Mike's on a Train

This one had a LOT of potential . . . and I shall not give up on it! But it's still a rough draft, and only a hint of what I wanted to do with it. Note my philosophical ramblings blended with a shameless Kenny Rogers reference.






The sun poured in from outside, and Michael was bathed in a harsh glow that jerked him awake. He pulled himself upright and stared out the boxcar window, his mind and eyes wandering over the scrolling landscape before him. The sun was lounging lazily in the sky, its rippling limbs stretching across the horizon. Mike squinted and looked away. He counted the cactuses that went by. The green blobs blended with the sand.
As Mike began to doze, a realization slowly surfaced in his mind: he had no idea where this train was going or why he was on it. He considered this calmly at first; then with concern. He checked his ticket. Then he realized he hadn’t bought one – he was holding a stick of gum. Spearmint gum. He sat down to gather his thoughts. He couldn’t be alone on the train, right? Right?
Mike tore open his cabin door and launched into the hall, barely evading a particularly nimble steward on his way toward the dining car. There he encountered a scene of relative tranquility; the other passengers were quietly sipping their tea and eating.
“Where is this train going?” Mike screamed. A few passengers looked at him, mostly startled by his volume, and resumed ignoring him. Mike coughed and adjusted his glasses. He decided it would be best to take a seat at one of the tables, but ignored his impulses to select an empty one. Mike sat at table three with an elegant couple, already well committed to their meal. This in no way impeded Mike’s attempts at conversation.
“My name is Mike. How are you?”
The gentleman was feeling a bit bloated, but was otherwise quite well, despite his obvious head injury. The lady was preoccupied with a sucking chest wound.
“Would you happen to know where this train is going? Or where it is?”
The gentleman did know. The train was bound for Sacramento, and it was currently in Nevada. The woman also knew. The train was bound for California, and was somewhere near Vegas. An argument erupted over who was correct, and the result was a fairly nasty breakup and Mike getting a phone number. Mike got up headed back towards his cabin, noticing on the way that it was snowing outside. He stood in front of the window and watched the snow. A sailor stood next to him.
“Hey. Do you know where this train is going?”
“Where indeed?”
The sailor pulled a gun from his jacket and shot himself. Mike stole his shoes. They fit rather well, and that comforted him.
“You seem rather lost,” a voice observed. Mike turned to find it was an observer voicing. It was a slight man with coke-bottle lenses.
“I am lost,” Mike confessed. “I don’t know where this train is going.”
“I designed this train. Do you like it?” Mike hadn’t thought about liking it. He supposed he did.
“I suppose I do. But where is it going?”
“I have no idea. I’m just enjoying the ride.”
Mike frowned.
“Well, where’s the conductor? You know, the engineer?”
“There is no engineer,” said the engineer. “This train is fully automated. I designed it myself.”
Mike sighed and sat down. Outside, the leaves were falling. Slowly at first, then all at once, blending into a smooth, papery flame. Mike watched, hypnotized, not noticing a sailor with a shoe on his head. He eventually got nauseous and passed out. When he came to, he was surrounded by luggage. In fact, he was reclining on a briefcase. The sound of clicking plastic called his attention to the old man in the corner, shuffling a deck of cards.
“You don’t look so good,” said the gambler. “It’s written all over your face.”
“I just want to know where this train is going! And why I’m on it! And how I can get off!”
The gambler considered him slowly.
“Maybe I can help you. Got any whisky?”
“No.”
The gambler frowned.
“Oh. Tough luck, then. Find your own ride.” And he tossed Mike a bicycle. It was the King of Hearts. The gambler was gone. Mike slipped the card into his pocket and strolled back into the hall. The walls hugged him tightly while the floor rolled beneath him. The air became heavy and thick. He ran for a window, the nearest being inside his shoebox of a room. Was it his luggage inside? He opened a case to see what he packed. All he found was a toothbrush.
Abandoning his quarters, Mike resolutely marched to the back of the train. The hallway seemed endless, each car connecting to another car, each car filled with random passengers that didn’t seem to fit. It felt like hours passed while Mike walked, but eventually he reached a door. He firmly gripped its handle and began to pull.
“Whoa!” cried a passenger. “Don’t go out there! That’s the end of the train!”
“Do it!” spewed a sailor.
Mike’s mind was already made up. He was going to get out of this train if he had to jump off. With a deep breath and a firm pull, Mike pulled open the door and walked outside.
The sun poured in from outside, and Michael was bathed in a harsh glow that jerked him awake. He pulled himself upright and looked out the cabin window, his mind and eyes wandering through the passing clouds. The ground below rolled by slowly, visible only through small patches in the smoky screen above it. Mike squinted to see the details below, searching the manmade blemishes for familiar shapes. Patches of color blended on a flat canvas. Mike yawned and called the stewardess for another drink. It was going to be a long flight.

Shakespeare is a Dick

Ok, this one is rough but I consider it a decent start of . . . something. It was written for class.











Day 1

There isn’t a single thing the droning nun in the front of the classroom could possibly say to interest me. After eight months of lectures, exams, and papers, she’s completely out of ammo and she knows it. This class only serves to soak up the remaining time in the day, and she knows it. The last assignment is the final paper, and everyone knows that.
Everyone knows what the final paper is and what it entails. Not because it is announced at the beginning of senior year and alluded to throughout, and not because it is presented in the student handbook and listed under the graduation requirements. We all know about the final paper because it stalks the hallways year after year, in screams and in whispers, echoing its icy reality to freshman and upperclassman alike. It is a phantom, its legacy preceding us and our parents: an ancient being beyond the scope of time. It did not begin and will not end; it simply is and will be. It endures longer in this school than the man that hangs on the wall in every classroom. It is the whole of our truth here.
But there’s no reason to worry. Four years of education mean there’s nothing to fear anymore. There are no surprises left. This thing’s been built up into something nasty and scary, but it’s nothing but an exercise we’ve been excessively prepared for. Frankly, it’s a waste of our time more than a test of our abilities.
She hands us our thesis statements. I smile. I toss it into my bag without looking at it and head out when the bell rings. It’s a beautiful day out.

Day 2

Yawn . . . I’m going to sleep in.

Day 3

I’m back from church and feeling productive. I take a look at my thesis statement and see that it’s something about William Shakespeare. I jot down a few thoughts in a notebook to make an outline later. I think it’s frisbee time. Oh yes, it’s frisbee time.

Day 5

I head for the library and start searching through the card catalog. It takes a long time to find what I need, and I start to wish this place would get modernized and switch to computers. After about an hour of wrestling with its many drawers, I have a post-it full of call numbers and titles. The search can begin.
I carefully select books that suit my research paper.An essay allows a person to share his own thoughts, but a research paper is an exercise of rearranging the thoughts of other people. So I have to find other people that have already said what I want to say so I can quote them instead of saying it myself. Once I find the books, I scan through them and take notes. The note cards make it easier to arrange my borrowed thoughts and quotations later, and I record the bibliography information so that I don’t need the books themselves. It’s tedious but easy, as a paper should be.

Day 7

The paper is mostly laid out and ready to be written. I’d say I’m pretty much half done, at this point.

Day 9

I open up my laptop and stare at the screen. It’s a big, white, empty, glowing space. I type a couple words. Then I delete them. I eventually manage to get a full sentence down, but it doesn’t flow well into what I try to write after, so I delete the whole thing again. The first paragraph is always the hardest. Once that’s done, the rest all falls into place. Everything’s easier after the first paragraph. My goal for today is just getting that first paragraph out of the way. I’ll have no trouble pumping the rest of this thing out after that. I just need to focus on this one paragraph.

Day 10

Fuck! This isn’t working. I ditch the computer and try a notebook. Blank pages. I scribble all over them. Random blotches. Senseless lines. Anything to mark the spotless bastards; anything to put those pompous, pristine and perfect punks back in their place. There. Not as intimidating now, are you? Not so pretty anymore. I start putting down words, but I don’t write them. I carve them. My first sentence runs about five pages deep. When I switch to my computer, I pulverize the keyboard with relentless keystrokes. I delete almost everything and write it again. Again and again. William Shakespeare revolutionized the Shakespeare is often neglected in modern Shakespeare was greatly influenced by Shakespeare produced some of the most Shakespeare is Shakespeare was Shakespeare did. Shakespeare accomplished more than any other writer out of spite. He did it all to make me miserable. Shakespeare ruined high school. Shakespeare kicked my dog. Shakespeare stole my lunch money. Shakespeare is a dick.
I don’t care about the assignment anymore. I hate Shakespeare. I hate nuns and I hate school. I hate this computer and I hate blank pages. I hate Lady Macbeth and her stupid spot. I hate my keyboard and I’ve had it with Othello. I hate sonnets and I swear I’ll dirty every fucking sheet of paper in this house. Who the hell does Shakespeare think he is?

Day 12

I can’t put this off anymore. Enough’s enough. I have work that I need to do, and I need to do it now. I just need to take this more seriously and get a grip. The assignment needs to be ten pages long, double-spaced. That’s only five real pages. Easy. I have two more days to work. That means two and a half per night. I already have my opening paragraph. The paper is completely mapped out. I take a deep breath and get to business. There’s no time for anything else. I’ve procrastinated and been stupid. This is my fault. It is not too late to fix it. I’m completely focused. I am working.


Day 13

If I can get the fourth page finished in the next half hour, I should be able to get the fifth done by 4:00. The fifth page doesn’t need to be more than half done; I can stretch the conclusion long enough to bring it home. Easy stuff. Easy. Then I can sleep for two hours and punch out a works cited page and the bibliography. Then print it out and bring it into school. No time to proofread. Easy. I can do this. No problem.

Day 14

William Shakespeare is a Dick:
An Exploration of the Bard’s Ego


William Shakespeare is one of the biggest jerks in history. It is a well-known fact that he enjoys kicking small dogs, and modern research suggests he enjoyed setting elderly women on fire.1 Though responsible for creating several milestones in English literature (provided Marlowe is not actually responsible), Shakespeare created an impossible standard that oppresses his predecessors. Also, he touches little boys.2

Day 15

I should have asked for an extension.