Here is one I wrote randomly my senior year of high school. Instead of writing an essay for my college application I submtited this and it worked. The older character is supposed to be a specific persos of considerable fame who recently passed. I wonder if anyone can figure out who I had in mine. Comments always appreciated.


Everyday for three months of summer I passed by the same park bench. On every
hot day it was under the same tree, cooled by the same sheltering leaves. Everyday no
one sat there as I passed, though it was always surrounded by birds. The birds would eat
and sing and sit in the shade, and be scurried off by the bustling of the passing summer
wanderers.
Today’s tree offers no leaves for protection. The branches are covered with snow
that is melting in the afternoon sun. Drops of water form and trickle down the branches,
grasping on to the bark for one last stand as they plummet to the bench below.
The bench below is occupied today by a man with shaggy hair and unfiltered
cigarettes. Incidentally, the drops that could no longer hold on fall to his head. He
doesn’t seem to mind, in fact, he doesn’t seem to notice. He is sitting with his legs
crossed, dragging his cigarette as he watches the people, bundled in their coats and
earmuffs, walk eagerly along the ice covered sidewalk.
As I walk through my ritual, I stop at the bench whose vacancy I have always
noted. I have never seen anyone sit here, so I break my routine and stop at the bench. He
notices me, for I am also breaking his routine. I am not bundled in coats and earmuffs,
nor am I walking eagerly along the ice covered sidewalk.
Looking at the bench, I notice the drops from above smacking into the bench and
the stranger’s hair. I take note of where they hit, making sure to avoid their wrath as I
take my seat on the bench. The man continues to drag his cigarette and watch the people
bundled in their coats and earmuffs, walking eagerly along the ice covered sidewalk.
"Some weather", I say. Trying to instigate conversation with the stranger who
has sparked my intrigue.
He takes a drag out of his cigarette before flicking it to the ground in front of him.
He doesn’t give me as much as a stare as he fumbles through the various pockets in his
jacket. He finally finds his cigarettes in his breast pocket. Just as soon as I begin to lose
hope of him answering my query, he turns to me, offering me a smoke. I don’t smoke
cigarettes, I never have, but today I took the man up on his offer. I took a cigarette from
his pack and placed it on my lips. I leaned forward as he lit my cigarette, and leaned
back as he lit his.
"It’s cold," he said, after taking his first drag. "It’s cold, but it’s real. Imagine
how cheated you’d feel if it were eighty."
"That’s a good point," I answer, trying not to cough between drags on my own
cigarette, "but I must wonder, aren’t you uncomfortable with the snow dripping on your
head?"
"Uncomfortable?" he asks me, "no."
I look forward as I drag my cigarette, and join him in watching the people,
bundled in their coats and earmuffs, walking eagerly along the ice covered sidewalk. Our
cigarettes grow smaller and the snow continues to drip on his head.
"Did you even notice before I brought it up?" I asked.
"Noticed, what do you mean?" he replied. He seemed confused, and looked at me
intently as he dragged his cigarette.
"I mean the snow, melting and dripping to your head. It can’t be comfortable, so
I was wondering if you even noticed them before I had brought them up."
He turned his head back, focusing once again on the people, bundled in their coats
and earmuffs, walking eagerly along the ice covered sidewalk. He dragged his cigarette
once more before throwing it to the ground in front of him. He stood up and turned to
face me. "Of course I notice, that is why I sat under this tree. Do you ever think of how
much all this, the world around us, means? Everything has its place, and all the tiny little
happenings are part of the machine. Just think of the snow on the tree above you. The
snow gathered on the upper side of the branches, gravity told it to do so, it is natural.
There, the peaceful and happy snowflakes rest. The sun comes up in the morning, and
when the sun shines down on the tree, the snow begins to melt. Just as naturally as the
snow came to rest on the branch, the flakes melt and trickle down below. Soon to rest as
drops of water, gathered in the puddle below. There, the peaceful and happy raindrops
rest. Now look at the transition. The snowflakes melt, and an individual raindrop breaks
free. It doesn’t just jump with confidence to the awaiting puddle, it trickles around to the
bottom side of the branch. It holds on with everything it has, and only when it has
reached the lowest part of the branch does it close its eyes as gravity pushes it off. Many
land in the puddle, where the peaceful and happy snowflakes rest. Many land too far to
the right or left, and soon dry up in the afternoon sun. The water’s transition is full of
painful beauty. I sit here, under the dripping snow, because it is the most comfortable
place I can sit. How can I be uncomfortable when I am constantly reminded of
something that teaches me so much?"
With that the man turned and departed. Disappearing with anonymity into the
crowd of people, bundled in their coats and earmuffs, walking eagerly along the ice
covered sidewalk. I drag the last of my cigarette, throw it to the ground in front of me,
and get up to go home.
The next day I walk through my ritual and come to the now vacant park bench. I
look up at the tree and notice the snow dripping off the extending branch. I sit on the
bench and watch the people, bundled in their coats and earmuffs, walking eagerly along
the ice covered sidewalk. I take out a cigarette, and as I light it up I feel a drop of water
hit my head. I drag my cigarette and smile, and I sit and watch the people, bundled in
their coats and earmuffs, walking eagerly along the ice covered sidewalk.

I really like this story, and it seems that even as a high school senior, you had a very strong grip on the English language. There are some amateurish flaws (some words used to excessive rapidity), but you picked a lot of very strong verbs, and the metaphor is superb. I'm guessing the older character is Vonnegut, but for some reason I pictured him as Tom Waits throughout.

By the way, did you let the college board know this was a work of fiction or did you just submit this as an essay? Because it's written in the first-person, and so welly realized, I'd have thought it was a true-life event had someone not told me otherwise. Nice work, bud.

Yes Frank, it was meant to be Vonnegut. I didn't tell the college board anything. I just put a copy of it in the envelope with my application. The thing is, I haven't written anything since my senior year of high school, and I really want to start again, but I feel like I have perpetual writers block. I read something of Vonneguts once that said every writer writes his whole life for one person whether he knows it or not. Vonnegut wrote for his sister, and at the time, I wrote for the girl in my other story (Sam). I realized the futility of my endeavor the year after I graduated, and now I don't have that drive to write anymore. I mean, I want to, and I know I can, I just need to feel some sort of passion to do it.

For me, writing is like sex. I don't feel like I can really do it (at least well) unless I really feel something behind it.

Hopefully I'll find a reason soon though. At some point in my life I want to have a collection of short stories which would be aptly titled "Stories For The Sake of Stories".

Blasphemy! In both fields you only have to please yourself.

Just kidding. Seriously, I'd still write even if and when you're not "into" it. Your mind is still creating ideas and scenarios, even if you don't feel it's motivated to do so. And while I agree that motivation is a big part of writing, it's far from the only thing. Besides, you might jot down an idea during your down times, and when the creative juices are flowing, take it and run with it. In a writing class in college, one of my professors had us do exercises where, if only once a day, you open up a dictionary or encyclopedia and write about that subject alone for 10 minutes. Whatever that subject brings to mind, get it down on paper. I never thought it would work, but I actually did get some pretty good stuff out of this exercise. Give it a shot, dude.

Interesting idea Frank. I think I should try that.

very strong thematically. you accomplish much in little space. very nice work. and to dissent from frank, i enjoyed the lexicon. in prose, i think repetition can strengthen and propel a piece and its feeling, which for me occured here.

The repetition of the line "bundled in their coats and earmuffs, walking eagerly along the ice covered sidewalk." Was to show the people around them as acting mechanical. Not in a social commentary kind of way at all, but to just make a subtle point that they weren't watching or merely being around anything significant, just people ine fleeting moments between two points. The two characters being the only two not being mechanical just strengthens the introverted themes by separating themselves from everyone else. I guess.

Accomplishing a lot in a little space has always been the way i wanted to write. I read a lot of the stuff on Mcsweeneys.net, and some of my favorite stuff I have seen has been along the lines of "100 words on....." or something of the sort. It forces you to be more poetic and fluid with your language.

i'll have to check out mcsweeneys then. anything particular i should begin with?

i really love it. everything about it. i suggest you carry a notebook with you all the time and write whatever comes to your mind. you'll be surprised, once "they" (words or music) find that you are open, they just come through you.

Just click on the archives link and look at the titles. Anything that sounds entertaining, read.

Thanks. I know it might be a little pretentious or self indulgent, but hearing these compliments make me really want to start doing that.