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A COLLECTION OF WRITINGS VOLUME N o 1 Late Fall, 2013 When we say we’re creative writers, we mean it. It doesn’t matter if we’re working on a blog post for a client or a story for a literary magazine; we love what we do, and we’re good at it. We hope this survey of both our professional and creative work inspires you to think differently about the story you want to tell. And, of course, we hope you enjoy. - The writers of Metonymy Media metonymymedia.com 1 8 Chasing Dying Things This Is How You Stay Alive By: Scott Bla nton By: Theresa Beckhusen Pg. 4 Pg. 22 2 9 About the Libertine IPL Project Greenspace Supports By: Cy Wood Neighborhood Development Pg. 5 By: Ca rl Corder Pg. 25 3 A Study in Sand 10 By: Rya n Brock Philosophy Major Pg. 7 By: Rya n Brock Pg. 27 4 Brandon, Florida 11 By: Wade Thiel The Long Slow Burn Pg. 12 By: Cy Wood Pg. 30 5 Dear Laura 12 By: Wade Thiel The Secret STEM Lives of the Founding Fathers Pg. 13 By: Nate Brock Pg. 32 6 The Glory and Majesty of Stephen Sondheim; 13 or, A Brilliant Man with a Stained Sweater Indiana Family of Farmers By: Theresa Beckhusen By: Scott Bla nton Pg. 15 Pg. 35 7 14 The Walnut Bowl Transfer Art of Shrinking By: Nate Brock By: Ca rl Corder Pg. 19 Pg. 38 2 metonymymedia.com 1 Chasing Dying Things Scott Blanton This city is on fire and I’ve been chasing dying things ever since you said, our voices are like birds singing funeral songs—we can never remember everything we have forgotten, but we can always forget what we have remembered. And I wonder how long our lives would last if we never touched each other in the darkness of my cramped bedroom at the house in the ghetto. I grew to hate my own two hands—the only things I used to be sure of. I told you I have more magic in me than you know. Your only response was to smile and whisper in my ear, I may never know the magic that runs in your veins, but I’ll leave your heart wishing that I did. And I can’t remember any other damn thing you ever said to me. 4 metonymymedia.com 2 3 About the Libertine A Study in Sand Cy Wo o d R y a n B r o c k To the writers, the artists, thespians and rogues, “Once the cloth is laid down, I pick up this brush and get down to business,” said the man with white hair, his back turned to Lift your glasses as we toast the history of a craft. We toast the a massive pipe. “I find that if you move like this, you get the pioneers who knew and understood their spirits, and passed that best pieces.” He began to run the wire brush along the rusting down. We toast the moonshiners and the bootleggers and the metal’s surface and flakes of cerulean paint fell to the ground speakeasies that wouldn’t falter. We toast the bartenders who like snow. served the steel millers, the senators, the blue and the white “Yes,” acknowledged Amit, a scrawny young man of collars together. no more than twenty. “Like this.” He reached out to take the brush from his new mentor, an old man named Jehanzaib with We toast to those now elevating the standard, and those with dry skin and cracked feet. Very carefully, very naturally, Amit nothing to hide. To those who dedicate themselves to their tickled the towering pipe with a loose wrist, freeing only the craft: to learning, to immersing, to apprenticing, to measuring loosest chips of paint from their canvas. and to polishing. We toast to the plates we enjoy, to the drinks “Please, my hands belong to a worn man. Use that we drink, to the experiences we share when we gather and celebrate. strength,” Jehanzaib laughed as he slapped Amit in the back. “All right,” said Amit. He began to push with his To the craft of mixing, of serving, of blending, and enjoying. shoulders. His wrist grew oddly stiff as he leaned into the To taste, to flavor, and to the needs we fulfill. To casting our tube, an ant pushing a watermelon. The pipe was at least forty restraints aside. years old and was abandoned during the revolution. Amit and Jehanzaib lived half a mile away, next door to each other in a Tonight, we drink to the spirit of the pioneer. pair of shacks that rested up against the main. The many other homes in their village were spread around like this with pockets of one or two resting against the many pipes that stretched out from the refinery. 6 metonymymedia.com “Very, very good, Amit. Can you handle this by yourself Amit stopped and looked at the man. He looked over for a moment while I go grab the jars from my house?” his shoulder at the trail of bare rust he had blazed in a few short Amit kept scrubbing, with both hands now, and let out minutes and turned back to Jehanzaib. “Thanks. I wanted to an affirmative grunt. race the sun,” he said, nodding to the fading light on the horizon. “Just keep doing that,” said Jehanzaib. “This is a quick “That’s the spirit. You are a racehorse. You must find lesson. By the time I get back, we will have to stop for the day.” your own carrot.” “Okay.” “Right,” said Amit, wiping his face, ready to move on. “Thanks, boy,” said the teacher, slapping Amit’s back “What do we do now?” again, turning toward the sun to walk home. Amit stopped and Jehanzaib pulled the bag onto the tarp and opened it. backed up to inspect the pile of chips and dust that lay on the He pulled out a mason jar and tossed it to his apprentice. “Be drop cloth below him. Dropping the brush, he knelt down and careful. These are hard to come by.” scooped some of the loot into his hands and crushed it. The fine powder it produced was much brighter than the grimy blue that still covered the top of the pipe like frosting on a rusted éclair. “Perfect,” breathed Amit. “The yellow twilight covered “Don’t get lazy on me now, boy,” shouted Jehanzaib the empty ghetto in a fitting from the distance. Amit looked up, but the old man was too small a shape [ film of rusty orange” ] to make out in the face of the sun that so brilliantly blazed on the horizon. “Sorry, just moving the cloth, sir!” “Yeah, yeah,” Amit thought he heard Jehanzaib say. “Okay.” The young man stood up and brushed the dust off his “Well,” began Jehanzaib, “now we begin the happy hands while looking around at his neighborhood. There was process of getting the shit at your feet into these little jars.” The really nothing worth noting beyond the pipe and Amit’s shack, old man got down on his knees and began pushing mounds of which was almost invisible next to the setting sun. The yellow blue sand into the crock in his hands. twilight covered the empty ghetto in a fitting film of rusty “Do you have another brush for this?” asked Amit. orange and only the standing water in the dirt roads and the “I tried that long ago. The hand is the best tool for this job.” heaps of glass and plastic in peoples’ meager yards shone back as “Okay.” Amit’s eyes scanned his surroundings. Children were laughing “You’re not gonna let the old man fill more jars than in the distance. you, are you, boy?” He picked the brush up and got back to work, scouring “Not a chance,” smiled Amit as he dropped to the ground. every reachable inch, covering himself and the sandy ground “That’s a good horse,” muttered Jehanzaib. He moved under his feet in unnatural blue powder. As he moved, the piles down a bit, pulling the sack of jars with him. “You are much of chips and powder heaped along with him. By the time the taller than me. Your piles are taller, too, because you can reach higher.” sweat from his brow reached his mouth, it tasted like chalk and metal. “Thanks,” said Amit. Before long, the old man was back. He was carrying a The pair made their way down the cloth until the large satchel on his back that clanked with each of his steps. piles were no more. They filled nine jars, a very good number “Good progress,” he observed, stopping at the edge of the tarp according to Jehanzaib. Amit was made to carry the satchel as and gently setting the sack on the ground. they marched back to their homes and the old man slung the 8 metonymymedia.com dusty cloth over his shoulders. By the time they reached Jehan- zaib’s shack, any light leftover from the day had dissipated like smoke into the night sky. Jehanzaib entered first, walking through the shower curtain he used as a front door. “Don’t worry about your feet,” he said as Amit entered the house. It was small and smelled like Amit’s sweat tasted. Two walls were made of stacked cinder blocks and the other two of something much flimsier, all four of them covered in spotted sheets.

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