It was like any other Monday. Raphael de la Fonza was checking the front pages of the New York Times to make sure he wasn’t in them.
“Phew,” he said, sitting back in the arm chair of his 5th avenue apartment. “Still got it.”
A+
Welcome to NYU, my child. Welcome.
* * *
The wood-paneled coffee shop sizzled with the sounds of coffee. Dan Mahone sat in a corner, drinking coffee. It was black. Kind of like his heart.
F
Re-submit
* * *
Jane was on the subway at rush hour. Half-way between Manhattan and Queens she saw the ghost of her father. He had on a bowler hat and carried a copy of the Tribune under the arm in which he was holding an umbrella. He was molesting female passengers.
B –
I want more description. Make me feel molested.
* * *
Ken Fabian’s coat tails blew out behind him as he strutted towards the creative writing department of a prestigious university in the heart of New York City in the brisk, October breeze. He entered. His eyes, dilated behind black aviators, focused on the door of Room 204. He stopped in front of it. Taking a deep breath, he smashed his foot through the door, breaking it in half (The door, not the foot. This is Ken Fabian.)
“Hey you, professor,” he said, coldly.
“Um, yes?” said Jenkins, the cowardly jerk.
“Grade this!” Ken Fabian yelled, pulling out a semi-automatic gun and ravishing the professor like a good woman with a bad temper.
Ken, please see me after class.
* * *
Dear Professor Jenkins,
I was so about to write the assignment but this week NYC was a total vacuum of inspirati-OHH-ne. Dreadful weather too. But even the rain was, you know, somehow unpoetic. Gawd. I can’t believe I’m even writing you to explain. Cheers, Jenn.
… what?
* * *
Barry sat perplexed, legs crossed. No one was mingling, he thought. It was like a Grade 6 suburban dance party. This was NYC: birthplace of Capote-cool. But here he was, in a bank-breaking apartment entertaining people he would rather kill than speak to. What had happened to the dream, man? The dream is dead, Barry, whispered his cat. Franco was right.
B+
Explore cat angle: good potential.
* * *
Marco looked up from the table and scanned the rows of journalists stretching toward the back of the room, swaying in the tepid air-conditioned breeze like stalks of ill-fed grass.
“My client,” he began, “is not only young and upwardly mobile…”
The journalists’ eyes began to glisten. Ricardo Alvarez, sitting beside him, sweated profusely and lifted a chained hand to scratch behind his ear.
“… he is privileged and white…the son of fine Americans…debating team… Stanford…”
Someone cried. People were scribbling furiously, bleary-eyed.
“… best firms in the country… cut short…girl was only… practically begged…”
Alvarez’s moustache twitched. A tear rolled down his stubbly cheek.
The headlines were practically assured, but Marco sighed. His wife was still cheating on him.
C-
Privilege sells.
* * *
Don’t rock the boat, they had told him. Play it cool, don’t do anything rash. You’ll regret it later. All of these sayings from childhood were rolling around his head. But Bill had reached the limit. This was it. He would pen a thinly veiled, sarcastic, inter-company memo to Frank, down in accounting, who had spelt his name wrong- again.
B+
I like where this is going.
* * *
Nathaniel was leaning over his guitar; staring intensely and watching his fingers fly up and down the fret board. He was sitting in a chair, on stage at a small juke joint in Alabama. The lights were nearly unbearable. Sweat dripped off his forehead. Jugs were hoisted and emptied. Everyone was a hootin’ and a hollerin’. Everyone, that is, except his one true love: nude astronomy.
C-
There are severe structural flaws with this piece.
* * *
Jackie sat across from Frank in the dim light of the bar. Jackie’s father was in the morgue, almost unrecognizable. The car crash had, to say the least, not been kind to his face. Frank on the other hand, was about not to be kind to her face.
B+
Cliffhanger! Domestic violence is popular in print these days.
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