Leaving

Here is a poem I wrote for a class last quarter. It is a tanka, which was popular in Japan in the 10th century. If you're curious about it, look it up here:  (tanka)  I got to read a whole book of them, which actually kind of rocked my poetic world. The book, "The Kokinshu" is magnificent and I recommend it to anyone interested in poetry or other cultures.     Here is my poem:

Leaving

shy mountain didn’t know

I watched her shrug off tattered

old mist while you still

slept I had to reach for her
peeking mounds of pale new snow

Melvin Blite (working title)

This story is an idea that I would eventually like to turn into a novel. I want to explore the world of it through a short story and I think it will be compelling enough to spend time on it both now and later. This is the first of four or five posts that will hopefully bring the story to completion.

'Melvin Blite', part 1

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Dawn landed abruptly, slashing its way out of the coolness of the night and layering itself down in waves of heat and glare. It was not a good sign, for it was not a day pregnant with possibility, nor playful in its promise of carefree mornings and blissful afternoons. Instead it caught hold of the sun for a moment and struck a defiant pose, challenging nature herself. "I will have my way with these hours of daylight," it seemed to say. There was no sunrise, but rather a moment of darkness, and then suddenly blinding light. A faint haze like smog obscured the suburban air, tainting it with a metallic aftertaste. Chrome surfaces at once echoed the radiance of the sun and then pulsed like a heat wave.

Melvin Blite glowered back at the arrival from his back porch. He clutched his his cup of cold coffee to himself on a plastic lawn chair, forcing the bitter liquid down in preparation for the day to come, and he grimaced at the dawn. He seemed to weigh his mettle against that of the day, wondering who would give in first. The alarm on his phone buzzed urgently in his pocket, but Melvin let it ring. He had set it for 6:00am the night before, knowing as he did so that he wouldn't need it. Now, the vibrations siphoned off his tension as though each pulse released a throbbing of anxiety. 

He glanced around furtively, with the growing desperation of a man hoping that a miracle will relieve him from the inevitable. But he knew better. July 3rd was inevitable. Every year brought it around again, and this was no different. The only difference this time, was that it came so much faster than last year. But he remembered thinking the same thing last year. 

And last year was a complete disaster. He promised to take Susan out for lunch to celebrate, but he ended up canceling on her. At least he hadn't told her that he spent the time lying on the trunk of his car in the parking lot of Walmart, instead. This year he hadn't made any promises that he would have to break, that way they would not pile on top of his guilts.

But he already felt guilty for not making the effort to be with her. Was he giving up? Was she not important enough to fight for? Didn't he even love her?

"Yes, but..." was as far as he got in answer to his accusations. Somehow any answer he concocted fell drastically short.

"She wouldn't even have a good time, with me like this." She doesn't care about that.

"Well, I ordered her flowers. That has to mean something." You ordered them two months ago. You couldn't even go out and get them yourself and hand deliver them to her because you were such a wreck. And you asked that they be delivered yesterday.

But as his contemplation betrayed him, his mood gradually changed. It was either that, or he gave up right then and there. He heard the sound of Susan's wheels rolling around the kitchen and he gradually realized that the day was at least not foreboding. If it did not hold promises of good and exciting things, neither did it bear down on his soul. It tasted of stagnancy and staleness, but not of dread.

And Melvin was at least thankful for that. He loosened his grip on his coffee mug, uncrossed his legs. And with that, felt ready to face the day.

Susan must have known and wheeled herself out of the kitchen to the empty space on his left. “How long have you been up?”

“Since 4:30.”

"Did Matt come home last night?"

"No."

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Posting Schedule

Here's my goal for posting: I will post twice a week. The post earlier in the week will be a creative effort like poetry or fiction. I cannot possibly post an entire story every week so I will post stories in parts. This will force me to stick to an idea and finish it. It also means that I will post some unpolished work. I like to do some editing as I go, but I will save comprehensive editing until I finish a story.

The later post every week will be non-fictionish. The first one every month will be a book review, the others will be musings and discussion about fiction, art, God, etc. Hopefully I will be able to publish entire thoughts and not have to break them up over a series of posts. What this means is that I really would love interaction from you readers. 

On the fiction side, the stories are in their conception so I would love feedback. On the non-fiction side, most of those posts will be explorations foe me. I don't have all of this figured out and if you have thoughts, I want to hear them. 

I'm adding a posting schedule page along the top of the site. This is 90% for me. I need the accountability of the plan and am trying to be organized with something for once. The other 10% is for any of you who who would like to know what's coming up.

The purpose of fiction

One of the questions that most frequently rattles through my head is, "What is the purpose of fiction?" Actually, I wonder this about all art, but quickly dart into the fiction corner for fear of overwhelming myself. A related question has to do with the place of story. Story is not always fiction, and for me that's where things get a little muddled. Story lets us experience the life, the thoughts, the existence of someone else. The most effective stories welcome us in to such a level that they move us as we observe characters' actions and feelings. Many things can do this and some are extremely specific to the reader. Nostalgia, poignancy, and shared experiences jump out as examples of this. A reader's and a writer's cultures also affect this process greatly. Nevertheless story has always been a bedrock of each people-group and culture throughout history.

I understand, at least more than I do with fiction the importance of story. But fiction is a crazy concept. Here's why: It starts with a drive or urge inside someone to express an idea, an urge strong enough to compel that person to spend a long time thinking, planning, evaluating, and finally writing something down. Through the miracle of creativity, once vague or disconnected observations coalesce to form a coherent, meaningful, and hopefully understandable piece of work. This piece of work is unified throughout and is inextricably tied to the writer's world-view. In addition to all that, when well done, it can be a thing of beauty. That astounds me. The creative process runs its course and results in a beautiful contribution to the voice of humanity. That God would allow beauty to stem in such a way from a corrupt people is truly amazing.

But that's not even the best part. Take this beautiful labor of love and consider that it speaks to the experience of another soul who reads or hears it. A work of fiction can be paradigm shifting for the reader. The ideas, the flashes of insight, and the questions that percolated in the writer are able to effect change, stretch ways of thinking, and challenge the world-views of those who read it. Lives have been changed by reading fiction, both for good and for evil. Well written fiction can be terribly powerful, able to alter the course of a life, or even of history.

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You-There

Here is a story that I just submitted for a 'new writer contest' to Glimmer Train Press. They are a monthly short story journal and they have some great stuff on their site. I recommend you check them out. Glimmer Train        

(to read the following story with a serif font, open the whole story as a google document here -You-There google doc)
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You-There
by Michael Belch

           Johnny knew before he ever lifted the barrel up past You-There’s chest that he would shoot Miss Cora deader than a possum rotting between the yellows.

He knew it before he snuck into Pa’s room, quiet like a coon so he wouldn’t wake him from his afternoon sleep. That’s where Pa kept the shotgun: under the bed so it was close should he ever need it.

            “A man takes care of business right quick and decisive, he does,” Pa always said. “That’s the difference between men and women. They want to talk it through. Not us. We take measures.”

            “Well, he was wrong about Miss Cora,” Johnny thought. “She took her measures all right. Right quick too.”

And just as cruel as anything Pa ever did.  Johnny saw her do it as he watched from behind Miss Cora’s woodshed. No one knew he was there, waiting for Mama to pass by with the basket of clothes down from hanging in the sun. Even if she believed she wasn’t part of his and Pa’s family anymore, and even if she was part of Miss Cora’s instead, he could still go and watch her. He did that many times when the air smelled like grass, and the sun poured out its dregs, and he missed her. He tried hard not to, tried to be like Pa who just spat and said, “Pah!”

Her absence was easier at first, when she talked to him and smiled at him when he came to her. Then he saw Miss Cora yell at her one day after Mama finished folding the clothes. After that, Mama hardly looked at him, and that made it harder. The hardest thing of all, though, was the little sweet breads he sometimes found left on the top of the wood pile. He would give half to You-There, and then run home and give half to Pa. But most of the time Pa didn’t want it, so he ate it himself.

“Boy, you’ve got to get over that woman,” Pa said one time when he offered him the roll.

Johnny didn’t know which one, Mama or Miss Cora, but that didn’t stop him from eating the bread. He didn’t stop watching Mama either, not entirely.  Every so often he snuck up to Miss Cora’s woodshed, first hiding inside of it, and later hiding behind it when it was full.

Just like Pa hiding and waiting for a deer or hare. Or like when he waited for the Yanks, hiding in the corn fields, holding so still.

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Attempt to define what I'm doing here

There is a tension that I feel every time I think about writing. Part  of me says, "I want to do this as a Christian, for God's glory. I want everything that I write to point to him." Then another part of me says "No you don't." The first of these I understand and embrace. Here's what I mean by the second.

By identifying myself as a Christian writer, I run the risk of instantly being marginalized or lumped into the same category as writers of Christian pop fiction. A lot of the fiction that is being written by Christians has to do with heavy-handed preaching, loose copying of secular fiction (except that someone gets saved at the end), or ineffective attempts write good prose. It's kind of like Christian radio in that sense. What ends up happening is the power of the gospel is watered down or completely lost, and the only people who end up reading it are Christians who buy it because it is a 'Christian thriller'.  I don't want to be thrown into that group by announcing my intention to write Christian fiction. To be perfectly honest, I am hesitant to tell people  at Church that I am interested in writing because so often they ask me if I have read the newest novel by Frank Peretti. To be fair, I have read some of his novels and they are not bad. They are just in no way what I am getting at. I want to write fiction that will invite those who know nothing about Christianity to read along. I also want to write stories that will invigorate Christian readers. Hopefully it will be stories that will make people think, and maybe even squirm a bit.

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Rachael's Consolation

Here is a poem that I wrote two years ago.
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    Whence cometh such song

    So sadly sounded in drips of rain?

    Doth sink into ashes

    Or fly forlorn for not one remains?

  
    Bitter, she won’t spit

    But embraces grief’s wooing, sweet gall

    And clutches her ears

    As though to close them from her own wail.

  
    Her yearns can avail

    No gladly called songs from her children

    Nor will they arise

    Nor waltz twixt table and chairs again.

  
    From Ramah’s loins bloomed

    Buds of plenteous promise of morrow

    But cruel was the sword

    That harrow’ed two years with sorrow.

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Crash

Marty Couler’s aunt ran over the neighbor’s dog while backing out this morning. Of course, his cousin told him all about it at school. All of the rest of the kids thought it was cool. He described the flies and the way the tongue hung out into a pool of blood. And this, right after Marty had gone to the revival meeting.

“It’s like he was thirsty,” he said.

Marty didn’t say anything, but he did walk away from the drinking fountain and into the bathroom. His cousin followed him in, still explaining how they had to scoop the dog up with a shovel, and that they missed the trash can and had to do it all over again. And that left two blood stains, one in the road and one on the neighbor’s sidewalk.

“Was the dog sad?” Marty asked

“What?”

“Were his eyes sad?

“No.  The dog was dead. I didn’t see the eyes.” And then he launched into a story about how he once saw a boa constrictor eat a mouse and how its eyes had popped out when the snake squeezed it. “It couldn’t stand the pressure. That’s what the zoo keeper said.”

Marty’s eyes traveled vacantly around the mirror. “Can I tell you something?”

          (to see the rest, open the whole story as a google document - Crash google doc)

Easter Reflections

I wrote this to be read at Church for Easter this year.
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     Death did not die with dignity,             
          Christ shattered suffring’s sting,

     And purchased by His passion’s price

          praise, honor, and offspring.

     But deeper dwelled his true design,

          than simply Sunday’s song,

     The goal He cast his gaze upon,

          around the throne, a throng,

     Of joyous, willing worshippers,

          caught up in praise and awe,

     A glimpse of grace and glory giv’n,

          when shown to heaven’s hall,

     Where rainbows ring of faithfulness,

          and creatures call him king,

     All celebrating for the gain

          of Easter’s first morning.

     Yet midst the chorus Christ calls out,

          to you and you and me,

     His cross, his triumph, beckons all,

          to bow down brokenly,

     And at its foot we fall to find,

          the life He longs we live,

     And drink and dive into the love,

          that he designs to give.