Chapter 30: A Writing Exercise

          A few days ago I decided to go into my documents folder on my MacBook and clean out some of the long accumulated and dust-covered stuff in the technological attic that is the folder labeled “My Writing”. Ever since my college days I have kept almost every writing assignment from all of my English classes, as well as various pieces I composed in my spare time. Over the years, every time I bought a new computer, I would store and transfer files, occasionally peeking back inside them to reminisce or continue some short story that I thought had promise.
         The other day, during a period of boredom, I decided it was time to do some housecleaning. I opened up every single document: some poetry, some short stories, some the first few chapters of a novel. 99% of it was absolute junk: vulgar, nasty, disgusting and downright blasphemous. I was an arrogant, loud mouthed, VERY proud, stubborn, opiniated jerk 20 years ago. I was firmly entrenched in the Atheist worldview, so sure of myself and my place in the universe, and very certain that there was no such thing as God.
          Needless to say, that 99% was deleted, erased forever from not only my MacBook hard drive but my cloud drive as well. And, thanks to my Apple ID which connects all my devices, that garbage from 20 years ago was also erased from my Mac desktop at home, my iPad and my iPhone at the same time. All those terrible pieces of art created by an unsaved and lost fool will never again see the light of day. Praise God!
        Among all that trash, though, was a few jewels. One of them was a one-page writing assignment from a class at Boise State University, most likely in ’04. The original prompt for the assignment was never saved, but I do remember that it was a list of ten specific instructions for a short, freewriting exercise. The instructions went something like this: “Write a sentence describing the weather", then “Write a sentence with some dialogue”, then “Write a sentence with a simile or metaphor”, then “Write a fragment”, etc etc. There was about 10 or 12 items total in the list, and the one-page story had to be written following each instruction on the list in order.
          The following story was my finished product.
 
         The fence was clapboard and had large holes at varying heights. The air was a humid soup that bathed my skin and made me sweat with any little movement. The cat rubbed at my ankles, complaining loudly at my indifference to her. I kicked at her, and she darted under the raspberry bushes that lined the fence.
            "I hate you, Bobby," I muttered.
            The sun was a blazing eye that ground its rays into me, and I moved to the shade of the oak tree in the far corner of the yard.
            My grandmother appeared at the back door. "Andy, come inside. Lunch is almost ready and your mother will be here soon."
            I followed her into the house, listening to the cracked heels of her brown shoes as they thudded against the hardwood floor. When I passed her to go into the dining room, the stale threads of her gray sweater scraped against my wet skin. She'd had the sweater for as long as I could remember and there were silver buttons on it, each one having a black eye in the middle. They always made me think of the Cyclops from "The Odyssey", a book that mom had read to me and Bobby when we were little.
            The China plates in the glass cupboard against the far wall. The redwood dining table was set for three.
            "Where's Bobby?" I asked.
            "Why isn't he with you?"
            Her thin, bony fingers clamped onto my shoulder. They were gray like the sweater. With her other wrinkled hand she turned my face to hers. Her eyes were wide and piercing: steel blue, silent interrogators from which I could never keep a secret. Mom told me once that she had named my little brother Bobby because she had admired Bobby Kennedy so much. My grandmother was the Cyclops, her rage turning her into a monster who attacked without warning or mercy. She hated the Kennedys.
            "I made cheese sandwiches," she murmured, placing her cracked lips close to my ear.
 
        There is something comically dark and ominous  - as well as slightly off balance, in a good way - in the whole tone of this story. It makes me smile every time I read it. I really wish I had kept the original instructions for the assignment.
        The only changes I made today as I reread it was to replace “aunt” with “grandmother”, as well as rewriting some bits in that paragraph before the last sentence. I added some more detailed description about the grandmother’s eyes and her hands. Other than that, though, this amusing little exercise has stayed with me for 19 years, unchanged, and I decided to post it here as a delightful non sequitur for your enjoyment.
          God bless, and have a great day!