So many words

I have decided to post another short story I've written for my creative writing class, and this one is... well... much longer. In this one Samuel's role as an antagonist is very obvious, and in the context of these other two characters, he really is. On his own he's not that bad of a guy, but most people are okay on their own. Frankly, this guy is an enormous asshole. So yeah. Enjoy this.


Gross Hurt
The plastic plant in the corner seemed to grow. It was the liveliest thing in the waiting room. The rubber foliage clung to its surroundings with tenacity, asserting its existence in the most menial of manners. Its subtlety was Callahan’s fixation as he sat in a chair, waiting to meet Professor Doanday, the head of the English department.
Callahan sighed as he saw a picture of Samuel Coldridge, the college’s newest contribution to western literature. Samuel was standing stiffly in the middle of a professor conglomerate. They enveloped him in intellectual audacity, beaming at their supposed progeny. Samuel was not even looking at the camera. His eyes vacantly reflected the camera’s flash, his mind clearly elsewhere. Samuel was Callahan’s reason for coming to this tiny Massachusetts college two thousand miles east of home, for pursuing an English major his parents vehemently opposed, for the past three years of his life that had involved him reciting Keats instead of fastening his cleats, reading haiku instead of NBA scoreboards, forgoing his protein milkshakes and weightlifting and cross-training in the frost for football to exhaust himself on the nuances of Mountain Interval.
Callahan was overjoyed to hear that Samuel would be a teacher’s assistant in some of the creative writing courses. He was meeting Professor Doanday for this sole purpose.
Instead of an eccentric, shoeless old man shuffling about in wool socks and toting a stained coffee mug in tenured dignity, a young college-age man approached Callahan. He moved quickly and spastically, clutching in latex gloves an enormous folder filled with manuscripts written in charcoal. Callahan knew exactly what they were.
“Quentin Hoakes, department assistant,” the man said as he extended his hand, struggling to keep the folder from dilapidation. Callahan shook his hand so firmly that Quentin squawked. Callahan was still burly, still commanded a physical presence, but most of his definition had resigned to fat
Quentin breathed deeply. “Professor Doanday is taking a personal day.”
“Callahan Grossherz,” Callahan replied. “Are those… new works?”
Quentin looked down in alarm at the manuscripts that had fluttered to the carpet. “Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, these are going to the printer tomorrow.”
“Are you…”
“Yes, his publisher.” Quentin’s quivering voice squandered his attempts at pride.
“But I thought…”
“Oh, no, I’m not allowed to change anything. These are original. Fresh too. I think this is yesterday’s batch. He’s quite prodigious, isn’t- DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH THAT!”
Callahan withdrew his curious hand, not out of fear, but rather from pity for the grossly abused Quentin the publisher.
“Sorry! It’s just that… NO ONE!—is allowed to touch them. Mr. Coldridge is quite exact in how he wants these published. Nothing changes, not the orthography, not the syntax. Really. He told me if I so much as touch them with my bare hands he would set my car on fire.”
Callahan laughed. Quentin did not.
“So, why are you here?” Quentin’s voice cracked.
“I was just wondering what class Mr. Coldridge is TA’ing this term. I’m a huge fan, and I would love to meet-”
“Introductory Creative Writing, taught by Professor Marks, meets Mondays and Thursdays at one PM in the classroom down the hall. No prerequisites, show up on time, don’t use big words, do not ask Mr. Coldridge personal questions.” Quentin had repeated this course description before.
“Thanks so much for your-”
Quentin’s speed doubled as he manically scurried out of the room, his heartbeat converging to a razorblade to the wrist or a bed sheet noose. Callahan was very, very excited for the course offerings this September.
The next Monday was the first day of school and the first day of class. Callahan arrived at class so early that he disrupted the senior seminar meeting beforehand. He felt no shame. Three years had accumulated to the fixed point twenty minutes from now. He played with his pencil, trying to make it spin on the desk. It would always sputter and stop, the sharpened end pointing in the same direction every time the parking lot outside. He saw Quentin neurotically running into his Scion with the same folder and speeding off.
After a few minutes the rest of the class came in pods of two and three assuming places by their friends. No one acknowledged Callahan. No one sat by him, either. He continued spinning his pencil and it continued pointing towards the parking lot. Quentin had scurried back into the parking lot, his tiny sedan ill fitted for the drifting he was trying to do.
Green eyes. He saw them in the girl next to him.
He did not know that her name was Ambrosia Froid. He did not know that she was an insomniac and that her irises would emit a more potent hue if only she slept more than a few hours a week. He did not know how she would lie on a bench and caress the grass, letting single words float into her mind that she would make a poem out of. He would learn all these things shortly.
“Hello.” He greeted her with a gentle wave.
Froid looked at him, perplexed.
He did not know that she was Samuel Tyler Coldridge’s girlfriend. But he knew she was beautiful.
“Hello,” she responded finally, turning her head away.
“What brings you to this class?” Samuel wanted to hear more syllables from her.
“Writing,” she replied, still not looking at him but rather arbitrarily organizing a stack of papers in her folder.
Callahan laughed nervously. Small talk did not get him into this college. “Oh, but of course! I love Coldridge’s poetry so much. It’s so… free. I did my senior project in English on ?y(not)ou! Such a great book. I’m so happy he publishes his poetry. I hear he’s a real introvert. But I guess that’s okay, because he’s one of the greatest poets who’s ever lived! I guess he can do whatever he wants, as long as he keeps writing like that. He’s like another e.e. cummings, no, wait, better than e.e. cummings!”
He did not know that Froid had not been listening to anything he had said after “oh.” Samuel had entered the room.
Samuel did not look at her at all while he crossed the room. His mind was clearly writing a poem. He tapped his leather briefcase with his fingers, coming up with a polyrhythm for a meter, percussing sharper when he broke his rhythm with misplaced orthography, a parenthetical. Everything was at his command. He made his own language through the perversion of another. Word order perversion. Grammatical category perversion. Orthography perversion. A few called it sacrilegious. Everyone else called it genius.
As he passed Froid he stopped and gently tapped her four times on the left shoulder. Tum tum ta-tum. That meant “coffee at-three”. “No” was never an answer. As soon as class was over Froid would rush to Samuel’s side. If she stopped to use the restroom or talk to a friend, Samuel would not wait for her and continue walking on his own. Samuel was going to do whatever pleased him, and he would less than minimally accommodate companions.
Froid called this a challenge. Everyone else called it abusive.
Callahan did not know this. He didn’t even know that Froid was completely ignoring him. To him the mere vision of Froid’s profile, eyes fixated on something in the distance, her angular features in the foreground, was lovely enough. Silence was lovely enough.
Callahan learned many things that class period. He learned that Froid’s name was Froid when the professor called on her. He learned that Froid wrote minimalistic poetry. He learned that Froid had a nervous twitch whenever Samuel would tap his briefcase as if she were expected to know the meaning of every iteration that came from his relentless percussion.
“So, do you wanna grab a bite to-”
Froid got up immediately and walked over towards Samuel, and the two briskly made their way out of the room together, Samuel grabbing Froid’s needle-like fingers and convulsively toting her to his desires.
Thus, Callahan learned that Froid was dating Samuel.
The next day Callahan was walking outside and saw Froid lying on a bench, eyes closed, caressing the grass. She couldn’t see him approaching, and if she had she would have certainly arisen quickly, avoiding any reality that involved him. She found him annoying, boring, and useless. Samuel called people like this “adverbs.” Froid began using the term too.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?” He began, towering over Froid, blocking her escape routes.
Froid opened her eyes lamely and stared at the mammoth, sun-glared Callahan. She contemplated ignoring him, but his smile was too eager to completely disappoint.
“Lovely,” she replied. “A great day to relax.”
“Can I join you?”
Froid wanted to say no. She wanted to resume her compulsory nap, close her eyes and be the only thing in existence aside from stars in her inner eyelids and words half-lucidly floating around in her brain.
Froid wanted to place Callahan next to Samuel and see how he would fare. She could imagine Samuel, in debilitating apathy, insulting Callahan with every insult he had created. “Athlete” for the burly, brawny student at this school on some sort of recruitment program. “Yeshi,” a corruption of “Jeshua,” for the overtly religious students that sought his conversion. Samuel liked these people. Often he would convert them. “Greeking leek.” “Suicide python.” “Faux-litician.” Samuel had one for everyone.
Finally, of course, there was “adverb.” Froid wanted Samuel to use all of these on Callahan, for she thought this was the only way to make him leave her alone.
Yet in spite of all this contemplation, she merely said “yes.” Callahan sat down beside her.
“You must be a sophomore, right? I mean, you didn’t just meet Samuel in the past couple days.”
Froid nodded. “We met last year at a poetry reading. He was standing alone because no one wanted to talk to him. He doesn’t converse well. He’s too busy thinking about more important things.”
“What’s he like?”
Froid hesitated. “Quiet, occupied. Like I said, he’s always thinking about poetry, so it’s hard for him to interact with people.” Froid smirked with satisfaction as if she had won the Nobel Peace Prize. In terms of difficulty, she really had.
“Yeah, he’s kind of like his poetry, isn’t he?”
Froid nodded again. “He’s exactly like his poetry. That’s what I like so much about him. He’s a walking poem. Talking to him is literally like analyzing his poetry.”
Callahan saw her attempt a smile but she couldn’t feel it.
“I’ve never read your poetry.” Callahan attempted a new conversation. “Do you have anything on you?”
Froid looked at him but didn’t say anything.
Callahan kept her glance. “You can tell a lot about a person by their poetry, can’t you?”
Froid showed him her poem:
“find out
why light seeps
and sleeps
in blue
orange
fire morgues
eating
and killing.
my
word
turns to
ash.”
Callahan looked at the poem, and then at Froid.
“Beautiful,” he sighed.
“What does it mean?” she demanded.
“Is there a right answer?” he asked.
She nodded. “I’m minimalistic, not abstract.”
Callahan looked back down at the poem.
“Why is it beautiful?” she asked again.
Callahan fixated on the vowels, as if this poem were some sort of cryptographic key. He remained silent for too long. In a momentary slip up of her dominance over Callahan, dominance over this adverb, she smiled. It was for three seconds and it was offhand. But she smiled like ice cream, like an air, like an exhale that had been waiting completion. He did not require analysis. He was simply someone who loved poetry. And he did not know the reason for everything.
Callahan saw this foreign expression from two feet away. Samuel saw it from fifty. When Froid’s smile sailed over into the distance and caught with Samuel’s eyes, she immediately got up and ran towards him. Callahan had meant nothing. He watched her run away, towards Samuel, towards that poem that she had been making sense of for so long.
The next day in class Callahan rolled his pencil in his lap, waiting for Froid. Samuel had come to class early, and they were the only two in the room. Callahan saw him lying on some chairs, smoking, in a peculiar but familiar position.
“We’re not allowed to smoke here, right?” Callahan said evenly. “Look at all this wood paneling.” Samuel didn’t move. He had no interest in the wood paneling in the room, and even less interest in Callahan.
Samuel restarted. “I know someone who sleeps like that.”
“Only person in the world,” Samuel replied with no inflection.
Callahan laughed at his mistake. “Actually, I have a friend who does that. She’s in this class. Do you know her?”
“Name?”
“Ambrosia Froid.”
“No, you athlete. Yours.”
“Uh… Callahan Grossherz.”
“Do you want to ask me questions, Callahan Grossherz?” Samuel sat up. His torso was surprisingly long as he leaned forward and relieved smoke from his thin lips.
“Questions about what?”
“About what you thought of my lectures, or why you’re interested in poetry. Vapid, self-necessitating politeness. Don’t worry; I am not one to feign interest. I do not give a damn either way.”
“How about you answer my first question first,” Callahan pressed.
Samuel shrugged his shoulders like a giant vulture. “I know her.”
Callahan nodded. “I guess I could ask you some more questions. What were you thinking when-”
Samuel got up wordlessly and walked over towards the garbage can and tossed his cigarette butt in it. Callahan stopped midsentence to incredulously watch him disregard every rule of etiquette. When Samuel returned he appeared bored.
“Why did you stop?” Samuel asked as if Callahan had interrupted him.
“Well, it seemed like you were about to leave…”
“I am an artist, Athlete. I never leave things half-finished unless they are meant to be that way.”
“Well, I was just wondering what you thought when you wrote ‘wet rock’.”
Samuel smiled. “I was jacking off.”
Callahan again was shocked. “You can’t be serious, Mr. Coldridge! What were you really thinking?”
“What does it matter to you?”
“You offered to answer my questions!”
“I offered, but that does not mean I will follow through.”
“But you just said that you always follow things through unless they’re meant to be like that!”
“Because it is. My purposes are for me and me alone.”
“But then why did you offer?”
Samuel sneered. “Just to see what you would do, Athlete.” And then Samuel stood up, even taller still, and walked out of the room.
Shortly thereafter the rest of the class arrived. Froid did not; neither did Samuel.
After class, Callahan went on the quad in search of Froid. He examined every bench, hunted under trees, walked past pods of students sitting in a circle playing the same three chords on a guitar. He was cold. Froid. Froid. Where are you?
Froid did not appear in class the next day either. Callahan spent his free energy looking for her. Samuel had reappeared in class, completely unscathed and uninterested in Callahan’s apparent paranoia. Samuel almost looked refreshed, as if he had cried out of his intestines and then returned to poetry for a form of constructive catharsis.
Froid was nowhere to be seen. For all that Callahan knew, she was a hallucination. Froid. Cold, callous Froid.
The next week Callahan found Froid under several layers, hood up, in the café where she had gone with Samuel. She sat at the table with nothing in front of her and nothing on her aside from her clothes. No backpack, no poetry. She was too weak to even look annoyed with Callahan sat down in front of her.
“Where the hell have you been?” he whispered. “You didn’t show up to class for a few days, and I’ve been assuming the worst!”
Froid’s eyes combated gravity and looked up at Callahan’s. She pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket and pointed at the headline on it.
“Transfer application?” The two words did not process together in Callahan’s mind. He sat at the table, unclear about whether to be a vigilante and tear it up or cradle it in his arms. Before he could make up his mind, Froid snatched it back and cradled it in hers.
“University of Washington,” she rasped. “Physics.”
“That’s on the other side of the country!”
“No shit.”
“But you’re so good at poetry!”
“Physics too.”
“Why? Is it because of me? Him?”
Froid shattered in front of him. Callahan, in a state of panic, pulled out pieces of notebook paper and handed them to her like tissues. She did not acknowledge the gesture.
“Samuel…” she began.
“What did Samuel do to you?”
She rolled up her sleeves. There were handprint-shaped bruises all over her forearms.
“Holy shit….” Callahan held her tiny forearms in his hand. They were cold. He rubbed them gently to heat them up.
“I didn’t know Samuel could become angry,” she began again. “I thought he would just break up with me.”
“That bastard, how dare treat you like this!”
“He told me…” She stopped immediately.
“He told you what?”
“He said…”
“He said…?”
“That he lives to do whatever the hell he wants, whenever he wants. And he… cornered me.”
Callahan began piecing the scene in his head.
“I told him no, that we should just break up. It was what he clearly wanted to do. But…”
“But what?”
“He kicked me in the back of my calves, and I collapsed from the pain. He repeated what he said and grabbed my forearms and pinned me down.”
Callahan’s eyes began to boil.
“When it was… over… He broke up with me. He said he didn’t want someone who interfered with what he wanted. He told me that I had broken my promise, that I could bear to be with him regardless of what he wanted or needed.”
Her dried-out eyes wrinkled in another attempt at a smile. “I lost the challenge.”
Samuel walked past the coffee shop outside. Callahan could only look at him. He got up, for a moment completely forgetting about Froid. His fist in preemptive shot-put balls, he was ready to succumb to entropy, beat his idol’s face into a chaos that not even Samuel could write.
As Callahan jabbed Samuel repeatedly in the jaw, in the cheekbone, red ribbons tying knots all over Samuel’s face, Samuel sat there and took the abuse. Callahan couldn’t understand why.
“Aren’t you gonna fight back, you disgusting son of a bitch? Aren’t you gonna try to beat the shit out of the guy who talked to your girlfriend? Come on, you can feel pain. FIGHT BACK!”
When it became more obvious that no matter how great the abuse that Samuel would not return the favor, Callahan felt awkward and stopped. Samuel lay on the ground, semi-conscious in a salty red haze, but smiling in some sort of morbid triumph.
“Athlete, why would I fight you back? It is not like you touched one of my manuscripts or something. If anything, I should be thanking you.”
Callahan forgot his anger. “For what?”
“For showing me what I could control and what I could not. Froid, without doubt, fell into the latter category.”
“How dare you treat her like that!”
“Like what? She is not in my world anymore. I do not acknowledge her. She is not my poetry.”
“HER FOREARMS!”
“I was foolish. I held on to her, tried to keep her in my world, but she refused. Trust me, athlete, it was very traumatizing. Afterwards it was the first time I ever cried.”
“So this is how you define your ‘world.’ Anything you can control is part of your world, anything you can’t just doesn’t exist.”
“Oh, do not preach my own doctrine to me, athlete. You are beginning to sound like a faux-litician!”
“For trying to play God, you’re pretty pathetic.”
“I do not care what you think, if I have not already made that apparent.”
“Clearly you do. Otherwise you wouldn’t have done that to her.”
Samuel frowned. He tried to stand but nearly collapsed again.
“Clearly. An adjective ending in –ly. Such a weak word. It suits you well, Athlete.”
Callahan would have punched him again had Samuel’s nose been any less deformed.
Callahan turned back towards the inside the café. His table was now empty. There was a piece of paper lying on it. He turned to Samuel and back.
“Thank you again, Athlete. I enjoy becoming recommitted to what is my real creation.” As Samuel limped away, oblivious to the violence on his face, Callahan rushed back to the table to see what Froid had left. It was not her transfer application. It was one of her poems.
Callahan crumbled it up into a ball without even reading it and threw it in the trashcan. In the distance he saw a Scion on fire.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

It's 70 degrees today

I'm waiting for office hours at the moment, and decided to write a poem while I waited.

Vernal November

A warm hand protecting a cold one
From the thaw. Calm breath and real water
Dissolve the leaves into soft pillows.
Nestled like a sock under bed sheets:
Forgotten, yet safe.
Converged browns, awoken from decay
To have one look back
And pause,
Take a second last breath.

Red is good for stitching,
For the sunset,
For the grass,
For the asphalt.
The bravery in sleeping.

POEM!

I just proved to myself that I can't be away from poetry for too long... While on the way to Cornell with the skating team I wrote this poem about birch trees by the highway. I like birch trees. I also got back into the swing of rhyming. It's nice to go back to things sometime, though you may see a lot of free verse in the future..


The Last Birch


Protrudes like a bleached bone
Out of emaciated soil,
A semblance of decay, a highlight
Of how November makes one alone.
She shivers at the frosted coil,
She shivers at the frosted night.

Her leaves escaped a week ago. They were right to flee
With the vitality, the grass, the flat green,
The violence of a changing scene,
The forest tracing a skeletal sea.

Where are her companions now? Oh, yes.
They splinter from the ground up, like trauma
Seizing hold of a child. But I digress.
A tree cannot feel drama.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

WHOA WHY ARE THERE SO MANY WORDS

So in the spirit of me throwing random things at you guys, I'm gonna switch things up again. Behold, a temporary direction for this blog! So my Creative Writing course has switched now into fiction rather than poetry, and as much as I love poetry, I'd like to start doing some fiction again too. Part of the reason I opt for poetry is because I'm lazy: a poem can be written relatively quickly and can vary in length. Characters, scenes, plots, standard structure, their omission is all up to you. I have written about as much fiction as I have poetry, but I love poetry more. Again, because I'm lazy. And I love playing with structure. The only rule in poetry is that you have to create everything. Also because my writing style in the past couple years has begun to savor brevity. Nuances are beautiful.

So anyways, this is a short story that took me forever to write (READ: lazy. And sick too, I suppose). The protagonist for the story is the antagonist in a novel idea that I'm developing at the moment. I did a character sketch for him for class last week and had a blast because I LOVE doing character sketches. It's the opposite of fiction. You create a persona who can do whatever he or she pleases with a plot. The plot does nothing to the persona. And thus, Samuel Tyler Coldridge (yes, a parody of sorts of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, though NOTHING alike), goes about his merry way thinking about why he writes poetry about ten seconds before he presents his poetry at this huge poetry reading in UW Seattle. Why Seattle? Not sure; I've never been. But the Suzzallo Reading Room, according to Google Images at least, is reminiscent of a church. VERY reminiscent of a church.

Well, I think I've talked enough. As if this word count isn't already quadruple what these usually are.


Higher Wisdom



“Samuel Tyler Coldridge….”

Bombastic. Heavy. Ornate. The speaker’s tone weighed on his ears like a King James Bible. A Bach four-voice English Suite. Grandiose and pretentious. Samuel hated any writing that was not his, including this thirty-second introduction. He hadn’t prepared anything. He refused, in his typical passiveness, to write himself an introduction, and he memorized all his poetry. He sat in the front row of the Suzzallo Reading Room at the University of Washington, analyzing the structure. It reminded him of the nave of a church. His position in the next several minutes would shift to the pulpit. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with Samuel Tyler Coldridge, a twenty-four year old sociopath who wants nothing more than to go back to sleep on a naked mattress. And the Word was God. The beginning, of course, would be in about two minutes. Did Samuel think of himself as God? In the context of his poetry, yes. And for him, that was all that mattered.

“… A visionary of syntax….”

The way Samuel used syntax had invited comparison between him and e. e. cummings. Samuel liked bending things to his will, notably, people and words. Words, of course, were much easier to manipulate. People were too independent. And they always failed his minimal expectations.

“… And grammar in poetry…”

Words never did. “Autumn” would not complain if it were used as a verb. He had written a poem once comprised only of nouns in various grammatical categories. He hated adverbs ending in -ly. They were derivations of adjectives. Weak and useless. He called many people “adverbs.”

Poetry was the only thing Samuel thought could exert his existence. Cogito, ergo sum. I verse, therefore I am. And where I am, I am God.

“… Is here today. This…”

Here? Today? What was he doing here? What did he agree to do? Oh yes.

Quentin the publisher had begged him to do this poetry-reading thing. Samuel had agreed to it because Quentin the publisher said that this would be “your big break!” with an exclamation point. Samuel thought the exclamation point was too late. He had already had his big break when he was eleven and found a coffee-stained copy of Robert Frost’s North of Boston under an issue of Better Homes and Gardens in the powder room. Art to wipe one’s ass to. His parents sure taught him many useful things. They also taught him to never split infinitives. Or write in fragments or end phrases with prepositions. Or both.

“… Is a…”

Quentin the publisher was ecstatic. Quentin the publisher wriggled in his seat anticipating the next word. Quentin the publisher would have ran up to the pulpit and read Samuel’s poetry in a heartbeat had Samuel requested it. That was just the kind of person Quentin the publisher was. Many commended Samuel for finding such a devoted yet nurturing publisher. Samuel called Quentin the publisher an adverb. Quentin the publisher still did not comprehend that Samuel meant it as an insult.

“Privilege!”

Everyone clapped as Samuel remained unresponsive. His hands were cupped over his mouth, and he breathed into them. He had been motionless for the entirety of the speech but right now was set on doing one of two actions.

“Ladies and Gentlemen:”

Turn his back on his entire life philosophy.

“Samuel Tyler Coldridge!”

Or run.

The audience applauded as Samuel emerged out of the bobbing heads. He moved away from his seat, still unclear which plan he was carrying out. Once he stopped he noted that he was in front of the pulpit. So this is where my poetry takes me.

People plopped everywhere, like dead fish, vacuous eyes in evaporated wonder. This nerveless pod, their sashimi textured will. Arrogance could not save him. Everyone was attentive. Samuel was God for the next two minutes. But Samuel was a God who wanted no responsibilities for disciples. And the only disciples that he desired were the ones that he could create.

Samuel scanned the audience for anyone that was not either ready to succumb to euphoric turrets like Quentin the publisher or armed with a note pad and pen and taking notes of his every movement. He caught the wondered gaze of a college-aged boy and swore he saw the boy take furious note of it. Samuel was looking forward to reading this one’s thesis.

He was also looking forward to firing Quentin the publisher and never releasing any of his poetry ever again. He believed he was a self-sufficient human, and as far as poetry and intrinsic wealth went, he was right.

A pair of familiar eyes in the audience.

Not ready to immortalize him into writing or to receive his Word. Two eyes, frail and dimmed by years of insomnia. He knew why she didn’t sleep. He knew better than anyone.

Ambrosia Froid didn’t look at him. She looked at his poem floating in preparation in his mind. She waited because she knew she was the only person in the world entitled to hear this poem. And she was right. He knew she was right. She needed to hear this poem, if no one else. The poem needed to return to its nexus. That was God’s mandate. He would read this poem and decline the other two.

Often Samuel closed his eyes when he recited his poetry, but instead he looked straight into hers.

“hIre why’s(dumb),” he began.

This was the poem that he had written in a few minutes, not in the morning or during the enigmas of the day like most of his other works. He had written it after her, after she showed him the cracks in his world. She was the reason he called everyone adverbs and why he stopped humanizing Quentin the publisher. He couldn’t stand the sight of the most tangible representation of someone else’s free will. Was she also God? In the context of exerting her world onto his, then yes. And to him, that was all that mattered.

There were no similarities between how he had planned for her to fit in his world and how she did, and even after he cast her aside with the great thoughtlessness that he imbued, she had already demonstrated much more than he had ever wanted. He wasn’t God in her world, and that simple fact trickled back into his own. Omnipotence was a hollow word.

As soon as he finished the poem he sat back down. Quentin the publisher’s eyes were alight in terror, motioning that Samuel go right back up to the front of Suzzallo and continue with the other two poems. Samuel shook his head. He wanted to see Froid.

With the unplanned truncation of the program, there was extra time for the reception. Students threw themselves in Samuel’s path, hoping their martyrdom would enable them to ask some trite question about Samuel’s choice of orthography or why he always ended his poem with the letter “I,” but Samuel was in no mood for converts. He wanted to see the one person he could never convert.

Froid was lying on a bench, her left arm dangling off the side so she could caress the grass. Her eyes were closed, so she couldn’t see Samuel approaching. Nothing else existed aside from her, the wooden bench cradling her back, and the feeling of grass. Samuel stood and watched her for a few moments.

“If it were not for you, I would have run off this campus the moment she said my name,” he said. His voice suggested no origin: perfect, standard English, no slang, a sociolinguist’s nightmare. Just words.

Froid opened her eyes and looked at Samuel but said nothing.

“I never tell people about what inspired a poem, but it seems important to tell you so,” Samuel continued.

Froid did not respond at all to Samuel. He waited for her to react in some way, but it never came.

“Why are you here?”

Froid sat up. “I go to school here now. For physics.”

“You switched majors?”
Froid nodded.

“You transferred schools?”

Froid nodded again.

“Why?” Samuel knew why, but he wanted to hear her consent.

Froid instead got up and ran off. Samuel didn’t try to pursue her.

She hates me that much. She wants no recollection of me. Samuel imagined the freshman in his writing seminar doing physics on the other side of the country, taking debilitating strides to vacate Samuel Tyler Coldridge from her existence. The paradox.

She had changed her entire life for him. The thought gave him sickening pleasure.


Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre