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ERIC - ASSIGNMENT ONE

A cloud on the horizon and then another. moving up and then out at the top, the clouds fold over on themselves and expand like water running to the edge of a table. The earth is silent and bright, though the sun is no more than a red glow on the horizon. Blood red. Red, the color of blood.

Blood the color of paint.

Opaque on the horizon, the sun has ceased to move and is resting. The seventh day. It's work is done, and nothing is left but blood and shadows. A silhouette. A man on a horse. A white horse, black against the sun, and her rider. Man who was created and has destroyed looks to the sky. Sky the color of blood. Blood the color of paint.

Opaque like the sun.

The man begins to ride. The horse begins to run. Cause and effect are meaningless. The sky parts and they fill the void. The horse is compelled by the wind and creates the rivers where she goes. The man rides, with the full forces of hell at his back and on his shoulders. The devil, a cunning linguist of the mind. His eyes close. His mind closes. Everything is shut out as he rides. The blood of the sun and the sky, the wind and the rivers, the devil and all hell are shut from his mind as he rides.

Nowhere to run.

And yet, he continues. The horse never tires, the rider never looks up. They ride. The seventh day and all is at rest save horse and man, bringing the wind as they come. Puddles forming where hooves have fallen. Puddles joining into lakes and lakes into rivers. Water crashing down behind horse and rider as though driven with purpose. As though the blood could be washed away.

And it is.

With the water and the wind, layers of earth and blood erode like paint. The man does not open his eyes and the horse does not falter or stop. They are the wind at water. They are rain. They are the clouds. They are the destruction of all life - the clouds that covered the earth. They are everything and they are all that is left and they are running.

And the horse does falter. And the man is thrown. And they lie still. Breathing. Breathing. Then silence. The world is silent and bright again. The sun has begun to move, shedding its opacity as it climbs into the clearing sky. Everything is clear and bright. The water crashes down, bringing noise and more light. There is nothing but noise and light, the crashing of water, the reflection of the sun. The man and horse are washed away and covered up. Man who was created and has destroyed. Man who was destroyed and has created. A bird sings.

Flowers and trees. The sun moves, rising and falling. With it the wind and the silence. Waves. A tide. Light and dark. Noise. Silence. Peace.

AARON - ASSIGNMENT ONE

of course the song is playing. it always is: i'm tired of fighting i'm tired of fighting let the golden age begin

there are many rooms in st. ignatius' retirement home and active living community. forty five residential rooms, two public bathrooms, a suite of offices and the janitor's closet. st ignatius' releases five newsletters each year and sends out approximately thirty notices of crossing over during the same period. all stationery and official publications that emerge from st. ignatius are embossed with the stylized pale green and mauve birch tree that st. ignatius' feels suitably represents their ideals of life, love and the active elderly lifestyle. currently seventy-two "active elders" live in the rigid pale green and mauve corridors and, since the shining automatic doors first swished smoothly apart, six hundred and twenty men and women have passed away behind their pale green and mauve doors. my name is connor morehouse. i am the janitor at st. ignatius' and i have been in every room in this pale green, poorly lit, disinfectant-filled place of dying. every room except for one. on the deep winter morning when the world ends, i awake as the light fingers through the crack in my thick red curtains and stains the dark wood of my floor. my alarm clock says it is 6:07. but my alarm clock is six minutes fast. i kneel on the floor dressed only in the tattered black shorts i sleep in. the wood is frigid. i wince. but the cold allows me to say my morning devotions without falling back to sleep. dear god thank you for everything you give me. thank you for this day. please let me do what's right. thank you for everything you give me. thy kingdom come, thy will be done and in the coming of the kingdom protect me from the pale horse and his rider protect me from hell and death and all his demons deliver me from evil in the name of jesus. amen. i always seem to repeat myself when i pray. but it is important not to miss anything. i take off my shorts and lay them on my blankets. i stand in front of the mirror and suck in my stomach. my penis looks small and shriveled in the unforgiving light and i hate the small black hairs that grow from my nostrils, my ears, my shoulders and any other unsightly place they can take root in. my body. my body broken. i tighten my lips and close my eyes. i let the air out slowly.i sit naked on the side of my bed. in nakedness god can see the full nature of my loathsomeness, i will not hide the fat and hair from god. it is important to be naked before god. i am as he made me: transparent, naked, loathsome. i open the bible by my bedside. today's verse is from john: In my Father's house are many rooms: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. it is a good verse. i feel stronger. i look in the mirror again. it will be a good day.

DAN - EDITING

A cloud on the horizon and then another. moving up and then out at the top, the clouds fold over on themselves and expand like water to the table edge. The earth is silent and bright, no more than a red glow on the horizon. Resting. The seventh day. The work is done, and nothing left but long shadows in the fields. Silhouettes. A man on a horse. A white horse, black against the sun, and her master who was created and has destroyed look to the sky. All the blood that's been spilt. It folds over on itself and expands like water to the table edge. The sky parts and I fill the void. The horse is driven by the wind and gouges the rivers where she goes. The man rides, I ride, I am the man, she is my mare. With the full force of hell at our spine and on our flanks. My eyes close. My mind closes. Everything is shut. The blood of the sun and the sky, the wind and the rivers, my sentience and my hell are shut from my mind as I ride. As though the blood could be washed away. And it is. With the water and the wind, layers of crust and scab erode like carolina dirt. I do not open my eyes and the nightmare does not blink. They are the wind at water. Oscillations. They are rain. They are the clouds. Pendulums across the heavens. They are the intersection of all life - the clouds that blanket the earth. And the nightmare falters. I am thrown. Lie still. Breathing. Pulsing. Then silence. The world is quiet and bright again. The sun has begun to move, shedding its opaque cloak as it climbs into the clearing sky. Everything is clear and bright. Gray God mist climbs from Cade's Cove to Dolly Sods. The water crashes down, bringing noise and more light. There is nothing but noise and light, the crashing of water, the reflection of the sun. The man and horse are washed away and covered up. Man who was created and has destroyed. Man who was destroyed and has created. A bird sings. Flowers and trees. The sun moves.

i'm tired of fighting

let the golden age begin

But you could be my Wormwood still. there are many rooms in st. ignatius' retirement home / active living community. forty five residential rooms, two visitors' bathrooms, a suite of offices and the janitor's closet. st ignatius' releases five bimonthly newsletters each year and sends out approximately thirty notices of Jordan-crossing during the same period. A swing of the pendulum. all stationery and official publications that emerge from st. ignatius are embossed with the stylized sea green and mauve birch tree that st. ignatius' feels suitably represents their ideals of life, love and an active elderly lifestyle. currently seventy-two "active elders" live in the rigid sea green and mauve corridors and, since the shining automatic doors first swished smoothly apart, six hundred and twenty men and women have passed away behind their sea green and mauve doors. Your name is connor morehouse. You are the janitor at st. ignatius' and you have been in every room in this sea green, poorly lit, disinfectant-filled place of dying. every room except for one. on the deep winter morning when the world ends, you awake as the light fingers through the crack in the thick red curtains and stains the dark wood of the floor. your floor. your alarm clock says it is 6:07. but your alarm clock is six minutes fast. you kneel on the floor dressed only in the tattered black shorts you sleep in. the wood is frigid. you wince. but the cold allows you to say your morning devotions without falling back to sleep. dear god thank you for everything you give me. thank you for this day. please let me do what's right. thank you for everything you give me. thy kingdom come, thy will be done and in the coming of the kingdom protect me from the hatred, and love protect me from death and all that precedes it deliver me from evil deliver me from life in the name of jesus. amen. you always seem to repeat yourself when you pray. but it is important not to miss anything. you take off your shorts and lay them on your blankets. you stand in front of the mirror and suck in your stomach. your penis looks small and shriveled in the unforgiving light and i hate the small black hairs that grow from your nostrils, your ears, your shoulders and any other unsightly place they can take root in. my body. your body broken. you tighten your lips and close your eyes. i let the air out slowly. you sit naked on the side of your bed. in nakedness god can see the full nature of your loathsomeness, i will not hide the fat and hair from god. it is important to be naked before god. You are as he made me: transparent, naked, loathsome. you open the bible by your bedside. today's verse is from john: In my Father's house are many rooms: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. it is a good verse. you feel stronger. you look in the mirror again. it will be a good day.

And that is how you came to me. That is how I came to be here, and you came to see me. to talk to me.

My name is Connor Morehouse. I thought that if i found all your memories, you would stay. My mother

SONDRA - 1-8-07

Connor placed the mop on the freckled tiles with a soggy slap. Always the same. Always working from the corner, left to right, left to right, until he had backed his way out the bathroom door. He stopped to gaze at the gleaming rows of tiles. Connor's shoulders lost a bit of their rigidity as he surveyed his work, but he heard a faint ping near his left ear as he turned. Pain knifed down his neck twisting his muscles into a hard knot.

You really are past your prime when simply turning throws your neck out, thought Connor as he walked up the hallway dragging the mop and bucket behind him past doors 20 through 25. Mrs. Manning, Ms. Moffit, Mr. Melancamp, Mrs. Muffler, Mrs. Mux, Mrs. Mafziger, Connor's brain ticketed them off as he passed.

At the end of the hall he stopped to consider his next move, up to the second floor visitors' bathroom or back to the janitor's closet for the vacuum to start on the offices. Feeling around in his pocket, Connor felt the tarnished penny he had found yesterday while cleaning near door 37. He flicked the penny into the air. Let it make the decision for him.

The penny arched away from Connor. He stretched out his hand and felt the burn in his neck. The penny landed on the floor and rolled into the shadows under the nearest door. No number. No name. Connor paused in front of the door. The shiny knob stuck when he turned it. Locked.

The penny might not have rolled far, close enough to fish out with a finger, but it seemed a long way to the floor from where Connor stood massaging his throbbing neck. Just a penny, he consoled himself, frowning at the space under the door. Of all 51 doors why this one?

He should have left, just turned and walked away, but he lingered another second, wishing for the penny. His eyes wandered to a lump near the base of the door. Odd that the factory had failed to plain it flat, and the door was too new to be warping. The fine grain of the wood ran over the lump in a wave. Thin brown lines converged, separated, and converged. Between them the wood took an almost lavender tint. A dark brown patch in the very center of the two lines stared up at him. Expanding. Deepening to a burnt coal black. A glowing eye squinting up at him.

Pain stabbed his stiff neck. Groaning, Connor turned and shuffled down the hall toward the janitor's closet. Time to make another appointment with the chiropractor. (speakers play constant prayers throughout the home)

SONDRA - 1-15-07

Sunlight sashayed across the moss covered stage where starlings and asters bowed to the clapping brook. Water wending through borough and basin, weaving intricate damask designs, applauded as it passed. Down, down each drop dripping and weeping down into the pool, round as a Sunday collection cup, at St. Ignatious' outer courtyard. Ms. Mofit, balding and bearded, drooled on the breakfast the nurse, Nancy set on her fold-out wheelchair tray.

Connor imagined knotting Nancy's hair between his knobbed knuckles. The thought, like a gun shot, sent his heart on a race. He leaned on his garden hoe and prayed twelve hail Mary's to the slowing of his heart, staring at the silt and sand, silver amongst black soil. When he looked up, the halo around her golden hair sent him straight back to his penitent prayers.

B. Nancy Shelley, nurse at St. Ignatious for nine years, backed Mr. Macare's wheelchair through the sliding glass doors, oblivious to Connor's qualms. The B. stood for Beatrice, an unfortunate family heirloom. She slid the doors shut against the morning. A toad's ill-time leap smacked against the translucent pain and bandied him back to the beige bricks. Connor hoed around spiny hawthorn hedges counting each stroke by tens to one hundred and back again until a prick cut him short.