Fall ‘21 Published ARCH Pieces

All pieces were submitted and edited anonymously— all ARCH members are undergrad students.

What Does it Take?

I’m trying to write a story. 

But I can’t find the nerve to start. What story can it be? Who should tell it, where can I place it, and when can I start it? I can’t stand the unknown. And so that’s where I’ll start. 

What paralyzes us? Why can I not start, and never ever finish the scraps I have. You tell me. Please, for god’s sake please just tell me why I can’t start a story. It’s tearing me apart; it’s eating away at the hole that’s already too deep. The story comes and goes and goes. It’s always going, always leaving. I can’t catch it. I can’t… I can’t even find it. I’d hunt for it. I’d do anything for it, to grab that story by its neck. I’d write the life out of that story, once I found it. I wouldn’t set my eyes off it. If I had a story… I’d be free. I could breathe, I could sit straight. I could stop lounging, crunching away at the keyboard. It’s not too much, right? To find a story. And that’s what we do, we find them. We hunt them. I had a dream this one night… and I had it. I had it in my hands. But the damned thing slipped away, by morning it was out of its cage. I’d lost it. I’d lost the whole thing. The fucking thing left me. I should have put it down, put a pen through its heart. A bullet through its smug face. 

Slaughter the story early before it runs off. I hate it. But I’ll do it. I’d do it. Just… show me a story, point me towards one. I need to find one. I can’t keep losing them. They trail off, they fall off. I keep falling out of them. I need to fall in, inwards. The damned things keep running without me. I need to… I need to kill it. To kill the next one I find, I need to pen it. To put them in little pens, to do something. Raise them up, raise them to slaughter them later. God, why do we have to put them down so quickly. Even in my dreams they’re sparse, rare sightings. You should see the ones I do see. Majestic creatures, roaming the forest every blue moon. But the ones I do have, come from the ground. But we aren’t farmers. I’m no farmer. The things crawl out of the ground, they’re squirrel-like, but they look like they’ve been kicked around a few times. Those are the stories I have. I keep them in a little birdhouse out back. 

But I can’t find the story. I can’t find the story I’m trying to write. But I’m trying to write a story. I promise. I promise I’m trying… I am. I am… trying. I’m trying to build something. No, I am trying to capture something. If I can’t hunt, if I can’t catch it in my hands; then how can I find it? Capturing a sunset and capturing an animal aren’t so different. I want to squeeze them both into a frame. I want to capture the whole story. Not a drop of paint, of blood, of anything will go to waste. I won’t waste it once I have it. Once I have something. Once I find the page, the page to start on. Do you know what the difference between good and great writing is? Do you? Really? It’s capturing. It’s knowing. It’s knowing that you’ve captured something. Something that’s true. Something that, if we were simpler beings, someone would completely understand. And not one of those fake, “Oh absolutely Deb, I completely understand.” Or one of those lies you tell your math teacher, “I understand it now completely.” But something that you feel in your bones. That feeling you get when your primary functions seem to flutter. When emotions seem foreign, and your lizard brain doesn’t even know what to do. When you don’t find meaning, but when it’s given to you. Thrown back at you and you’re slammed to the ground. Empathy. Compassion. Whatever the hell you want to call those chemicals in your brain. This isn’t a quirk, for you to question the very things you’ve been given answers for. What makes good and great writing? What’s the difference?

The difference is you and me. You and I make great writing. This isn't good writing, and it’s not great writing. But when you read this, when you see this. When you hear my little voice in your head, it could be good writing. It could even be great writing. But you’ve heard that before, haven’t you? You know how the meta genre works, my next words are going to be “Or is it?” or something along those lines. They want me to make you “think.” To leave you with something to think about. “You should come away from this with something new,” that’s what they’ll say. That’s what they teach. I’m supposed to be helping you. That’s the story, usually. I’m writing for you. For you to understand me a little better, to understand the struggle. Well, I’ve told you the struggle. I’m trying to write a story. I’m trying to write. I’m just… trying. I’m trying. I promise. I just need something. A little kick, a little nudge. Something to push me over the edge, maybe. A jumpstart. A twist down tragedy lane, or help hailing a taxi at comedy’s corner. The thing is… I’m here alone. You’ve got a monologue; you’ve got a voice in your head (or two, if you’re special) and the things I have to say are small. Redundant. Simple. 

You’ve been here before, haven’t you? You expect something out of it. Something out of me. Those English teachers in high school teach you that? They make you selfish? You needy bastard. You think I have anything to give you? You know my story, and I’m still telling it. I’m just finding the right place to start. The right place. The place where it all began. That place. Not in medias res, not in the beginning. Never start at the end. So where do I start? Where do I find the fauna? The creative creatures. Those things that I’d take a sledgehammer to, to juice the bones. Squeeze out the marrow and make myself a story. I’m desperate. I’d do anything for a story. I’d hide them in a basement until they’re ready to see the light. I’d do anything. I’d do what it takes for a story. You know that. I’d fatten it up until it’s ready. You wouldn’t see the light of day if I thought you’d make a half a story. That’s what I’d do for great writing. I’d write you up. I’d put you in a frame. Stitch you up next to that squirrel and cactus I have. Because those are the stories I have so far. And they haven’t quite “made it.” You might think I’ll eventually give you something. Maybe that’s why you’re still here. But I need something from you. Something. Anything at all. A wish, a dream, an idea. Give me something real, so I can tell the truth. So it's complete. So it fits the narrative. So I can finally stop hunting. Because… well… 

I’m trying to write a story.

The Bird Feeder

She woke up experiencing something that’s difficult to imagine, so I will simply recount the facts of the matter. She had stirred awake at around 7 AM, with intense pain in her left arm. This pain would have started while she was in her sleep and increased with time. As the pain increased and she became fully awake, her heartbeat would also begin to rapidly increase. The pain in her left arm would then be mimicked in her chest, starting at the center and moving left, until both pains collided somewhere just below her shoulder.

This lasted until the sun had fully risen, at which point the pain subsided and she rolled out of bed. As most mornings, she started her day by boiling water for tea and cooking 2 eggs over-easy, and a slice of toast. Her kitchen was void of her husband, who never rose this early, so she ate her eggs and drank her tea without conversation.

As she ate, she thought about the day. It had started in such a peculiar way that she decided it was fit for a day out. She picked up her landline - she was more comfortable with it still - and dialed a friend.

“Hi Julie,” she started the conversation, “how was your morning?”

Julie replied, “Same shit different day, Suze, same shit different day. How was yours?”

She picked her tea up shakily, “Just fine, just fine. Listen - would you want to go out shopping? I need to get out of the house a bit.”

“Well, let me see what I’ve got going on,” Julie said.

Susan wasn’t ready for a no, so she sipped her tea. Still waiting on a response, she said, “Come on now, you’ve been retired 20 years. What else are you going to do?”

Julie laughed, “Well, aren’t you right? Sure thing, Suze. Where you wanna go?”

Susan now stopped responding for a moment. She paused to look out of her kitchen window, following a squirrel who was trying to break into her bird feeder. “You pick, Julie, you pick.” She cracked the window, “I’m just trying to get out of the house.”

“Sounds great. I’ll come pick you up in a few minutes, we can get breakfast. Did you already eat?”

“No, I haven’t,” Susan eyed the squirrel through the now open window, “See you soon.” She set the landline down gently on the counter, then pulled open a cupboard. She fixed her eyes on the squirrel again, drew a BB pistol from the cupboard, and shot the squirrel out of the tree.

“Goddamn squirrels in my bird feeder,” she muttered to herself, “I don’t wanna shoot em. But they keep scaring off the birds. The birds need food. They’re just trying to enjoy the sky.”

“Are you talking to yourself again?,” her husband’s voice came softly from the bedroom door. He wore a hazy morning smile and a night robe.

“You know what I’ve always said,” she started. They finished in unison, “It’s not a problem til I start responding.” They laughed in unison, too.

He gave her a peck on the cheek and poured a tea of his own, while she started 2 more eggs and another piece of toast. He took a short walk to the front porch, grabbed a newspaper, and started looking it over, “So, honey, what are your plans for the day?”

“Julie’s gonna be over in a few minutes, we’re going to go out shopping.”

“Well, that sounds nice. What’s the occasion?”

She shook her tea to her mouth again, “Nothing, hun. Just want to get out a bit.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” she muttered. She went to sip her tea again, but this time shook too hard. A wave of tea ran down her chin, and the rest fell to the floor.

“Oh Goddamnit.”

Her husband peeked over his paper, “Are you sure you’re alright?”

She reached for a towel, then squatted down slowly to the mess, “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just clumsy. I was never good with my left hand.”

He intercepted the towel at the floor, “Why don’t you go get changed? I’ll get this and get you more tea.”

“That would be lovely,” she said, “just lovely.”

Susan shuffled back to the bedroom and disrobed, then started searching through her closet. Her chest still felt tight, so she chose loose fitting clothes, figuring it was an easy compromise. By the time she left she found herself in a denim dress and a flannel patterned shawl, which she needed for warmth even in the summer months now.

“Honey,” her husband’s voice came from the kitchen, “I think Julie is here.”

“Oh, okay, okay,” she lied, “I’ll be right out, I’ll be right out.” Unfortunately for Julie, Susan had come to the most difficult decision she was going to have to make. She had worn the same shoe with a Dr. Scholl’s sole for what felt like forever, but in the back of her closet were a pair of Mary Jane’s from when she was a college student. She held her nursing shoes for a moment, then started to squat again. She reached out as far as her arms could reach, causing another twinge in her chest, and pulled out the Mary Jane’s.

She sat on the bed and struggled into the old shoes, stood up on them shakily. She paced around for a moment, getting used to them again, then left. She stepped cautiously to her husband, kissed him, and said goodbye.

“I’ll probably be gone when you get home,” he let her know, “I’ve got a meeting with one of the new hires. I love you, I’ll see you when I get home.”

“Yes, I’ll see you back at home, honey. Back at home. I love you,” Susan said. Then she stepped awkwardly out of the house, holding the rail as she descended the stoop. Julie had a car nearly as old as the pair of them, with a loud engine. Susan approached it with a smile, “Someone should just throw this old thing out.”

Julie laughed, “Oh, hon, we all should be thrown out by now.”

“Don’t I know it?,” Susan said to herself.

Julie started up the car, backing slowly out of the driveway, “I love your shoes. Are they new?”

“No, they’re old, very old,” Susan said, “But maybe I’ll get a new pair today.”

“So,” Julie asked, “that’s what you’re on the prowl for?”

“No, no. Just want to get out a bit. Where are you taking us?”

“Not far in this old thing. I was thinking we’d go to that mall in the city, they’ve got a big Macy’s,” Julie said. Susan didn’t respond for a minute, so Julie smiled over at her, “Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“Sure, sure,” Susan said, “sounds nice.”

Julie and Susan drove slowly to the mall, noticing that there seemed to be a lot of honking and engine revving by the cars behind them on the way. Julie thought it might be because of the chemicals in the chicken these days. Susan suspected it was because Julie couldn’t read the speed limit signs. But she didn’t say anything about it.

In a rumble of noise, they pulled into the parking lot of Macy’s. Julie pulled into a handicap spot just in front of the store, “Well, would you look at that.”

Susan made no remark because they were always able to park at the front of stores now. She simply crawled out of the car, plodding her Mary Jane’s against the concrete. The pair shuffled into Macy’s.

It was bigger than Susan remembered. The lights were brighter than Heaven, and the roof had been stripped. She found herself staring up at steel beams, with wires wrapped around them, sometimes dangling off. The walls were clinically white, and there were always elevators dinging. But most offensive to her senses was the perfume section.

“Oh my,” Susan said, “it smells God awful in here.”

“You don’t like it? I think it’s nice,” Julie said.

“No,” Susan grumbled, “it smells like old woman.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Suze, but we are old women.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to smell like one,” Susan found her feet heavy when she tried to step forward, “You know what? I think I’m going to go have a cigarette.”

Julie looked taken aback, “Honey, you don’t smoke anymore.”

Susan turned, “I know I don’t smoke. I don’t smoke. But I need one bad.”

And so she left the Macy’s and its chemical smell and its clinical walls, and she stepped back out to the blacktop. Her chest was tight again, so she took a moment to breathe. She failed. So instead, she started walking around.

Between all of the stores in the mall there were little alleys, littered with cigarette butts. She checked the first alley and found no one, moved over to another, also empty. By the time she approached the third, she couldn’t handle much more walking. Luckily, she found a young man in a waiter’s uniform leaned against the wall.

“Excuse me,” she said, but he didn’t respond. He was wearing headphones. So she tapped his arm, and repeated, “excuse me.”

He looked over at her nonchalantly, “Need a cig?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all,” he smiled, “anything for a beautiful woman like yourself.”

She smiled back as she reached out for the cigarette, “Oh, don’t flatter me.”

“You need a light?,” he asked as he placed the cigarette in her hand.

“I do, actually,” she placed the cigarette between her lips and let him light it.

Through the filter she could breathe alright. It really had been a while since she smoked, but it was like riding a bike. Breathe in, breathe out. Deep. She knew to let it in. She puffed a few times before she felt steady again, “Do you work around here?”

“Yes, ma’am. Right here,” he tapped the wall. She had no idea what building that was, she didn’t spend much time in the mall anymore. She didn’t really care.

“Going to school?”

“Not right now.”

She puffed, then gave him a matronly stare, “Do you have a plan?”

He puffed, too, “Not really. I don’t know what I want to do with my life.”

“Well, what do you like doing?”

He looked away, “I really like painting, but there’s no money in it.”

“Honey,” she said, “there’s no money in anything.”

He looked back, “What do you mean?”

“I mean if all you worry about is money, you find out real quick that no one makes as much as they want. Do something you care about.”

“But what if I work here for the rest of my life, y’know?”

She smiled, “You don’t like it?”

“I don’t hate it, but it’s not where I want to be forever,” he said.

“Then get the hell out and do what you do want to do forever,” she puffed again, “Life is too short.”

She puffed the cigarette down to its filter, “Life is too short. Let yourself fly around a little bit.”

He smiled at her, “Hey, I gotta get back to work.”

“You feel any better about it?,” she asked.

“You know, I do. I don’t know why.”

“It’s cause I’m old honey,” she stuck her arm out again, “you know I know more than you. Can I have another?”

“Sure,” he said. He handed her another cigarette, and gave her the lighter.

“Thank you, love. You go have a good day, alright? Paint something.”

“You too,” he said, and started to step back inside.

Susan sat for a second, enjoying the high. She stared up at the sky, which was full of light and broken clouds. A pair of sparrows flitted around above her. They seemed like they were playing with each other, maybe flirting. One would fly a circle around the other, then take off. The other would chase, fly another circle, then take off back the other way.

She watched them keep up this pattern for an eternity. She squinted up at the sun, trying to catch the details of their feathers. They were brown and white and yellow, in patterns she couldn’t make out. She watched for the quickness and nimbleness of their movement. Listened for their playful chirps.

And when eternity ended, she sniffed the air, taking in the smell of the new summer.

Once it was all in, she put the cigarette to her lips. She lit it. Then she pocketed the lighter, and fumbled around for her mobile phone. She flipped it open, struggling with one hand to dial the number she needed. She called her daughter, who took a few rings to answer.

“Hey, Mom!,” her still young voice answered, “What’s up?”

“Nothing, honey, nothing. I was just thinking about you. How are you?”

“I’m good, Mom. The kids are in school, so I got a little extra sleep.”

“That’s great, honey,” Susan dragged her cigarette, “Listen, I have to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

“I had a heart attack this morning.”

Susan could hear her daughter’s anger through the phone, but her daughter didn’t say anything. So, Susan continued, “I’m going to go to the hospital in a few minutes.”

“This morning! You didn’t do anything? You didn’t call me?”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Susan said, “I’m going to be okay.”

The phone shook on her daughter’s side, “Mom, I’m going to kill you.”

“I’m going to be okay, honey. I’m going to go to the hospital, don’t you worry —  I’m going to go to the hospital,” Susan puffed the cigarette harder now, “and I’m not going to come back for a long time. Maybe ever. They’re gonna want to keep me there.”

“They are. And you need to go.”

“I know, honey. I’m going to go,” she could sense her daughter was about to cry, “Honey, it’s all going to be alright. Look, I already got through it. I’ll be fine.

They’re just going to keep me for a while. You’ll come see me, won’t you?”

Her daughter did cry, “Of course I will, Mom.”

“I knew you would,” Susan said.

“Are you going to need anything while you’re in?”

Susan took the last drag, and looked to the sky, “Just one thing.”

“What, Mom?”

“Keep the goddamn squirrels off my bird feeder.”