Short Story 3 - Summer Evening, David Hockney

Exhausted and unstable, she eventually leaned against the side of her cousin's porch. For the first time, wood supported her. For once, she could cry without being insulted but for some reason now she couldn't find the ability within her. How could she not find the weakness to cry? How could she not unarm herself and release everything? Maybe she underestimated how much strength it took to cry. Maybe it took more power than anything. She had cried before, in a previous life, countless times. It was the same heart in her rib cage. Maybe it just had become so thick, so concrete, that it forgot how to send the impulse for tears. It could be worn down to what it was before. The heart of a woman was as innocent and sensitive as a child's.

Confused and sympathetic, he joined her against the wood of the porch. He watched her profile, waiting for the opportune moment o touch her. It agitated him, made his toes curl down in his sneakers. Thinking about it made his pants a little tight. Instead though, he examined her tight jaw line and jagged chin. Her forehead ran into the slope of her nose. Her eyes, vibrant and engaged, lay back, deep in her face. He traced oneof her broad shoulders down to her muscled arm as she rested her spidery hands against the top of the porch, perched like a raven. He muscle was tense and the indent of it reminded him of a slope.

He would simply admire her silently and wait for her to speak. A part of him moved his eyes to her collarbone, and down her chest to her breasts. Feeling guilty, he looked back to her face, her crooked lips. She looked like she was trying to make sense of something, some difficult enigma of life. Her eyes appeared so distant. He shifted himself more toward her and sat on top of the porch, his feet dangling. Patiently, he would wait for her words like he was suppose to. With sincerity, with empathy, with genuine affection.

But she didn't say anything and her eyes remained somewhere else. She was most likely thinking about money, if anything. That had been the topic of argument with her cousin, Nate. She needed a lot of money and he was against simply giving it to her. She promised, with puppy-dog eyes, that she would pay him back, "every penny", but he was stubborn...or smart.

She came into the small neighborhood nearly six months ago. Or was it seven? She had a single suitcase with almost nothing inside and was let off in her cousin's quaint neighborhood. Her whole persona contrasted with the flowers and bright green lawns of the suburb. She didn't belong there and it was a difficult sight to look at. Almost like torn flesh being pealed from itself. To her, the sun was probably blinding, the air most likely stung her lungs, and a migraine likely ensued due to the bright colors. Nate saw her, disheveled and tired. He didn't take notice to the pealing skin and the contrast she placed on his front lawn because of his shock. He hadn't seen her in half a decade and now she was standing behind the screen of his front door, looking vastly different. It was the same face on a new body. If they hadn't been so close previously, he would not have recognized her -- the new her.

Crying, she lay on his living room couch for a whole week without explanation as to what happened to her and why she had shown up in the first place. She eventually left the couch, got dressed in whatever she had and went out to a bar. There she met her boy after completing an intoxicated karaoke performance. She seemed to have ceased releasing her depression, at least for a couple of days. When her cousin began demanding some sort of explanation, arguments ensued. When she explained the money and support she needed, he became enraged. "This is bullshit," he had said. He would not just throw everything he earned on his own to her. She needed to earn it herself, he told her.

She seemed to have ignored her cousin's words and more arguments erupted in his quaint living room. He told her, asked her, why she wouldn't admit the truth and be honest with the people in her life now -- she could start new, he told her. She seemed to try and gain sympathy from him, as she confessed the abuse she faced from her father. Although his face became soft and his eyes rested, he did not develop enough sympathy to understand her actions. It was simply impossible for him, he admitted. He didn't understand, he said, how a person couldn't be honest with the people he or she loved. But the truth was, she had to be honest with herself, however, at that point she could not face herself, even in a mirror.

Tonight had been the worst. She had been threatened by Nate. She was warned and given two options, altering and consequential. Nate told her, with such anger and misunderstanding, that either she told her "new boy the truth" or he would. And then he said, before disappearing into his bedroom, that he would "kick her lying ass out" if she didn't start "manning up." How those words resonated and stung her when he said them. She looked like a piece of wall crumbling after erosion and nature. Her father use to tell her: "Be a man." But she wasn't, how was it possible?

She called him immediately her, her new boy she met at the bar. She had nobody else now.

He always thought of himself as empathetic and understanding. He was a great listener, his friends had told him and he seemed to comfort others adeptly. All the previous preparation and experience couldn't prepare him for her secret.

What was melancholy to her was that she had been content with him for the six or seven months she had with him. This was her first relationship. He was ecstatic and caring but something loomed in her eyes and he took notice. He tried, with great efforts, to change her view of the dark and judgmental world. He he hoped that tonight he would finally discover what had been bothering her since he had met her. He could curiously caring.

He could never do more than kiss her. Her hands would roam but she never let him touch her except for the occasional hug. He probably thought of this as strange but she had used the excuse that this was her "first real relationship" and she "didn't want to mess it up." She was "still getting use to it all." She even looked rigid sometimes when he'd go to wrap her in his arms as if she hated the feeling of being touched, as if he was going to crack her porcelain skin. But he asked for no further explanation or reason. He was curiously, cautiously caring.

The thought of creating some sort of lie more than likely crossed her mind. She couldn't sit anymore in silence and listen to the crickets and the peace of the neighborhood. It had to be now and she had to confess. But she obviously was not ready. It would have destroyed them. It would have torn away at any sort of development she worked for. All she needed, she said to Nate, was a surrounding where nobody knew her in order to bury the old her. Maybe she believed that her cousin would allow her to became her new self in his home. Maybe she thought his home would be some sort of sanctuary. It was miles away from the torture she faced and the struggles she ran from that concerned her identity.

She took in a breath and finally looked at the boy's face. His eyes dug into her but not deep enough. They rested in his soft face. She tried to smile for him but it appeared incredibly forced. She gathered in the fresh, suburban air and prepared to lose him.

"You're so quiet," she murmured with the crickets. Her muscles relaxed some and he gave her a warm smile.

"I don't mind much," he responded.

"Thanks for being patient with me. I know it's probably a pain."

"Not really."

She couldn't tell him. She probably couldn't gather the strength or courage. It was likely that she justified in her mind manipulating him, twisting the reality so that she would be content, safe, secure.

She said, "My cousin is kicking me out."

"Why would he do that?"

"He can't afford having me and I've been trying to find a job but I can't. He doesn't want to waste anymore money on me."

"But he's your cousin. You're family. That's terrible."

"And now I have nowhere to go and no money. And I can't go back home."

"Of course not."

"I'm such a burden."

This is when he made his effort to touch her. He seemed to hesitate at first, probably because she hadn't started crying. But his hand went to her back, on her right shoulder blade. He then moved his hand to her shoulder and pulled her into him. She looked stiff against him but rested her head against his chest.

Her mother once tried to send her to a psychiatrist once. She thought her daughter had a disorder and demanded she got help. She had just turned twelve. She didn't understand what was wrong with her. She asked her mom if it was her disorder that made her father hate her. Her mother told her yes.

Doctor Jung had told her mother that her daughter may have a mild form of a dissociative disorder. He explained the disorder to her mother, saying it occurs when a person "exhibits two or sometimes more distinct and altering personalities." She told her doctor that she had one personalitiy and that she did not have another mind. But the doctor told her that often times, the other personality was outside the consciousness of the other.

For two years she underwent therapy and believed there was a side of her that she hadn't fully seen. It may have explained her uncomfortable feelings. Her disorder then changed to a "borderline personality disorder." What did that encompass? "An unstable identity, unstabl relationships, and unstable emotions."

She knew who she was. She was a child and still establishing herself. Of course she didn't have a stable identity yet. The medicine and therapy continued until she emancipated herself from her family. She lived on her own, made little money, and often times ended up stealing from her family as well as strangers. She became sick, was hospitalized, and brought home where she began undergoing self-imposed changes.

"You can stay with me if you'd like. Until you get back on your feet," he said to her.

She relaxed more, releasing cool air from her lungs. Some euphoric resonance built up in her stomach -- her same stomach from before. It was a new energy, a new force she hadn't felt before. This is probably how she felt. This is probably how she pictured a man, cradling a woman he cared for, sheltering her from the outside world. A man was suppose to encage her in his arms, take her back in his rib cage.

Despite this moment, there was a haze lurking around her body. He couldn't see it but it was doubtful she could feel it either. She could ignore it.

"I'll go pack my stuff," she said, breaking away from him. She wanted to slip out before her cousin saw her, before he intervened. She snuck into the house and into her make-shift bedroom. Packing her belongings, she realized Nate wouldn't stand for this. He always enjoyed getting his hands on other's business. Eventually he would expose her and this would be worthless. She momentarily stopped packing, probably contemplating. Should she enjoy these last moments of peace? Should she leave it all on a positive memory?

Meanwhile, he smiled outside on the porch. He strolled back and forth, maybe thinking of words he could say to her when she came back out. Maybe he even pictured a wedding scene or some sort of engagement. How easy it must have looked.

Time passed. Too much time had passed for his daydreams. He stepped into the house, quietly calling her name. He had never been in the house previously and he had no idea where she may be.

But there was grass underneath her feet by now, wet dew clinging to her ankles.

It wasn't long before a man, undoubtedly Nate, exited from a room, looking at him quizzically.

"Who the hell are you?" He looked like a lion. After explaining to Nate who he was, Nate lead him to his cousin's room, watching the floor as if it were going to collapse. The bedroom door was opened and the room was empty. Nate quickly entered, checking the bureaus and closets. All the little things she had carried in her one suitcase were gone. There wasn't a letter or a note, not a single thank you. Insetad there was missing food from the kitchen, missing money from Nate's wallet, missing explanations.

Nate didn't say much to the new stranger in his house. Clearly she hadn't told her boyfriend a single piece of truth. He explained to Nate that she had just decided on the porch that she was going to move in with him because she was being kicked out. Nate huffed, an eerie, uncomfortable huff, shook his head and retired into his bedroom, leaving the boy there, stuck in a haze.

He silently made his way out of town without a letter even years later. There wasn't an apology or a return of money. There wasn't a return of time. He succeeded in blinding others. It's not worth knowing if he eventually succeeded in gathering the finances he needed. Because the people he left behind eventually recovered, eventually steadied themselves, and removed the small dent he had left in them.

Community Interaction Proposal

For community interaction aspect of my concept folio I decided to cover the song "Little Boxes" that was originally recorded by Malvina Reynolds in the 1950s. The song's criticism targets the conformity of suburbia. I was going to gather anyone who wants to to sing a line or two of the song and have one person also play the chords to the song on an acoustic guitar (possibly Amy).

In the Showtime series "Weeds", "Little Boxes" is the credit music at the beginning of each episode. I was also going to recreate the beginning credits of the series but using spots around Norton. The show also tackles some themes of Suburbia. (Thanks to Kelley for this idea)

Here is a link to the beginning credits of the television series. Here is the google video link. The video is also below.

Short Story #2: Suburban Homiez - Jeremiah Palecek

All I know is those guys are gunna get it. They’ve got no idea. I’ve got two guns at my house. My Dad has them in his sock drawer because he’s a cop. He doesn’t come home until dinner and I get home at two-thirty everyday so there will be plenty of time. He keeps them loaded just in case and to show my mom who’s boss.

Those guys need to be shown who’s boss. I can’t wait to see their scared faces when I come back. Their eyes will be big and scared. Then they won’t be laughing so hard and they won’t feel so tough thinking they got away with what they did to me and Remy when I point a gun at their face.

Remy came home with me, crying some of the way. He didn’t talk but just mumbled something that I didn’t hear. Now he’s all jumpy and anxious like he has to pee or something. He needs to grow up and stop being such a wuss. This was his idea anyway, he brought it up and he wanted to do it so I don’t see why he looks so scared especially since his dad signed him up for football. I mean, football players are not wusses.

So we get to my house and we go through the back door. We kick off our shoes and I see my mom in her pajamas drinking coffee. My big Brother says nobody drinks coffee in the afternoon. He use to say “Mom, you’re not fooling anyone,” meaning she is drinking wine or something. I guess that’s why she’s so loopy all the time when I get home. She doesn’t even notice the scratches on my face. Maybe she does but doesn’t want to mention it, like how I never mention her bruises.

“Hiya honey,” she says smiling, looking past me, her eyes are tired like she was up all night.

“How was school?”

“Fine, Remy and I are going to play video games upstairs,” I say to her. I don’t even realize it until I’m walking up the stairs, but I lie to my mom a lot.

We get to my room and I shut the door and pull off my stupid tie. I take off my sweater and throw it on the floor. Remy just stands there like he’s frozen. I look in the mirror and touch the dried blood on my face and peel it off like a blister. I’m gunna get back at those guys. They’re gunna get it.

It feels like there’s boiling water in my stomach and it’s making me feel sick and my teeth are tightening so much it hurts my cheeks.

“Let’s just play video games,” says Remy as I’m looking in the mirror. “I don’t think this is a good idea.” He looks like he’s gunna cry. His bottom lip is shaking and his eyes look big and watery.

“It was your idea, you wimp,” I yell at him to scare him. If he cries, I’ll start laughing real hard. He’s such a baby, really, he is.

“I know but I was mad when I said it so I wasn’t thinking right and stuff.”

“You’re just gunna let them get away with it?”

I point at his swollen face, his cut lip.

“They’ve had it coming,” I say and I know I’m right.

I go to my closest and grab two sweatshirts. They’re close in color and one of them was my big Brother’s. I give mine to Remy and he holds it against him like a blanket.

“What’s this for?” he asks. Slipping my arms through, I put on my Brother’s sweatshirt. It’s too big for me but I like it because it smells like him.

“We have to look scary and disguise ourselves. Just like the gangs in the video games. If we show up in our uniforms, they’ll just laugh at us.”

He continues to stand there, holding the sweatshirt and looking away like he’s in a different world like my stupid mom.

“Stop being such a baby and put on the sweatshirt ” He puts it on and it’s a little big on him. I throw my hood up and look in the mirror, turning side to side. I look “bad ass”, my big Brother would say. My Dad would call me “hoodlum shit.” He would ruffle my hair and be proud of me because he told me if someone hits you, you hit them back because “you don’t start the fight, you have to end it.” Don’t be a wuss and put people where they belong. He once yelled at me because I didn’t push a kid who pushed me at a soccer game and then he hit me and told me not to be such a girl. I’m not a girl.

I go to my underwear drawer and pull out two bandanas I won at the school carnival last year for shooting some moving animals. It was really easy so I played twice and picked two bandanas because I thought my Brother would want one.

I give Remy mine and then put my Brother’s over my nose and mouth like in the movies. I look into the mirror and smile even though I can’t see my mouth. Those guys are gunna pee their pants. Remy shakes his head like a bobble-head and I want to punch him for being such a little girl.

“Put the bandana on. We gotta teach those guys a lesson for messing with us.”

He finally ties the bandana around his face and his scared little blue eyes are the only things I can see.

The guys we’re going to scare are going to be at the basketball courts. They’re there everyday. All we’re gunna do is walk up to them and show them who’s boss, I think. I don’t really want to shoot them. Even if we did though, my Dad’s a cop and he can help us out of trouble because he knows people.

I try and tell Remy that but he doesn’t listen because he’s too busy being a cry baby.

“This is a bad idea. I don’t want to do this.”

My mom calls from downstairs. “Honey!”

“What?” I call back.

“You want something to eat? Maybe something sweet?”

Before I can answer “No”, Remy pulls off his bandana and says “Yes please ” like an idiot. He tosses the bandana on the floor and runs out of the room like a dog is chasing him. I rip off my bandana and go downstairs to the kitchen to make sure he doesn’t squeal.

He’s already sitting at the table when I go into the kitchen, like a stupid puppy, ready for dinner. I sit next to him and pinch him to show him that I’m angry but my mom doesn’t see.

“Why are you two wearing those sweatshirts?” my mom asks, carrying cookies to the table.
My head hurts and it only makes it worse when she talks.

“Because we like them,” I say.

“Well isn’t that cute! ”

Remy takes a cookie and begins eating and I sit there not wanting to her my dumb mom talk.
“When I was a teen I use to wear these big flared jeans called bell-bottom jeans and I was hot stuff, let me tell you. I’d wear them every Friday and go out with all my girlfriends.” She laughs like a weasel that I want to strangle with my bare hands. Sometimes – not all the time.
“Your father use to think I was hot stuff too and then he knocked me up and my daddy,” she begins laughing like she’s telling a joke and she can’t spit out her words, “threatened him to marry me or else he was going to shoot him dead. Your own grandfather!” She laughs really loud and I make my hands into fists under the table so she won’t see.

Suddenly, Remy is laughing with her and my head can’t take it. Wet, soggy chunks of cookie fall on the table. If Remy starts choking on his cookie I won’t try and save him.

“So how’s your mom, Remy?” asks my mom. “She still playing golf in those tournaments?”

“She just had surgery so she’s taking a break,” he says.

“That’s too bad She’s such a good player. How’s your father?”

“Good.”

I wish she’d stop talking to him like she likes his parents.

“Come on Remy, let’s go upstairs and finish our game,” I say, standing up, pulling at his arm.

“Let him eat, honey. There’s no rush Besides he needs to gain some weight if he’s going to play football.” She winks at him like she does with the men she likes.

“He’s not hungry anymore, mom,” I say and I pull Remy up to his feet.

“Yes he is, let him eat.”

“Shut up,” I finally say. I drag Remy away from the table. We leave the kitchen as my mom starts yelling, her words start joining together to make big words that make no sense.

“You... youdon’t speakthatway toyour motheryou... goodfornothing...” but I can’t hear the rest because I slam my door. I wish I could make her not have a voice sometimes. My Brother once said she should have been born mute.

I put my bandana back on and give Remy his. My mother is still yelling something downstairs. I think she’s crying or laughing so I smile underneath my bandana. I give Remy a gang symbol with my hands and he copies me but he does it wrong so I roll my eyes at him.

“Let’s just go to my Dad’s room,” I say to him. When I open the door I think I hear my mom crying but she’s being too quiet. We walk down the hall to my father’s room where my mom has thrown all her underwear and junk on the floor. I remember when she use to be clean before she was hired and fired from her job. She use to stay home and keep the house clean and she was good at it and I liked her like that because she’d always have a sandwich for me when I came home and she’d help me with my homework. Now she doesn’t understand it and doesn’t make good sandwiches anymore.

She use to wear lipstick and tickle me and tuck me in and then she got a job and was never home to do that stuff but she would still play with me sometimes. There use to be flowers outside and all the neighbors would say how pretty they were. After her job she had to have less flowers and she could only water them on weekends so I watered them sometimes with my Brother. And then she lost her job and started being useless, says my Dad. Now she doesn’t clean the house or water the plants and she doesn’t shower or wear lipstick and I don’t like her anymore.

“Please, let's just stay home,” Remy is saying behind me, nearly crying again. “This isn’t fun anymore.”

“We’re aren’t gunna shoot them you idiot! We’re just gunna scare them. We can’t get in trouble for trying to scare them. Don’t you know anything?”

“We can get in trouble for having a gun. Dan Boots brought in a knife once and got expelled and a knife doesn’t even shoot bullets!”

“Yeah but we aren’t going into school with the guns so it doesn’t matter. And we’re disguising ourselves. Just shut up already.”

I walk over to my Dad’s bureau. There’s a family portrait on it and some letters. I know exactly where his sock drawer is and where the guns are. My Brother showed them to me once when I was little. I asked him why Dad kept guns in his sock drawer and he said “To show mom who’s boss”. And then one time I checked to see if they were still there and my Dad caught me looking and yelled at me. When I asked him why they were there and he told me “Just in case somebody tried to break into our house.”

I touch the handle of the drawer and my hand shakes and I tell myself in my mind to stop because a real man wouldn’t be scared to hold a gun. I open up the sock drawer and at first I don’t see them but I dig underneath and I feel them. They’re really cold.

I reach in with both my hands. They’re still shaking and I tell myself I am a man like my Dad who holds a gun everyday and shoots bad guys everyday. They come out from underneath the socks like a person coming up for air from being under water. They’re really heavy and black like coal. I hold them both in my hands and look at them.

Those guys are gunna pee themselves! They’ll say sorry and feel bad for what they did and I’m going to laugh at them as they run away, begging me not to shoot. It’ll be even better if they start crying and get down on their knees.

Remy hasn’t said anything and is just looking at them and looking up at me. I feel so much taller now, like I have muscles like my Dad and a moustache. Remy’s blue eyes look so big like the moon.

I hold out the gun in my left hand to him and he doesn’t move for a long time. But eventually he walks over and takes it with one hand but then two because its so heavy. I hold it like you’re suppose to but he’s holding it like a kitten.

“So we’re gunna go back to the basketball courts,” I start saying to Remy, “and we’ll walk up to them with the guns in our pocket so at first they don’t see them.” I put the gun in my sweatshirt to show him. His bright blue eyes follow me. I walk to the other end of the room and then turn around and slowly start walking to him. “And we’re just gunna walk up to them slowly so they’ll see us.” I make gang symbols with my hands. My heart is beating so fast and my hands are getting sweaty. I can see it now, the green court and the hoops so tall like trees and I hear the sound of their basketball echoing and the wind is hitting my face. I feel so tall. “And we’ll get over to them and... and we’ll tell them to beg for their lives and scare them.” My eyes are moving around the room so much that I almost don’t see that Remy is crying and looking at the gun in his hands. “And then, when they start thinking they’re tough and when they start laughing we’ll pull out our guns,” I pull the gun out of my pocket. “And we’ll aim at them.” I point the gun at Remy’s crying blue eyes. “And we’ll...”

Remy’s eyes disappear and it gets really quiet. My ears hurt and my head is like I’m on one of those rides at the carnival that spins and spins and spins. The gun has gotten warm in my hands now and I drop it on the ground because its too heavy and my wrist hurts. I wasn’t going to shoot them, I said, I’m just going to scare them, that’s all, to teach them a lesson and show them who’s boss because they hurt me and Remy.

I hear my mom’s footsteps going up the stairs but she is tripping all over the place. She comes into my Dad’s room and starts screaming really loud like she’s in some sort of horror movie and I cover my ears so my head won’t hurt more than it already does. I see her face and it looks stretched out and wrinkly and she grabs hold of the wall like she is trying to keep herself standing up.

I still can hear her screaming and crying through my hands so I drop to my knees, holding my head down at my knees. I see the dust and hair in the carpet that my mom hasn’t vacuumed in a long time. There’s a fingernail too.

If I just scare them then I won’t be in trouble. They’ll say sorry and run away and I’ll be happy again. And then I can tell my Dad about it and he’ll laugh and put his hand on my head and tell me I did a good job. And my Brother will tell me that I’m bad ass and that he wouldn’t want to mess with me.

Maybe I’ll be a cop like my Dad. That’ll be awesome. I’ll get to hold a gun all the time and feel strong and tall and grow a mustache and arm hair. I’ll wear those uniforms instead of my school one and have a really bright badge that I’d polish to keep clean. I’ll arrest criminals and kill bad guys and make them wish they never messed with me. And I’ll work with my Dad a lot and we’ll drive a cop car together.

My mom is screaming something so I uncover my ears and I hear the word “God!” I look up to the doorway but I can’t see her because two feet with black socks on them are in my way. I sit up and look down and see Remy in my sweatshirt and his blue eyes are looking at the ceiling and his arms are stretched out on either side. I notice there’s a lot of red on his face coming from a hole above his blue eyes and the red has spread out on the carpet. It’s staining the carpet. Isn’t this when the body disappears and the life bar goes away?

I’m crying now like a little girl, with my shoulders shaking up and down and the ride is spinning faster and I just want to get off because this isn’t fun anymore. I don’t care if I look stupid, or wimpy, or like a cry-baby. I feel like I’m going to throw up. What happened to him? I curl up now like a little kitten. I see both lumps of coal lying on the floor and slowly the blood is making its way toward me like a snake, cleaning out the dust, hair, and fingernails in the carpet. But my sobs are dying down because I just remembered that my Dad is a cop and he’ll get me out of trouble so there’s nothing to worry about and it’ll be okay because it was just an accident and I didn’t mean it.

Critique #2: Neighborhood and Industry - Michael Allen

If one could see the history of the development of a city, one would learn that all cities were once suburbs, and all suburbs were once small towns. But how do these changes come about. What moves a town to become a suburb? What effects a suburb to turn into a city? Towns obviously grow in population to become suburbs. Industry and construction create growth in suburbs so that eventually they become cities. In Michael Allen’s “Neighborhood and Industry” the metamorphosis of a suburb into a city is depicted, however, the negative effects of this change take emphasis in the image.

Allen uses a handful of lackluster colors in his painting to create a melancholy mood. They correspond to the pollution coming out from the industry, which is nearly invisible due to the smoke expectorating from itself. Even the sun is barely visible in the sky. Allen uses a long, gray road to lead the viewer deep into the painting’s background of an industrial site. The road seems to represent the unfortunate and devastating pathway of suburbs turning into cities, and the increase of pollution.

The focal point seems to be the industry in the background. The one point perspective takes the viewer’s eye to the horizon line where the industry rests. The foreground of the painting is mostly the dark road (which is noticeably lighter in the neighborhood section of the painting). The homes of the suburb peak through at the sides of the piece of work but are not fully seen, almost as if they are slowly being pushed out of the image due to the growing industry, looming in the back.

The only bright color that contrasts with the dull painting comes from the stop sign, centered in the painting. If it were not for its size, it would appear as the focal point. It appears as though Allen is telling viewers to stop, like a warning. Stop industrializing, stop polluting suburbs. Do not stretched this industry past this point. Michael Allen’s message looms in the dull paint and the melancholy tone of his painting, “Neighborhood and Industry”.

Concept Short Story: #1

Well, I suppose it’s a good thing he’s wearing a suit. Thank goodness I ironed it for him - it makes him look fitted, put together. But the way he hunches over, disappearing into the headlines as if I’m not sitting right here. If it was any regular day, I wouldn’t care but today I do. I just go about flattening my dress, flattening the hills and mountain ranges, adjusting the sleeves. How I wish I could still hike up that mountain where we use to camp. But my legs can’t take it. My papery hands just rest in my lap. Has he spoken a word to me this morning?

“Corporate bastards,” he mutters, flipping to the next page of his own Bible, his face unseen, the ink smudging on his wrinkled fingers. The black and white photographs flutter like doves - or crows.

“Language,” I say. Goodness, I hate it when he swears. Why hasn’t he said anything to me? Is this some sort of trick? I will wait patiently, like a cat. There’s no rush, the whole day is lying ahead. “Are you sure you don’t want any breakfast?”

“No, there’s no time. I’ve got a viewing at ten,” he says.

“Will you be home for lunch?”

“No I’ve got to pick up a body at the morgue.”

“When will you eat?”

“I’ll pick up something.”

“Well don’t get that McDonalds rubbish. You know the heartburn it gives you.”

He huffs, turns the page. I personify a statue as if I’m waiting for birds to rest on me. Doves and crows rest on opposite sides. I don’t look at him now and his mangled sitting posture. The way he turned the chair toward the sun, the very chair I fixed yesterday. I’ll have to fix it again when he leaves and move it back to the original position.

“Will you be home for dinner at least?”

“I’ll try.”

“Well, I hope you will try very hard.”

“Why? Are you cooking something special?” Something special? WHY? Sometimes he gets me so angry. How can he...Why wouldn’t I make something special? What kind of question is that?

“Of course I am,” I respond, displaying my far from menacing anger. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He shrugs, flips the page...as if that’s a response. He has no right to be so rude.

“Well, I want you home for dinner and you better be here because I said so,” I blurt with courage, with authority. I am a queen on a throne, covered in jewels and fur.

“Okay,” he says. Just okay, nothing else. There isn’t any expression behind his words. There isn’t an argument. I’d rather him bicker and moan. He’s so undemonstrative. So boring and uncaring.

“Just because you work with dead people doesn’t mean you have to be so unemotional ” I storm out, leaving the living room. I go into the kitchen and put my hands on the counter as if that took a lot out of me. I pretend I am cleaning but I’m just moving things out of place and then putting them back.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything and I feel foolish for yelling.

He calls to me, “If you’re really that angry because I’m not eating breakfast, you can fix me a cup of coffee.” He pauses. “If you want. Okay?”

Okay. I despise that word. Where does that derive from anyway? O-K. What country started that? Whoever created it was clearly a man without an impressive variety of vocabulary to express his emotions. ‘Okay, that’s fine.’ ‘Okay, I’ll go to dinner.’ OKAY. It’s so indecisive, so on-the-fence, and I hate it.

“It’ll be done in a couple of minutes. Are you sure you have time?” I say this sounding genuine but I mean to be smart. He knows it, I’m just playing his game. But I put in the coffee filter, a couple cups of ground coffee, water. And then I hit power. I get out a thermos cup with its lid and I wait. I breathe in and out, count to ten, do all those relaxing steps, relaxing my weathered muscles.

There is an ant crawling across the cupboard. I take a napkin, bunch it up and break him. I feel the quiet crunch. I ball up the napkin, toss it in the trash, and call to the dead, impassive man in my living room.

“Cream and sugar?”

“Yes please. Extra sugar.”

“Not good for you,” I mutter but loud enough for him to hear. I can picture him, silently mimicking me. Breathe. One, two, three...why today? Of all days for him to be difficult – he picked today. What should I do about this? It’ll be on my mind for the rest of the day. I can’t just sit around. I know my role has been that, but it shouldn’t be today. I won’t tolerate this everyday for the rest of my life. When did we become so routinely? When did his emotions leave and flutter out the window and into the obliterating sun? Sometimes I think he did it with the intent to erase what he had. He cupped the dove in his hands like a magician and then went to the window. He released it. There it went.

And this crow, perched on our porch, is settling in. Its moans fill my ears, and its dirty feet step on my flowers. He’s so selfish, so centered around himself. He’s claimed his territory and will be here for too long. Much too long for me to handle his whiny calls.

He is sitting still, reading, reading. He doesn’t understand, he won’t ever. He won’t apologize. What am I to him now? Is my former self just a photograph on a bureau? Is my smile not the smile he looked for? When was the last time he kissed me and felt it? When was the last time he touched me? He touches more dead bodies than he does me. He disgusts me. Damn him.

Stop. Stop it.

This isn’t fair. I won’t live like this. I refuse. I am a queen and he is a peasant. If I was still young, I would make love to another person. I would sneak around, call them, dream about running away with them. But I am old and there is no point. But he will pay. Today will be a different day. It needs to be.

I could poison him. I could put something in his coffee. I have this power over him. I deserve justice. He deserves it. And its not like he enjoys living anymore. He’s so miserable. He sees death everyday, people crying. It wears him down. It’s a solution, that’s all. I’m technically doing him a favor. What do I have in the cupboard?

I open up the cupboard and look around. Wait, what am I doing? Am I going mentally insane? I just contemplated killing him. I justified it. Is this how murderers think? Close the cupboard you crazy.

I close the cupboard and the coffee is almost done. I put my hands on the counter again. I give my legs a rest.

What would happen if I poisoned him? Could it be traced back to me? What would my motives be? Surely, they just can’t assume I did it without a motive. But nowadays they have all this technology. They can find finger prints and they can read minds with machines. I couldn’t lie my way out of a lie detector. But they need a warrant I believe. Would they try? I’m innocent looking. I could plea insanity. Am I insane?

Is this what all minds eventually become? What about lives? We slowly deteriorate, decompose, fall through the cracks and lay there, and just wait there. Did we reach the end point? Did we find the meaning of life and learn all our lessons? The unhappiness is inevitable. There is nothing more for us to do, for us to see. My eyes are so heavy. That’s it, that’s all, the cup is empty and has slowly been emptying.

I reopen the cupboard and my papery hands are shaking. The coffee finishes. It smells like sunlight.

It’s poured into the thermos. I stir it all in, all together. I close my eyes, rest my eyes. Lord, what is wrong with me? Please give me strength.

There is a dove outside my window.

Suburban Declaration

Growing up in Norton all my life, I have settled into and seen suburban lifestyle. Instead of trying to grasp something only abstractly for my concept, I wanted to dive into something with multiple sides. I plan on addressing the conformity of suburbia now and in the 1950s as well as the 1920s. I also plan on addressing family roles, common themes, and the negative side of suburban lifestyle using art, photography, and literature.

Concept Critique #1: George Tooker

A supermarket could be considered the watering hole of a suburban town. Family members go on shopping dates to pick out cereals, frozen pizzas, and slabs of meat. They all grab their carts, travel down aisles and aisles of food and drinks, and then make there way to the register to pay for their items. George Tooker's "Supermarket" depicts this suburban supermarket with great realism. He establishes the monotonous aisles with continuous colors and simple numbers. He takes the reader to a familiar atmosphere of food shopping with his smooth technique.

The foreground of the painter seems to draw the viewer first. We see a small group of shoppers, all of which look bored. Some are wearing similar clothes. Their lack of enthusiasm is present in their faces as well as these dull clothes. One of the subjects even has bed-curlers in her hair, creating a sleepy feeling.

The eye then moves up toward a window where a man is glaring out. He appears as though he is leering at the shoppers and appears like an employee of the supermarket. There is another man behind him, who is also wearing the same exact shirt, a possible indication that both are workers in a break room in their uniforms. The background does not escape the conformity of the foreground. The aisles all appear as though they have the same item. The colors are all the same and the only difference between the aisles are their numbers.

Tooker seems to be making a statement about this constant conformity of suburban supermarkets. Their dull colors, and repeated architecture are targeted in the composition. Their endless size is also emphasized in the background that appears to be never ending. The subject matter is not hard to see and Tooker's criticism is apparent in this composition.