My Next Project

I know that it's been a while since I've updated my site. This last month in particular, though, has been one where my interest in writing has been sparked again. I must say, as well, that I've come to a point where I'm telling myself; 'If you want to get serious about writing, you might as well start now and get a head-start on things.' That's why, in essence, I've decided to start work on my first novel. I'll have more updates soon.

A Step Into the World of Poetry

As a word of explanation, this is a poem that I wrote for a creative writing class. I turned it in, thinking it was incomplete. The next time we met, a few days later, the teacher asked me if she could publish it in the school's writing magazine! I also entered it into the college's writing competition and received second place for it, meaning it will go on to the state level! Unfortunately, I'll have to wait until February to hear about those results. Until then I'd encourage you to comment, and I hope you will enjoy this.

 

  The Hunter

She sits, some would say, as quietly as a mouse,

But the mouse is in the sweep of her gaze.

Her spine is stiff, now she prepares

To suddenly leap upon her prey

Her tail whips back and forth again

She lies very still so as not to be seen

And while the mouse seems surely caught

It may not happen as it’s been deemed

For then a sound tickles her ear

The grass grows under her feet,

If only for a moment

Copyright Jackson Kerr, 2012

Another Short Story

An Act of Kindness

            With only a spattering of people, it’s clearly not a busy day at the diner. An aged couple and what I guess was a grandkid sit to my right. The little boy looks to be about five or six, and is continually entertained with his grandfather’s antics. He makes a tent out of the napkins, talking about how Mr. Fork and Mrs. Spoon are going camping that weekend. The little boy plays along and the both laugh. The man’s smiling wife watches from beside him, face aglow.

In the corner booth there’s a woman sitting by herself. She’s not much to look at, but there is a sense of raw beauty about her that I can just feel; I don’t know how to put it. In the way she holds herself, just her very existence. She is calm, and yet on the brink of some kind of collapse.

As a regular customer, she takes the usual: a bacon cheeseburger without the mayo (“less fat” she tells herself). This was accompanied by a large fry and water. The waitress, Donna, a nice girl, asks her if that’ll be all? The woman says yes and is left to her thoughts.       

It’s clear that older man at the other table must have said something wrong. His wife gets up and stares out the window. The man is sobered at this, and with a word to the boy to stay quietly, goes to his wife’s side. I watch with interest. He doesn’t say much, but what he said must have made an impact.

She turns to look at him (a breakthrough in any angry girlfriend case of my knowledge) and they smile at each other. Anyone could tell that these two have weathered the years together. The smiles reflect not happiness, but joy; knowing it’s going to be all right.  They stuck with it because that’s what people did in their generation. He then politely and quietly escorts her back to the table, where the boy is amusing himself with the napkins and table settings.

            The fryers around me bubble and sizzle. The kitchen sings to me with unique noises and smells. That sounds odd (the grease and grime about the place would disgust some people) but it gives me a sense of freedom. It’s not quite home, but a place where you can be- you don’t have to think, just exist.

            I look back to the woman in the corner booth just as a man comes hurrying though the door. She doesn’t look surprised, but there in my gut I have a feeling of anticipation. I can feel the clouds gathering, and it looks like rain.

            Bobby calls to me about getting back to work, but it doesn’t register. The man is obviously excited about something. He doesn’t really greet her, but starts talking about what he just came from. I hear the phrase “new job” and the word “opportunity”. The word “travel" makes an impact on her.

            When you talk to someone, there are different levels of interest. I learned this stuff in a psychology class. If the person is interested, they’re looking at you, and they’ve got that look with the tilted head that tells you they’re not daydreaming. Then there’s the thing where, if you ask, they say ‘I’m listening’, but you know they’re not. Their eyes are roaming, their heads are up, but their eyes and thoughts are elsewhere.

            This is different. As he’s talking, her head is drooping more. At first I start wondering if she’s sick. He keeps talking, though, she started fidgeting less and less. It’s obvious that he’s thought this all through; he’s not asking her, he’s telling her. Her hands are left sitting in her lap; not clenched in anger, not twitching with anticipation, but limp with defeat.

            The minute hand on the clock has moved a couple degrees, and he finally notices something. He says something to her and reaches his hand out. She looks up with her eyes, but her head is still down. Her hands are still in her lap.

“Are you sure about this?” He tells her yes, and there’s something else. He reaches in his pocket for something. The dread in me, for whatever reason, begins to build. He stands up and walks to her side. He kneels. I don’t even have to tell you what he says next. It’s universal western body language: he’s proposing.

            Her head falls and I hear a sob. This catches the attention of the grandmother, who’s been talking with her husband. He looks, but they decide to attend to their own affairs.

            The young woman is now sobbing openly. Not knowing what to do the man just stands there. As I’m watching, a sort of loathing or disgust rises up in me. Tell her you love her, you dope! Say “It’s all right, I’m here for you.”

But then it hits me. He’s not there for her. He wants her to support him be there for his sake. As this is racing through my mind, he stumbles back. Without a further word he turns and exits the building.

            “Jeff, are you going to get back here or-” I don’t give Bobby a chance to finish. I load up a plate and step out of the kitchen.

            I don’t say anything. If I did I know I’d have made an idiot out of myself and only embarrassed her more. How do you approach a hurting person? Trying to step lightly with my oversized feet, I slide into the seat across from her and set the plate in front of her. She has composed herself a little now, and looks upward to make eye contact. I smile in what I hope is a reassuring manner and give a little nod.

             I know that, at this point, words are useless. She nods a thank-you and hesitantly takes from the plate, even though she’s not really hungry. I just hope that I can help by keeping her from being alone.

Copyright Jackson Kerr, 2012

The Spider and the Fly

“Sir!” the man turned to face the Lackey.

“Don’t tell me; you found the source of our problem, didn’t you?” The Lackey licked his suddenly dry lips and nodded, not daring to say anything. The Director, as he was referred to, strode forward until he was nose-to-nose with the Lackey. “Do you have any idea how vital our mission is to this agency?”

            Any less experienced man would have taken action to defend himself. The Lackey knew better. The Director strode to his desk and pressed the intercom button. The dim bulb on a cord above their heads swung freely as a hypnotist’s watch might, immobilizing the Lackey.

            “Send the interviewer.” With those words the young lackey’s heart froze in his chest. People joked about the gruesome tactics of the Interviewer. But not when it was in your face. As his thoughts raced, the young man’s eyes suddenly narrowed.

            “Sir?” The Director, his face to the wall, glanced over his shoulder. “How did you know about the inside job?” The Director began to laugh. The Lackey suddenly felt like a fly ensnared by the spider. He had failed his mission.

            “I never said anything about an inside job did I?” The Director sneered. “I simply mentioned a problem, not a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” The Lackey couldn’t help but notice the glint in The Director’s eye. It was the look of a predator going in for the kill. The Lackey could only hope, now, that his replacement might fare better than he. He was sinking into nothingness.

            But a good double agent always has a trick up his sleeve.

            “Don’t even think about it.” The Lackey’s heart stopped altogether. “There’s no way to sneak out of here. Not if you want to stay alive.” Don’t worry the Lackey thought, it won’t matter to you in a moment, anyway.

            Dead men tell no tales. If nothing else the Lackey was trained well- never leave a witness. His hand was in his jacket when he heard a thwip-thwip, and he felt a sharp pain in his back.

            He fell silently to the ground. The Interviewer’s gargantuan form now filled the doorway behind the man’s collapsed body. The Director stared at it for a moment, then waved the Interviewer off and called for those in charge of Disposal. Efficiency was key in this business.

Copyright Jackson Kerr 2012

Another Poem

Peer Pressure

Sometimes my fears are all that I see
Blinding me to a what I could do,
But I won't let them be the master of me.

It may feel, at times, that all I can be
Is what others tell me that I am.
Sometimes my fears are all that I see

I may fear ideas of individuality,
Letting others tell me when I fit in just right
But I won't let them be the master of me.

When there's a distance from all those who know me
And the only right option is an unpopular choice
Sometimes my fears are all that I see.

When what lies ahead seems just, but not happy
And I decide to stand against all that's comfortable
Sometimes my fears are all that I see
But I won't let them be the master of me.


Copyright 2012 Jackson Kerr

An Old Saying

     I've recently run into this saying a few times recently: "God helps those who help themselves." The quote is from Benjamin Franklin (not the Bible, as many people would believe). I want to examine this, both in the state it is given and how it can or cannot be applied Biblically.
     My first thought is to look at what it implies, and it's self-explanatory. But something a lot of people take for granted is assumed to be implied: that God only helps those that helps themselves. I have two responses to this. The first is simple: the word only is nowhere to be found in this saying, thus nullifying the idea. If Mr. Franklin wanted to say that, I'm sure he would have put it in. The second idea is that it's not something that applies at all times in every situation. I think that the driving idea behind this is that if you are able to help yourself you really have no right to demand that God help you.
     Let's say that the only was in there. What does that imply? It implies that only those who are able to help themselves will get help from God. That doesn't make much sense, does it? Secondly, there are at least several instances in scripture where it talks about God helping the helpless, either directly or through the body of Christ, the Church.
     As Paul says to the Corinthians, the Lord Jesus spoke to Him on this subject. He said "My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness." What does that mean, though? What Jesus was telling Him, though there may have been other things, is that when we are helpless HIS strength is made perfect. There is no logical argument from there, then, except that He must be helping us. This directly refutes the idea, then, of God not helping those who are helpless. He helps the helpless so that His name may be glorified.

Encouragement

Hello all!
  This is a reminder and an update. I'm sorry that I haven't posted much recently, but I've had to juggle work and school plus homework. At the moment I'm taking English 102 at a community college before going into my second year as a Music Ed. student.
  I want to encourage you to start commenting on things! I would love to see what you all think of the site, the stories, the posts, etc. If you have critiques about how you think it should have gone, whether the characters are cardboard, or whether it seems that the characters seem to be sitting in the middle of a blank room acting as puppets, please post! This allows me to get a good idea of how to write better stories to share with you, as well as showing me how to communicate my ideas clearly.
   Thanks for sticking with me so far! I hope to be able to get a fairly regular stream of fiction posted on this site. If you have any questions/ideas/comments just let me know! I'll be happy to answer!

(There are too many exclamation marks here!!)