off the numbers. KATE looks at the ticket from last week.

EMILY

Fourteen! Forty-Seven! Fifty-Four!

Everyone looks at KATE who is maintaining a flawless poker face

Fifty-Five! Sixty-Eight! Twenty-Five!

They continue to look expectantly at KATE. Beat. KATE’s face turns to amazement.

KATE

Wow...(Beat) Not a single one.

Blackout

END OF PLAY.

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northwest-writing · 4 years

Text

No One Goes to Jasper, Oregon

My SAT superscore after my first attempt at taking the test was a 1250. Following my second attempt it remained a 1250. This was not the fault of a coincidence or a lack of studying on my part, but rather the fault of a small town called Jasper, Oregon--the existence of which I would consider, perhaps, some sort of cosmic oversight.

Originally, I wasn’t planning to take the test again.

“I don’t know, Grace. 1250 is a little low for some of the schools you’re trying to apply to. Students always do better their second time taking the test,” my father told me in an indirect attempt to convince me to take a second SAT. I wasn’t particularly excited about the idea. I had a job that was going to make it hard to make time to take the test, let alone study for it, and I thought that a 1250 was perfectly fine. Because I resisted my dad’s pleas for so long before finally coming around to the idea, I ended up signing up late for the test. With no seats left at any schools in Washington State, the closest testing center became Laurelwood Academy in Jasper, Oregon.

With about a five hour drive ahead of us, my dad and I left the house early Friday morning. I had all of the required materials: a protein bar, a bottle of water, two No. 2 pencils, a TI-84 calculator, a state ID, and my test ticket. I had studied by googling how to use a semicolon the day before we left. I was going to arrive on time and leave my phone in the car and there was going to be no one that could stop me from taking the SAT.

Jasper itself does not have any hotels so we had to stay the night at a Holiday Inn in the next town over. Our experience of this Holiday Inn should have been my first clue that some higher power--God, or perhaps even The College Board--was testing me. Immediately down the street, and visually identical to our Holiday Inn, was a second Holiday Inn. We arrived at the front desk of what we thought was our and hotel and my dad gave the desk attendant our name. He clacked it into his keyboard before looking momentarily confused.

“I’m sorry. It looks like we don’t have you in our system.”

“Maybe we have the wrong Holiday Inn,” my dad suggested.

“Oh yeah! We get guests from the other one all the time, they get guests from us. It’s really funny,” the man said casually, “You might try going to them.” He spoke as if this idea would not have occurred to him if my dad hadn’t introduced it. Baffled that this man didn’t seem to grasp that two of the exact same hotel neighboring each other was an issue because of this exact situation, my dad and I drove to the next Holiday Inn, got our room keys, and went to bed.

It was the morning of the test and I was unenthused, but ready. I put on my most presentable pair of sweatpants, gathered my necessary materials, and we began our drive into Jasper. The town of Jasper, itself, is situated entirely along Jasper Road, and the only building you can drive past that isn’t concealed from the road by trees is the Jasper store where, on a crisp, overcast Saturday morning, residents of the town enjoy standing idly outside and staring, narrow-eyed, at Washington rental cars with California license plates as if to say “You’re not from ‘round here, are you?” It was hospitality like this that kept us from making any stops on our way to Laurelwood Academy.

We arrived at the address we entered into Google Maps--a building that matched the picture printed on my test ticket. There was no one that was going to stop me from taking the SAT, and upon our arrival, that was exactly who greeted us: no one. With about fifteen minutes before the official start time of 8AM, there was not a single other car parked outside of the building. We decided to go inside this underwhelming school. The front door was unlocked. As we wandered in, we noticed that there was barely any furniture, and not a single person to proctor the test. Once we were inside, we could see that the back door was slightly open. We walked through to the back of the school where we ran into a local woman on her morning jog and asked her if she knew anything about the test.

“Oh no, I don’t know anything about a test,” she informed us, “but this is an Adventist boarding school right now. There’s students asleep in the rooms upstairs. They’re probably going to wake up for church soon.” This only raised more questions. Why would they host the SAT in a place that had church on Saturdays? Why was the back door open if there were kids asleep upstairs?

“Ok, thank you anyway.”

We went back through to the front of the building where there were now about three other high-schoolers with their parents, there to take the SAT.

My dad and another girl’s dad tried to piece together what was going on.

“Maybe we have the wrong address? Maybe the school had a separate building where the test is being administered?”

With about ten minutes left until the test was supposed to start, we got back in our cars and drove up and down Jasper Road in search of anywhere that might be the real testing center. We all ended up back at Laurelwood. This was definitely the right place; the address matched, the picture on the test ticket matched, we couldn’t find any other school nearby. Five minutes before the test was supposed to start, we were all gathered in the parking lot, unsure of our next steps, when a local man arrived, claiming he used to go to school at Laurelwood and that he knew the person who ran the school and they would never do something like hosting a test on a Saturday.

My dad and the other parents and students were rightfully upset, but I could only be entertained. Certainly I was disappointed too, but I felt like I was witnessing the cacophonous finale to the most bizarre symphony of events I’ve ever experienced. Phone calls to The College Board were being made by the angry parents, but there wasn’t much left that could be done. It was now 8AM and all over America, students were opening their approved test packets, and we were in Jasper, Oregon: a town with very little to prove yet somehow manages to disappoint. When we all came to terms with the fact that none of us were going to be taking the test that day, we all parted ways. As my dad and I drove back out of Jasper Oregon, the entire town felt almost like I had dreamed it, or like we had made a wrong turn somewhere into an altered state of reality, another timeline where the SAT didn’t exist. I wondered if perhaps it was foolish of me to assume something like this wouldn’t happen.

#writing #creative writing #creative writer #story #true story #comedic writing #funny story #writing commissions #commissions open #art commissions #storytelling #pnw #pacific northwest #oregon #jasper oregon #SAT

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northwest-writing · 4 years

Text

17641 Garden Way NE

The largest single piece of property in Woodinville, Washington is the 800 space grocery store parking lot in the middle of town. Surrounded by other staples of white suburbia such as Panera, Starbucks, Petsmart, AMC, and Barnes & Noble, the massive Haggen parking lot is the center of culture (loosely put) in the town. No matter what precautions you take to avoid it, you will at some point be faced with no other choice but to brave this treacherous asphalt obstacle course of tight dividers, stray shopping carts, and spatially unaware pedestrians.

The medians and barriers of the Haggen parking lot were not designed with the increasing sizes of 21st century luxury SUVs in mind, and thus, are too close together for cars to easily move past one another. Almost every resident of the town has jumped a curb in this nightmare of a parking lot at least once. To a non-native, it may almost seem as though the entire thing were designed one space at a time by several city planners who all spoke different languages. Historians of the town haven’t yet ruled this theory out as a possibility.

Traffic jams, near miss accidents, and angry honking are quintessential to the Downtown Woodinville experience. Anyone looking to completely destroy their passengers’ faith in their driving ability and their character as a human being should consider driving them to the Woodinville Haggen parking lot on a weekday afternoon and allowing them to watch as they fail to communicate with the other drivers and stifle curse words while attempting to back out of one of the spaces in front of Panera.

By day, stay-at-home wives of Boeing and Microsoft employees struggle to move their $100,000 Range Rovers towards the exits faster than straight-A high school students trying to speed back to their 6th periods in their used Subaru Outbacks before their lunch breaks are over. By night the same used cars can be seen doing donuts, blinking their headlights at each other, and racing one another across a vast expanse of painted white lines. The members of these two camps often exist in symbiosis in the same households; the used car drivers feed off of the grocery purchases made by SUV drivers while the SUV drivers pay off the speeding tickets of the used car drivers. In nature this is called parasitism.

When they are not navigating their land yachts through the unforgiving parking lot landscape, the housewives that dominate Woodinville can be seen trying to manage their carts full of name brand groceries and their poorly-trained, hyperactive children. Once these women have loaded their bags of dog food, Pop Tarts, and Lays potato chips into the backs of the oversized cars their husbands bought for them, they will get in their driver’s seats and turn on their radios. If they hear rap music they’ll change the channel because “I just don’t understand that stuff.” When they return home they will get on the local forums to discuss with the other busy bodies of the town what should be done to keep “alternative lifestyles” out of the culture of Woodinville and the minds of their children.

#creative writing #essay writing #essay #writing #descriptive writing #commissions #commissions open #writing commissions #art commissions #commission me #pnw #pacific northwest #washington

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