University of New Orleans ScholarWorks@UNO University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations Dissertations and Theses Fall 12-17-2011 Snap Nathan Feuerberg University of New Orleans, [email protected] Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.uno.edu/td Recommended Citation Feuerberg, Nathan, "Snap" (2011). University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations. 1409. https://scholarworks.uno.edu/td/1409 This Thesis-Restricted is protected by copyright and/or related rights. It has been brought to you by ScholarWorks@UNO with permission from the rights-holder(s). You are free to use this Thesis-Restricted in any way that is permitted by the copyright and related rights legislation that applies to your use. For other uses you need to obtain permission from the rights-holder(s) directly, unless additional rights are indicated by a Creative Commons license in the record and/or on the work itself. This Thesis-Restricted has been accepted for inclusion in University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations by an authorized administrator of ScholarWorks@UNO. For more information, please contact [email protected]. Snap A Thesis Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of the University of New Orleans in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts In Film, Theatre, and Communication Arts Creative Writing by Nathan Feuerberg B.A. The American University of Rome, 2003 M.Sc. University of Edinburgh, 2004 December, 2011 Table of Contents Abstract ................................................................................................................. ii 36 Chambers .........................................................................................................1 The Killing Fields ................................................................................................. 23 The Tea Party ..................................................................................................... 38 Snap .................................................................................................................... 52 800 Rupees ......................................................................................................... 66 Parasite ............................................................................................................... 82 Meniscus ............................................................................................................. 95 La Nieve Sangrienta .......................................................................................... 110 The Letter .......................................................................................................... 122 Modern Alchemy ............................................................................................... 134 Vita .................................................................................................................... 151 ii Abstract The term ‘snap’ can be defined as breaking under tension as well as a sudden sharp noise. Both definitions lend themselves to the content of this short story collection and its theme of self-realization (the awakening from an illusionary self-identity or ego). Snap is a progression of stories that revolves around waking up. Novels such as Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man , Margaret Atwood’s Surfacing , and Paul Auster’s The New York Trilogy have all examined the issue of finding identity through a breaking of the protagonist. In each case, the protagonists come to a point where they completely separate themselves from their identity, and thus are able to see themselves from a new perspective. Snap further explores the issue of finding identity. However, unlike many postmodern predecessors it tries to give answers. The collection reveals that while we are individuals engaged in an internal struggle we are also connected to one another. Fiction; Short Story; Writing; Collection; Identity; S elf-realization; Awakening iii 36 Chambers We've been telling stories on rooftops. Paige brings the pillows. I carry the blankets. We make a bed on the flat concrete and talk for hours. Paige says she’s house-sitting. I don't know if I believe her. In the last week we've gone to three different rooftops all of which were suspect. Secretly, I think they are the homes of ex-lover's and she's made copies of the front door key. Tonight, a canopy of clouds drizzles. We pull the sheets over our heads to hide. Even though it's dark in our catacomb I can still see her eyes mirroring me watching her. “A boy became a heroin addict because of me,” she says. “At least that's what he told everyone.” Her legs intertwine with mine and I can feel her pajamas against my skin. “He started shooting drugs because I wouldn't sleep with him. Then a year later I told him he should stop. So, he went to rehab. He thought if he cleaned up I'd fall for him.” Her hair is a mess of black strands crisscrossing her nose. I'm thinking what animal she might be if she wasn't a girl. “I smell meat,” I say. “Are they barbecuing next door?” She pounces on me and claws my side. Of course they're grilling, she tells me. The neighbors are well known cannibals. At night they go from roof to roof searching for couples lying under sheets. I ask her if she could eat someone's arm. She answers yes. I try to pull away from her but she's straddling me and holding down my wrists. I suppose I could eat someone too. It's the chopping up of the body that would be the difficult part. “You chop up chicken,” she says. “What's the difference?” 1 We rearrange our bodies. I pull her hands around my waist. She locks the arch of her foot with mine. I tell her about a town I lived in when I was thirteen. How it was so small that they named the main street Front Street because it only had buildings on one side. I tell her how I used to walk that street, like all the other kids my age, hoping that someone with a car would pick me up and take me to the gravel pits where the party always seemed to be going on during the weekends. I tell her about the middle- aged man who pulled up alongside me and asked me if I wanted a ride and how I was stupid enough to get in his truck. He told me he had a motel room up the road. “There's a pink bellied girl there. She'll jump your bones if I tell her.” He had a scar on his forehead. I thought the indention looked like a closed eye. At the stoplight he turned towards me and I swear I saw that eye blink at me. I told him I didn't have any money except the twelve dollars my mom had given me earlier. “Don't worry,” he said, “I'll pay you.” His feet worked the gears with a certain finesse and his hand glided over the steering wheel like he was caressing skin. At the Shell Station he told me to wait while he ran in and bought some beer. I told him I would, but as soon as he passed by the register I jumped out of the cab and bolted up the street. I didn't stop until I found some kids my age sitting on the curb, sucking down bottles of pop. Paige leans her head back to see if I'm lying. Her legs are woven between mine again and her hand is on my shoulder. “You were thirteen?” she asks. I nod. “When I was that age,” she says, “I used to hang out with a boy like you. He started doing hard drugs because I wouldn't love him.” “You told me that ten minutes ago.” “You never let me finish.” I drag my fingers down her back and tell her to go on. “He left the country in the end. Whispered in my ear that I was a cunt and then I never saw him again. People say he killed himself because of me. I think he's out there lurking somewhere.” Like Paige, I've been haunted. A friend shot herself in the head when I was thirteen and her ghost has been stalking me ever since. A couple of years ago I tried to piece things together by writing poetry. I have a tendency to confuse memory with events that haven't happened yet and I thought if I could write the perfect poem about her death all 2 would become clear and her ghost would leave me alone. But my scribbled words didn't seem to help. After a while I became so obsessed with the idea of being haunted that I had to leave the town where we’d grown up together. I sold everything I owned, caught a freighter across the Atlantic, and moved into a cheap hotel in a violent part of Perpignan, France. I say violent because nine months before I arrived a man had been beaten to death, in public, around the corner from my new place. His death started riots and fire bombings; the neighborhood never really recovered from this. I spent my days writing poetry in cafes. I probably pissed off a lot of waiters because I'd order one espresso in the early hours and then sit there until noon before ordering another one. I didn't care. I was creating art. One night, I was talking about it with an artist friend named Solomon. (His name was actually Bo, I found out years later.) We were drunk and hiding in the entrance to the tunnels under the city. Earlier I'd attacked a guy and beat him with a scooter chain. So we were waiting out the ride home until we thought the police had cleared out. Sitting there I tried to explain my problem, how everything I wrote ended up being about me instead of about her. He grunted. “There are only thirty-six chambre not forty-two.” “No, no,” I said, “Je pense forty-two.” “No,” he said, “Only thirty-six.” We were groggy and cold, but he took his sketch book from his back pocket and began drawing a tower surrounded by thirty-six windows. “You remember Ron?” he asked. Of course I did. I'd recently attended his wedding. “Well, before Ron got married he worked in a prison. They put him up in a tower where he could see everything.” Solomon moved the pencil in quick motions. A fence here, a loop of barbed wire there. “If an inmate stepped out of line Ron would yell at him over the intercom.