WRITER'S CLUB MARCH 18
This week Writer’s Club is hosted by Gabrielle Soria. She is an incredibly talented Associate Creative Director who is one part copywriter, one part concepter and one part Californian. Learn more about her on her site: http://www.gabriellesoria.com/
Join her on Wednesday 28 March at 19:30 Central European Time for Writer’s Club. She will be going live on our Instagram www.instagram.com/sydenhamclub.
Details: You will be welcomed and briefed at 19:30 on instagram and given a starting point to create a short story. Gabrielle will share a couple tips and tricks that will help your process. The starting point may be a detail about a character, a sentence of dialogue or even a theme. From there you will have 3 hours to write your short work. When completed share it via email (info@sydenham.club) or via twitter using hashtag #writersclub18march and tagging @sydenhamclub.
We will put the collection of short stories together digitally as well as in audio format after 4 weeks. You may either submit your own audio or we can record it for you. A guest judge will choose their favourite and the winner will receive the ALONE TOGETHER sweatshirt!
https://www.facebook.com/events/199681864661429/
————————————————-
Here are tonight’s submissions. We will be collecting them each week and after 4 weeks we will have them displayed in a beautiful collection so stay tuned. Also, one of you will win an “alone together” sweatshirt!
——
18 March 2020
Writers’ Club with Gabrielle Soria
Jared B
My Annie
It’s been just shy of two days without my sweet Annie. It’s not right that at 73 years of age I’m to spend the rest of my days alone. And in such confinement! I haven’t been alone in so very long. “You an empty nester then?” was always asked when I would mention I never had kids.
Years ago, I often would wonder if birds who never reproduced built nests knowing no offspring would dismount from them. Did they just live in smaller nests? I wondered if they prepared a life and home for children they’d always hoped they’d have. I would ponder this as we downsized our home then downsized again. But never the mind because I have always had Annie. Well, not really always. We met later in life and what a blessing to have found each other when we did. She brought that twinkle back in my eye or at least that’s what Ted, my brother would tell me. It must have been some 18 years ago when I first saw her but it always felt like we’d been together forever. It was a different world when we met, heck, it’s a different world from when she took her last breath, only the day before last.
Look at me now, so hopeless and fidgety. Sometimes I think I should be grieving more, but I have, trust me I have but there’s been one thing on my mind that’s been keeping me up well after my bedtime of 8pm. It was something I said to Annie just as all this “epi-pandemic” thing was in its early days and us old fools knew nothing about it. She was looking particularly worried. And knowing Annie it was probably because she thought I was looking particularly worried. And that’s when I said dismissively “oh, it’s not the end of the world….it’s just a bit of a cough”. You see I was a smoker. I’ve since quit now but I had always been a big smoker and that, therefore made me a big cougher now too. But you see, my cough sort of changed a couple weeks ago. It became very dry and I could tell it was annoying Annie. That’s when I scoffed the regrettable “it’s not the end of the world” at her.
Look, I am someone who’s lived through 14 presidents and a half dozen wars in countries I couldn’t even pronounce. I have outlived a few best buds, a couple heart attacks and even all those things weren’t even worse than my ex-wife, Janice. So when people were hooing and haaing about a flu going round I really wasn’t all too bothered. That’s just how I’ve always been. I wasn’t going to let some flu stop me from being me. But that little flu wasn’t no thorn in our shoes. In fact, turns out the damn thing isn’t a flu at all!
And now, look around us. Every shop is closed, countries are closed; I didn’t even know countries could close! Planes aren’t flying and I’m too nervous to use the loo on account of the short supply of loo roll. I could tell you some stories!
Oh just look at me...I’m stuck here with this body, my darling Annie. You see, I don’t want to bother anyone as I’m sure they’re all quite...busy at the moment. But I just don’t think I have the courage to bury her in the yard. I am a bit, however, concerned about the smell. Anyways, I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re probably thinking “at least it wasn’t your child, your brother Ted or even your wife! It’s not the end of the world!” But to me Annie was my everything, much more than just a cat. She was my world.
———-
Courtney Crisp
The End of the World
When some people picture big tragic things, there’s a sense that someone should see it coming. It will follow a violent storm, or a riot, or in some way make sense.
The truth is, the worst things happen on quiet Tuesday mornings with little fanfare.
I remember every detail of that morning. I was in 6th grade, an age which feels equal parts
rooted in J-14 magazine, junior high dances, and wildly fluctuating adolescent emotions.
I woke up at 6:15, eager to see the results of the soft leave-in curlers I had vehemently
convinced my mom I needed last week. I carefully untwined each one, smiling as I surveyed the curls from every angle. I swept Nylon by Mac eyeshadow across my lids and carefully applied electric blue liner by Urban Decay to complete the look. My Catholic school had a strict no make-up policy, but I always saw those as more of suggestions than actual rules.
I bounded downstairs to find my mom watching CNN. Mouth open. Hands by her side. Coffee
steaming untouched on a table nearby. My mom was not a person who ever sat or stood still,
and I knew immediately something was very wrong.
Turning to the TV, I remember the smoke most of all. Black and thick, coming from two burning buildings. People sprinting down crowded New York streets. Tales of people jumping out of buildings to avoid the flames.
We watched silently for what felt like hours. In my 6th-grade brain, at the time it didn’t seem so bad.
Bad things happen on the news all the time, and my preteen brain couldn’t put into context the
significance of what was happening. Finally, my mom in her no-nonsense German way, said
“Let’s go. You’re going to be late to school today.” We, who were never late. Our family, who
often arrived at things a half hour early because being late was unacceptable. We were not the
only ones that day.
September 11, 2001. The day all planes grounded, everyone was on high alert, and our country
stood still.
When I think of all of the craziness going on today, this is the time I most think of. In some ways there’s similarities. The world once again feels like it’s standing still. It’s hard to think of a time that we ever talking about anything else besides COVID-19.
But in many ways, they couldn’t be more different. September 11 was a national tragedy that
brought the United States together, but it arguably drove a wedge between us and so much of
the world. It led to anger, xenophobia, racism, war. It turned neighbors against neighbors and
friends against friends.
This time, we all have a common, silent enemy. I have been beyond inspired by the way I see
nations working together, sharing supplies and scientific breakthroughs with creating a vaccine.
But I still worry deeply, and often. As a psychotherapist, I worry about the psychological
impacts that will last a generation. As an American with a God-awful healthcare system and
little social safety nets, I worry about so many in my country and community. As a San Diego
resident, I worry deeply about our homeless population who will likely be hardest hit. I worry
about kids who depended on free school lunches, and our neighbors just over the border in
Tijuana, Mexico who will likely be hit next with an also challenging healthcare system.
One of my new favorite quotes about tragedy I found while looking for quotes to
sustain my husband and I’s new morning inspiration routine. It’s from Stephen King, who said:
“A tragedy is a tragedy, and at the bottom, all tragedies are stupid. Give me a choice and I’ll
take A Midsummer Night’s Dream over Hamlet every time. Any fool with steady hands and a
working set of lungs can build up a house of cards and then blow it down, but it takes a genius
to make people laugh.”
― Stephen King
I like the thought because a. it’s irreverent and irreverence is healing. But also, it’s easy to be
consumed with worry, and grief, and anxiety. (And the therapist in me tells you to honor that
and to use your coping skills!) But think there’s something beautiful to the thought of making
comedy and finding joy in a tragic situation. We have each other. We are a creative, resilient
species. My hope is that at least in my country, anger at the state of our healthcare system and
those it leaves out will create change.
Or maybe I’m just building up my deck of cards and the corona virus will blow them down.
50/50 odds.
————
Gabrielle Soria
Grounded
The Thursday before lockdown began had a kind of school-age charm. As if we, a team of six grown adults, alone in an office in a self-isolating city, had shown up to school to find it devoid of teachers, classmates, rules, order. In the office, we played music too loud. Bantered without reproach. Took an extra-long, late lunch at the pizzeria on the corner. Even the dogs played along, stealing each other’s beds as if it were their last chance to try something new.
Because we had a deadline, and because we could, we stayed at the office until late. And because our deadline had passed, and because we could, we went out for dinner afterwards. We marched up the quieting streets like a little club, filling the sidewalk with our voices. We chose an Asian restaurant that was typically hard to get into. Because people are terrible, it was empty. And because we could, we went in.
We ordered food like we wouldn’t be able to dine out ever again. It was a fusion place—all lacquered tables and dark wood benches—and they served Asian tapas. Each dish had a silly name like, Bali Baby and Ding Dang Dong and Duck in Pyjamas. A bowl of spicy prawn soup was inexplicably titled, My Ex. The tiny dishes arrived in droves. We pecked at them with shiny red chopsticks, trading bowls around the table and dropping rice everywhere. The dogs looked on, non-plussed. We ordered a second round of drinks. We wondered where to go next.
The sense of freedom, of deviation from the norm, was palpable as we stood on the curb outside, after all was said and devoured. The situation seemed to call for seriousness, but we were nearly giddy. Giggling. Shouting decidedly un-studentlike suggestions—dark basement clubs or bright DJ’ed bars or neat rows of coke tapped out on someone’s coffeetable. Some sort of sense (or was it normalcy?) prevailed, we decided to go home to bed. We said we’d meet the following weekend—we’d go out then.
There’s something to be said for being adult in a time like this.
And going home was the proper thing to do. It was late. A school night. We had client meetings and more deadlines tomorrow. I climbed into bed with no regrets, and when I woke the next morning and stretched—refreshed, I felt good. Rested. Responsible.
At noon the news came that the bars must close. No events, or large gatherings. No concerts, or shows, or clubs. Everything I wanted to do, I couldn’t do anymore. And I realized—shit, that was it. Our last hurrah. Our chance to make the most of it. We’d had a substitute teacher with the wrong roll call and an open door, taunting us to go through it—but we were honor students. We picked up our pencils and we passed the test, although looking back, maybe it wasn’t ours to take.
Up until that point, I hadn’t been afraid. But then the city started shutting down properly. Then suddenly, I was alone. Not so brave without your friends beside you. Yes, it was true. I grew jumpy at loud noises. I covered my hands to open doors. I counted, and re-counted, my cans of corn. I pulled a length of toilet paper, then considered, and rolled some back. Is this my life now, I wondered?
Exiled. Isolated. Jailed in my home. Grounded, as if I was eight again. Back in the days when the world revolved around playdates with friends and fresh air—the feel of summer-warmed grass beneath your feet. When being grounded was the worst possible thing that could ever happen to you—the worst possible punishment. Having to stay away. Having to miss out.
I hated it, hated yearning for what I couldn’t have. And unsurprisingly, tried constantly to cajole my mother into shortening my sentence. Sometimes now, staring out the window, despairing at having to stay indoors on such a nice day—I hear her voice in my head. The warm exasperation of it, half hug, half admonition—when she’d turn and see the scowl scrawling its way across my face:
“Come on—it’s not the end of world.”
—————-
Daniel Graf
Untitled
The funny thing is that some of my fondest memories of our time together are not the exciting things we experienced but of random moments that could be defined as utterly boring. But it is not the moment I remember and much rather the emotion I felt at that specific point in time.
Like looking at a random photograph that suddenly reminds you of the emotion you felt the moment it was taken.
I remember you sitting next to me on the train home, not talking, just watching the world pass by and it was one of the happiest moments of my life.
But that was a long time ago. In the end our relationship was just a brief moment in time. Sparkling and shining and then suddenly vanishing into nothingness, like a falling star.
It was not the end of the world.
———-
bahia watson
the end of the world
and she walked, past long trees full of dried branches and wondered if they were dead or just
sleeping and if there was a difference. the road squeaked under her shoes as if it was made of
plastic. squeak, said the smooth rocks, squeak said the fallen, flattened rain that glazed every
surface in sight. she thought of donuts and turned to look behind her. the towers were grey and
soft in the sky. so many right angles, she noticed, for the first time. the edges were sharp and
human, i guess it makes sense that we did it like this, she thought. the wind pushed her
forward and so her feet continued their dance of one foot in front of the other. no body else
was around, no bodies anywhere, just a wide landscape of memories. the monuments were
upsetting and the first things to go. all that was built up was smashed into rubble, the past was
shame, was error, was dust. no one needed a statue of regret, that bottomless churn stayed
alive and was born into the bellies of those who wondered forever what they did, what they’ve
done, why they were to being asked, why they were to blame. sun, oh the resilient sun, burned
high and mighty in the shocked, white air, seething. as she walked, one step in front of the
other, she pulled a thread in her mind that carried the sounds of birds when birds would sing,
when there were birds. she opened her mouth in harmony but her vocal chords cracked like
parched mud and crumbled down her throat. there was nothing left to say anymore. when the
trees stopped, so did the road and all that is empty stretched out in a moon-shape around her.
she turned her face backward, one last time, a pin point of smoke curled like the thin ghost of a
snake. before her, a giant fog, warm and opaque. below her, a shrinking ground now only the
size of her feet. the sun roared orange and quiet and not a single cloud formed a rebuttal. and
then the ground turned to ash, and the smoke that once curled with extraordinary life dissolved
taking with it every wanting that made it this far. she, alone, hovered in a sea full of exquisite
nothing and with her last breath was invited to join. first her toes went soft and abandoned her
heels, her ankles rejoiced and flew into the haze, her calves, thick and strong, unwound and
spun away from their work. and then, as if a balloon, a gust of wind entered her home pushing
the walls of her world out, out, out. she, as a room, had never felt so big. and the chattering
voice remembered a song, but before the words found her, it was all gone.
———
Jaclyn Locke
Untitled.
she presses a thumb to her phone, unlock.
hairs stand
throat tight
eyes twitch
thump thump
gulp air
stomach bloats
bones crack
thump thump
is this the end of the world?
hands clean
clean hands
again again
thump thump
mouth quiet
fingers fast
all day
thump thump
her sun is finally back, and the birds are laughing.
————————————
Olivia Zuccherato
IT’S NOT THE END OF THE WORLD
“I missed my train.
I was late for that meeting.
I didn’t get the job.
I haven’t exercised… in a while.
I missed that deadline.
I got a bit too drunk.
I ate too much.
I haven’t been taking my vitamins.
I stayed up late.
I slept in.
I should have apologised.
I shouldn’t have apologised.
I didn’t say what I was thinking.
I didn’t say what I really meant.”
It’s not the end of the world, they say.
It’s the end of the world, I say.
But if someone were to replace all I felt and instead tell me:
“Don’t go to work.
Don’t see your friends.
Don’t see your family.
Don’t take the train.
Don’t take the plane.
Don’t hug.
Don’t kiss.
Don’t
Just — don’t”
“It’s the end of the world, they say.
It’s not the end of the world, I say.”
—————-
Andrew Krysciak
Flat Land
I walk for miles
Through acres of distance
To find the end
My travellers persistance
The form, which we stand
The safe which we feel
The land which we position ourself
Hungry to feel
These feet they move ME
ME
An object who’s self
Three fifths of H2O
That allow this move
To continue to row
But the faster that move
In the air that we breath
The air that we guide through
Cut this movement with ease
Continue on forth
To the end of the world
The always continuous
Tetris map we unfold
The choice to explore
On land or in air
Like the rivers that pierce
Or the oceans who bare
The rareness of life
Who exists in our dreams
May the oceans expose
Be the answers or keys.
