Alex's Slice of Life Challenge

Sorry if this is illegible, I'm traveling all day and this is my last chance for wifi, but I'm determined to complete this challenge. I just snapped pictures of what I wrote while waiting for my flight.

Jack looked at the clock on the classroom wall. 12:47 . The last time he looked, it showed 12:46, surely it’s been more than a minute . He pulled out his phone and pressed the home button. It confirmed the accuracy of the clock on the wall. The bell signaling the end of this class, the class that would be Jack’s last for the day, was scheduled to ring at 12:50. Jacked looked up at the clock at again. 12:47 . * * * Akua didn’t have a clock on her classroom wall and she didn’t have a phone, either. She marked the passage of time by the routine occurrences she’d grown to expect. It wasn’t an altogether inaccurate science. The sweet bread lady passed by just before class started each day. The steady rhythm of the cobbler boy who matched the pace of his steps with the thump of his hammer against his toolbox always prefaced the end of science class. The Search & Find tro-tro would pass twice each day, heading in different directions each time. It had already passed that morning and

The only thing standing between me and Spring Break is one full, 360-degree rotation of the minute-hand around the clock. The librarian had planned to lead the students for the hour, but a last minute conflict has left me sitting in front of them with no plan. "Ummm...I'm going to find a Bill Nye movie that we can watch..." I say, clearly sounding unsure about the plan, but knowing kids love movies and it is a treat we don't indulge in often in 3C. I turn on the screen and start searching for something related to our most recent inquiries. "But, Mr. Alex," I hear from a soft voice in the crowd, "a few us are still designing a new game for morning meeting and we'd really like to use this time work on that." "Okay," that seems fair , "you can do that." I find a video that will work and drag it onto the projector screen, about to press play. "Mr. Alex," another confident voice stops me, "you said that th

Instead of the traditional countdown from Spring Break to the end of the school year, this year, I'm counting up... I'm counting every sweet, fresh pineapple I eat. I'm counting every "good morning" and "you're invited" I'm counting every time I splash in the pool to beat the tropical heat. I'm counting every serving of "pepee" that accompanies my fresh plantain. I'm counting every conversation I share with my TA that isn't about students. I'm counting every Club beer, served cold or warm. I'm counting every run to the zoo where I say hello to my friend, the hyena. I'm counting every reading conference with students under the mango tree outside my classroom door. I'm counting every long, loud belly laugh we share at lunch. When the last day finally arrives, I won't be waiting for it, but I'll be ready for it, knowing that I tallied up so much joy in these final days.

When the two kids finally returned home, they did not need to wait at the gate for Charles. Both of their mothers were standing there waiting for them. They were hugged tightly, then scolded mercilessly before being hugged all over again. After a few rounds of the hug-scold-hug pattern, Abena disappeared into the house and came out with a cake, candles burning. The three women sang “Happy Birthday” to Jack and then sat in the garden to enjoy the cake Abena had made. When the cake was finished, they all sat in an awkward silence before parting ways. Jack and his mom headed for the main house. Akua and Abena crossed the yard to their room. On opposite ends of the property, both children lied in bed unable to sleep. There minds were racing with questions. Would they each be able to hold up their end of the plan? Chapter 7 When Jack stepped out the door the next morning, he was both relieved and terrified to see that Akua had indeed followed through with the first step in the pl

I am a spreadsheet kind of traveller. Not in a plan-your-trip-down-to-the-minute sort of way, it's more of a know-your-options approach. When I decide my next destination, I buy the guidebook and read it front to back. I find a novel, or two, set in that location and savor every precious description. I scour the Internet to find the scoop that isn't in the guidebook and the history that will put the experience in context. And I set up a spreadsheet. You'll find each possible location with a sublist of attractions in the area and estimated travel times between each, along with any relevant fees that may be involved. You'll find links to the attractions and if you're traveling with me there will be a column for you to mark your interest in each particular place on a scale from 1-5. The top ranked restaurants on TripAdvisor will also be listed with phone numbers and directions from the nearest landmark, just in case. (If you're planning a trip let me know,

A few other slicers have been playing around with Golden Shovel Poems  this month. You are meant to use a single line from a poem you love, but I decided to take my own spin on this idea when I was inspired by a line in an academic journal today. You see, I am supposed be writing a rubric for a graduate course I am taking. The thing is, I've always hated rubric, always seen them as a fancy disguise for the same old standardization of thought of which schools have consistently been guilty. So, instead of just sitting down and doing the assignment, I searched the internet for every anti-rubric journal article out there. You know, to get myself all nice and riled up before I had to do something that I didn't want to do. I did write the rubric (kinda), and I also got a poem out of it. You can read the bold words down the left side to hear Linda Mabry's original quote regarding the true effect of rubrics, and you can read all the words to see the poem she inspired in m

She talked about riding on his back and dabbing peanut butter on his nose. She showed him the photograph and described how he had rescued her with just one hand. She told him about the box and the day her mother had shown it to her. She told him how sometimes her mother never mentioned him, how they would go months without acknowledging him, so long that Akua would start to wonder if she had imagined him altogether. How when that happened she would have to sneak to the box and rememorizes its contents. And how sometimes her mother would talk about him, how she would freeze and not know how to respond. She told him about the Search & Find tro-tro and the man who always sat in the back. How his smile was just like hers. She talked until the sky had gone completely black. Jack listened and when she finished he asked, “How did he die?” but then he felt foolish for saying that because he wasn’t really dead…but maybe he was. Sometimes while Akua was talking, she used the past tense an

I sit at the computer, in the dark. The glow of the screen exacerbates my throbbing headache. I stare at the clock in the corner of the screen--Sat 2:45 AM. It is technically still Friday wherever these TwoWritingTeachers call home, technically still day 23 of the writing challenge. I technically still haven't failed. At least not at this. With my middle finger, I wipe a piece of "gunk" from the corner of my eye. Apparently, my quick rest on the couch developed into something a bit more serious. How in the world is it almost 3 AM?   How did I sleep that long? It wasn't even my first nap of the day. I had finagled my conference schedule so that the last family left my room at about 11:45. It had been a rough week. On Tuesday, something inside me snapped. Maybe I can blame the graduate school assignment that still isn't done. Or the stress of making sure every kid is ready his or her conference despite the people in offices' disregard for people in classro

“What?” she asked, blinking her eyes and giving her head a little shake as the memory faded from her mind, “what were you asking?” “Nothing,” Jack said, “I was just saying that you never talk about your dad.” As he said it, he thought about his own father, their complicated relationship and the complicated feelings that came with it. “Do you see him much?” Akua’s heart skipped a beat. She pulled a blade of grass from the red earth and began twisting it around her finger. “I saw him today…” she said, “I mean, I think I saw him today.” It is, of course, a strange thing to have thought  you saw your father. Jack immediately recognized the unusual nature of Akua’s statement.  His mind tried to piece together the possible scenarios that would lead to a child thinking  she saw her father—none of them seemed enviable, and he felt a pang of guilt for having wallowed in self-pity about his own father all day. Jack remained silent. Her words replaying in his head, I mean, I think I saw

Conferences and graduate school won today. All I can muster is a haiku inspired by the mango I should have saved for tomorrow... lips pucker, eyes squint impatient hands pick green fruit you can't rush sweetness .

His heels were lifted. His toes pressed firmly into the rubber sole of the sandals that rested flat against the floor. His knees bent and splayed out wide. One elbow was pressed into each knee for balance. She stood. He squatted. Face to face. She was already giggling. She knew what was coming. She saw the spoon, heaped with groundnut paste bouncing along with him. He took a small bite, then extended the spoon toward her. She looked at each of his joints—the toes, ankles, knees. She saw the way his tendons made ridges as they pressed against his skin, the way his muscled tightened and relaxed as he crouched to be near her. “Can I smell it?” she asked. He obliged. She moved in close, waiting for his move. With a gentle flick of the wrist, he pressed the spoon to her nose. She fell to the ground laughing. He laughed, too, at the sound of her laughter. He stood above her, bent at the waist, wiped the dollop of groundnut paste from the tip of her nose and put it in his mouth. She gazed up

Jack led Akua through the farms and up the hill to the place he had discovered in the morning. They sat down upon the same smooth stone on which he had sat in the morning. The sun was beginning to set and thousands of bat had taken flight into the reddening sky. Akua attempted to dip the bananas into the groundnut paste, but ended up with more on her hands than the banana as she passed the first one over to Jack. She prepared her own and raised it in the air, “Happy Birthday, to you, Jack Spencer.” “To me!” he reply, bumping their treats together as if they were champagne flutes. Then, the two sat in silence savoring the moment—the flavors in the their mouth, the breeze on the air, the brilliant colors disappearing with the sun, the silhouettes of bats filling the sky. Jack looked over at Akua, licking the gooey peanut butter from her knuckles. “You’re the only Ghanaian I know who eats groundnut paste straight from the jar,” Jack observed outloud. “I’m the only Ghanaian you kn

“Please give me two cedis worth of bananas and the small jar of groundnut paste,” Akua said to the shopkeeper. “Oh, excuse me,” she continued, still talking to the shopkeeper, but turning to look at Jack, “please give me two cedis worth of bananas and the small jar of peanut butter .” The last two words came out in an overexaggerated American accent, accompanied by a playful smirk. Jack allowed a smile to spread across his face. He understood that her reference to their old inside joke was one part apology and one part forgiveness. Everything was not all right yet. It could not possibly be made right with a few simple words, but it felt good to know that they were both trying. It finally felt like he had someone on his side again. Jack returned the gesture, knowing that Akua also understood the importance of this exchange. With a pathetic attempt at the Ghanaian accent, Jack exclaimed, “Ei! This combination, it be nice, o!” Akua smiled and then returned to chatting politely with

But now they were sixth graders, standing outside the gate to that kingdom they had created, each carrying a load that felt too heavy to bare. Akua, terrified and excited about following this new clue held tightly in her hand. Jack, crushed by the pain that comes when one has allowed himself to hope for too much. Both feeling terribly uncertain about what their future held. Neither sure why they had allowed their friendship to dwindle to an awkward silence. There are big factors, like disappearing fathers, that shape one’s life, but there are other more seemingly insignificant factors that are just as powerful. Maybe it was because Charles had taken too long to open the gate. Maybe it was because Jack was simply too sad. Maybe it was because, since the day he had met her, Akua seemed able to fix anything. One cannot know what the impetus was, but in that moment, Jack broke the silence that had grown and festered between the two friends. “Today is my birthday,” he said in a whisper

Both children has just finished grade four when Jack’s family moved to Ghana. Jack’s mother had travelled ahead of him and his father to find a place to live and settle a host of other necessary arrangements—school enrollment, buying a vehicle, hiring house-help... By the time Jack arrived in the middle of June, Akua and her mother, Abena, had already moved into the small living quarters on the north end of his family’s property. Abena had warned Akua not to bother Jack. Working in a foreigner's home came with a certain amount of uncertainty, and Abena worried that Akua’s reckless curiosity would somehow cost her the new job. When Jack appeared at the back door on his second day in the house, Akua watched him from the window in her room. He took one step outside, then just stood there. To Akua, he looked lost. She knew she had been told to leave him alone, but it was not like her to leave anything alone. “How are you?” she said, confidently, as she approached. He hesitated

He watched as the minutes beside his dad’s name kept ticking up. Last seen 2 minutes ago. Last seen 3 minutes ago. Last seen 4 minutes ago…when the count reached 24 minutes, Jack accepted that his dad had boarded another plane. There would be no surprise birthday party. “Nevermind,” Jack told the taxi driver, “just take me home.” Jack did his best to explain the location of his house and then slumped in his seat as the taxi wound its way back across town. Chapter 5 Akua was standing at the metal gate in front of Jack’s house when he pulled up in the taxi. She stopped knocking and stood silently, praying that Charles would open the gate quickly so she could disappear. Jack walked up beside her. They stood side by side, both staring at the gate, avoiding eye contact, unsure how to behave in one another’s presence. Jack and Akua had been avoiding each other since Jack returned from his summer vacation in the United States a few months before. Neither were ready to talk about what

Like everyday so far this March, I logged on to the TwoWritingTeachers blog, loaded the post for the day, and read through the announcements. Oh, no! I thought to myself. Are they talking about me? Am I doing this wrong? Am I one of the folks they reference who "is not adhering to the values" of the community? Then I went back and scoured the website for every mention of what it means to slice. Phew,  I breathed a little easier, certain that I have been not writing "book reviews, give-aways or promotional information." But I didn't let myself off the hook so easily...throughout the day, I kept thinking, what is the true spirit of this writing challenge and this writing community? Am I adhering to that spirit if I use this month to write a long-form fictional piece? After reading literally every reference to "slicing", I believe that the spirit of this endeavor can be captured in these phrases from the recent post: "It is through story

There was one hour left in his school day when the dot began to move away from Jack’s house. Down the road, around the corner, back onto the main highway…headed toward the airport. With no plan in mind, Jack calmly gathered his belongings, rose from his seat and walked out of the room. He didn’t hear his teacher call, “Jack, where are you going? Jack, get back here.” He just walked and kept walking. Still, with no plan, he scanned his security card at the gate, and kept walking. Jack had walked for a few minutes when he realized that, until that moment, he had only ever left the school in a car. He’d never actually set foot in this part of town. He looked around the unfamiliar streets and started to feel panic set in. Going to back to school was not an option, yet he didn’t want to keep wandering in this unfamiliar territory. A passing taxi slowed as it passed Jack and his horn gave two short honks. Jack looked his direction and the driver made a twisting gesture with his thumb

Jack stared at the flashing blue dots on his laptop screen that indicated the location of his many devices: Jack’s phone- online Jack’s laptop- online Jack’s tablet- online On the screen, a cluster of three blue dots covered the satellite image of Jack’s school on the map and when he zoomed out so that the whole continent became visible, there was one more blue dot flashing far to the east in Addis Abba: Dad’s phone- last seen 5 hours ago Jack remembered the day he had helped his father set up the “Find My Phone” feature a few months before. At the time, Jack was excited about the chance to teach his father something new and show him what a tech-savvy kid he was becoming. As Jack enthusiastically explained the necessary steps, he looked up to see that his dad had already become engrossed in something more important. Instead of oohing and aahing over Jack’s impressive technological know-how, his dad was frantically clicking away on his laptop’s keyboard, completely oblivious to

The busyness of an Accra tro-tro stop doesn’t slow down for the crushed hope of one little girl, so while Akua stood there, slumped over, staring at her feet, the people around her kept moving. When she finally mustered the courage to raise her head, she was immediately overcome by the chaos around her, a lone boulder stranded in a raging river of flowing people. The Search and Find tro-tro, now long gone, had been replaced by another, then another, and then another. The constant stream of people generated by the tro-tro stop was seen as an opportunity by the more entrepreneurially-spirited citizens of Accra, so what in most cities would have been a sidewalk was transformed into a bustling commercial zone. Some merchants set up makeshift shops with wooden tables and large umbrellas advertising mobile phone companies. Others carried their shops on their heads, trays loaded with tiger nuts or pineapples or Menthos chewing gum balanced perfectly as the sellers moved from open car win

Her bench made an ear-piercing screech as the wooden legs scraped along the concrete floor. And then her whole world and everything in it, everything except for Akua, froze. As if the force with which she had pushed the bench had stopped the world, itself, from spinning. All noise disappeared. She looked around her classroom and took in the still image—her classmates with alarmed consternations locked on their faces, Ms. Dorothy with the tip of her chalk still hanging to the unfinished ‘g’ on the blackboard, mouth agape. If Akua’s unexpected movement had activated a pause button on the world, then her exit through the classroom door was like pressing fast-forward.  The classroom became alive with commotion. Children were literally crawling over one another to a catch a glimpse of Akua as she disappeared down the length of the school. Akua paid them no mind. Fueled by desperate hope, she ran with the speed that only a child could muster. One left turn at the end of the school build

Like a modern-day sundial, the growing shadow cast by Akua’s pen marked the passage of time. The thrill of the morning’s photo heist had long warn off and Akua was left with only the nervousness of uncertainty. Not uncertainly about her ability to follow through with the plan, but uncertainty about the plan itself. Was it the right thing to do? Did he want to be discovered? Was there a reason he had left so many years ago? Was she prepared to know the truth? She allowed herself to look away from the never-ending stream of tro-tros to gaze upon the photograph resting in her book. It had been taken only one week before her father’s death. Akua had deduced this by comparing the date, carefully recorded on the back in her mother’s perfect handwriting, with the date of death published in the obituary that was still nestled safely in the box. They were all dressed in their Sunday best: her mother a vibrant slit and kaba, her father a striped batakari, and Akua a white lace dress with a

Akua thumbed the pages of her book with her right hand as she copied Ms. Dorothy’s notes from the blackboard with her left. She had found a way to position herself so that she appeared to be looking at the notebook when she was actually glancing out the window. As the pages of her book passed under her thumb, they made a strong, soft noise--the noise a toad would make if it could whisper. Then…thump! as the pages came to an abrupt stop at the place where she had tucked the picture from her father’s box. Not the loud thump of a hand on a djembe drum, but the silent thump one feels when she almost drifts to sleep while sitting up, but is jerked back to the awake world by the weight of her falling head. croaaaaaak, thump. croaaaaaak, thump. croaaaaaak, thump. A whispering frog and a silent thump that only Akua could perceive the importance of as she anxiously awaited the arrival of the Search & Find tro-tro and the man who would be sitting in the back seat with a smile that cur

Jack lay on top of a crumpled bedsheet staring at the ceiling fan spinning above him. Today was his twelfth birthday and he was up early. There were still two hours before he had to leave for school. One of the fan’s blades was out of balance, so the it spun with a wobble. Some observers might fear that it would, at any moment, come crashing down on them. Jack was imagining the opposite, he was imagining that fan breaking free from the bolts that tethered it to the ceiling and soaring like a helicopter into the air. Away from this place. bzzt. bzzt.  Jack rolled over and looked at his phone. Dad: Happy birthday, buddy. You’re probably still asleep. It’s already been your big day for 10 hours here in Addis Ababa. Have a great day, son. No, it wasn’t this place he wanted to escape. It was this loneliness. Jack imagined himself grabbing hold of that wobbly ceiling fan and soaring away. But to where?  he thought to himself. His first thought was home , but that made him chuckle alou

Chapter 3 When two people share the same small space, it’s hard to do anything without getting caught. Akua would have to act fast. She had only a 30 minute window of time during which her mom would be up at the big house serving breakfast to the family. On most mornings, Akua used this small slice of personal time to fall into a book or work on one of the inventions she was building out of abandoned items she rescued from oblivion on her way to and from school. On this day, she had another plan. She sat, eyes staring at the page on her book, not reading a word, waiting for the SMACK!  of the screen door to signal her mother’s departure. When it finally came, she stayed still for a few more seconds to ensure that the coast was indeed clear. With her book still in hand she stood, took a slow, deep breath, smoothed her school jumper and walked to the trunk at the foot of their bed. Once, about three years ago, Akua’s mother had knelt before the same trunk. She called Akua over.

There has been a story trodding through my mind for years. I've tried to, here and there, capture thoughts and ideas, on slips of paper and notes in my iPhone, but I've always avoided sitting down to write it. When a friend (and colleague) told me about the Slice of Life challenge, I decided that now was the moment to do this. The story is a complex web in my head and 31 days of forced writing would help me untangle the web. The first four days were invigorating. I was on a high and the words flowed. Now, on Day 5, I'm already stuck. I've started and restarted and thrown away so many drafts today. So instead of continuing the story, I'm taking Day 5 to reflect on some of what brought me to this story in the first place. For that I must go way back to my teenage days... The Internet was relatively new, at least in rural Montana, so I must have been in 8th or 9th grade--13 or 14 years old. While other boys my age were searching for jpegs of boobs, I used my first

bzzzzt.  bzzzzt.  Jack was sitting in class trying to focus on the video that his science teaching was showing, trying to ignore the phone buzzing away in his pocket.   bzzzzt.  bzzzzt.  The blue glow of the projector lit the darkened classroom. On the screen, the magnified, blood-red legs of a male assassin bug were scurrying across a leaf as he protected the larva of his yet-to-be-born children.  bzzzzt.  bzzzzt.  Jack raised his hand and asked the teacher if he could use the restroom. “Yes, but go fast I don’t want you to miss the end of the video,” his teacher replied, completely unaware that almost no one was paying attention to this movie, “you won’t believe what this insect does after the larva hatch.” Jack hurried out of the room and around the corner.  As soon as he was out of the sight of Mr. Stibbins, Jacked pulled his phone out of his pocket: 4 new messages from Dad .  Jack held his finger against the home button and the screen unlocked: -Dad: Hey Jack.  Change of p

A group of boys were kicking a football around the dusty courtyard outside of Akua’s school.  Off to the side, under the shade of a mango tree, another group of children had formed a circle.  Everyone was clapping and kicking their feet.  Ampe, a competitive rhythm game, was Akua’s favorite activity last year when she was in class 5.  But now, Akua had left primary school behind and she felt too old to participate in the childish game. The head teacher stepped through the doorway of his classroom and raised a silver bell above his head, shaking it back and forth.  The children quickly formed a series of perfectly straight lines, the littlest children trying their best to stand straight and still while the Head Teacher rambled off a series of announcement and then a very long morning prayer.  The entire school breathed a collective sigh of relief when he released them to their classrooms. Akua hurried ahead of her classmates.  She preferred to get a seat near the window.  Her class

“He’s in your smile,” Akua’s mother said as the screen door to their room slapped hard behind her.  Akua had designed and installed the metal spring herself to ensure that no mosquitoes would bother them at night.  Her mother was coming in from the main house, back to the single room they shared.  “The way your lips curl at the corners…and that look in your eye…it’s his.” Akua had been sitting sitting on the small bench that was pushed against the far wall of the room, lost in a book.  She stayed, frozen in her position, afraid to move in case she would reveal another part of her father hidden deep inside of her.  It’s not that she didn’t like it when her mother compared her to him.  It’s just that the two of them weren’t very good at talking her about her father.  He had died when Akua was four years old and she and her mother never really discussed him, except for these awkward passing moments. And even as she willed her mother to stop talking about her father, she hoped despera

“Put your phone away and eat your breakfast,” his mom ordered as she slid a plate across the table to him.  Jack looked up from his phone to see his mother in a tailored business suit, the up-turned collar made her look powerful.  “I’m riding into school with you today," she said, "I have a meeting with the principal and the president of the school board.  We’re going to see to it that your school finally gets that pool we’ve all been hoping for.” Jack put down his phone, picked up his fork, and jabbed into one of the pieces of fried plantain before scooping up a heap of black-eyed peas, the sauce of tomatoes and palm oil gave the beans a red tint.  “Thanks Abena, your red-red is the best!” Jack said to the woman standing in front of the kitchen sink, drying her hands on her apron’s bright swirls of pink and yellow and green, her hair tied in thick, tight braids that were then wrapped up and stacked on top of her head. “Anything for you, boss,” she said with a smile.