I’m always begging students to send in some of their work to post on Cooler. Especially the folks in the beginning classes. My summer Beginning Fiction class for instance was filled with amazing writers who only got better as the term went on and we had occasions to experiment with forms and concepts.

There are some poems posted in the main section, and here is a short exercise submitted by Logan Turner. Enjoy!

Henry
by Logan Turner (Beginning Fiction Summer 08)

The park shone with the energy of a hundred suns.  Children shrieked with delight as they spun endlessly on the rusty, paint-faded merry-go-round.  The noise of the trees hushing with the wind seemed to scold them, but still their tinny voices carried through the air.  The breeze traveled sluggishly through the damp August air, the moisture sitting like a cloud on the backs of everyone’s necks.  The sand from the park was encroaching on the grass, errant pebbles lying helplessly so far from home. 

The only shade came from the old oak tree, the soggy innards from last night’s rain threatening relief-seekers like a menacing KEEP OUT sign.  Despite the heat, no one went near the tree, and when strangers would ask all anyone said was “It may be shady, but it’s sure as hell dark,” as if they all had recited it from a manual.  The tree looked harmless enough, though oddly still.  The sun blazed, the birds chirped, the air tickled hair, but the tree did not move. 

In the blink of an eye, the sun seemed to dim.  The day withdrew to forty watts.  First one, then two, then suddenly tens and hundreds of clouds filled the expansive sky.  The bright blue afternoon turned gray, fading quickly from ash to granite.  Like a throaty German Shepherd’s growl, the thunder began to rumble in the distance.  Scattered raindrops started to ping to the earth and bright flashes of white-hot lightning pierced the formerly calm afternoon.  With a deafening roar, a booming sizzle reached for the tree, and in one fell swoop split the mighty tree down to its roots. 

The air crackled from the bolt of electricity and Tasha dropped to her knees, her hands over her ears.  The storm had moved in so quickly no one had time to search for cover, and the wails of the frightened children sent all the parents into a frenzy.  Mothers and fathers raced in all directions and finding their children became a blind search as the rain came down now in sheets, as if the lightning had torn right through the clouds.  The water spilled down Tasha’s face, blurring her vision and streaming into her mouth as she screamed for Henry.  He had been tangled up with three other boys on the merry-go-round, which now stood empty and abandoned, slowly turning with the winds of the storm. Tasha felt people brush by her but saw no child unattended, and as she searched frantically with her eyes, she dropped to her knees, her hands seeking contact with tiny four-year-old shoes.  The wind whipped her words from her mouth and her eyes and hands found nothing.  Unable to tell the rain from her tears, she shook with fury and panic. As she took one last look around, she saw a glimpse of Henry’s red jacket in front of the tree.