Eating Alone, Written by Brian Sell

Every once in a while I like to drop a sample of my son Brian's writing. He is in New York City right now, so I thought I would post this small piece that he wrote for a New York University writing course he took in the Winter of 2010. What do you think?

Eating Alone

Eating alone is an intimidating idea.
By eating alone, I guess what I really mean is dining out alone. Not just eating alone, everyone does that once in a while in their homes and cars.

Walking into a restaurant alone, sitting down alone, ordering alone, eating alone, paying alone and leaving alone is not an attractive idea.

By restaurant, I guess what I really mean is a real eating establishment. One with menus, servers, a wait time, appetizers, desserts and a check. Not just the local fast food “restaurant.”

It is understandable why most people would not want to do this. Eating brings people together. It is something we do with people we love, people we want to love and people we fake that we love. Having to sit down in a nice restaurant to a meal alone means no conversation, no small talk. The only dialogue is the mind’s silent racing.

By most people, I guess what I really mean is me.

Alone in New York, so much to do, so much to see and so many restaurants that must be visited before I leave.

Yet, I am alone in New York.

That means, if I want to visit the foodie places I have to go to every time I’m in New York, I have to do it alone.

Scary proposition.

For more, check out Brian's blog: Sell Your Soul

The Hill, Written by Brian Sell

The subject of this short piece might be familiar to the 40-50 somethings who grew up in Cincinnati, or went to University of Cincinnati. Written by my son Brian.

The Hill

The hill across the street was most likely manmade. Stone walls cut into the facing side at different levels and depths, their own faces now covered with amateur graffiti. Shaved flat at the top, it now was a mess of stones and dirt. Weeds and a few small tufts of grass battled for their lives in a pointless fight. Three impressively tall piles of bricks were gathered in one corner. The bricks flowed off their piles across most of the area, spilling down the side of the hill.

A few small walls did still stand, doing their best “roman ruin.” One corner of the previous structure looked fairly sturdy. The bricks standing strong and proud for their fallen brothers, sticking together as long as possible. It was a picture into the past. A past that stretched out from the hill, claimed great by stories told through the generations who’ve stayed. “A different place,” they’d say. The one’s who kept with the times used semi-current slang to support their fight. “It was off-the-chain, man. No joke, dude. The place was killer. Every night was raging.”

The picture blurred. The ruins, now an eyesore. The slightly-off slang convinced none of the young. Every year fewer believed the stories they barely bared to listen to. It was wasted space. Former members jumped ship.

“Who needs ‘em!”

A time forgotten by the majority, overrun by years. “Wipe it,” they say, stripping everything for nothing, no trade-backs. Memories sold into a parking lot.

The nest of a past culture, left to waste in a drawn-out death. Obsolete times drawing painful final breaths, waiting to be suffocated under a layer of tar.

For some more of Brian's writing: Sell Your Soul

                                        

Black Text, a Short Story by Brian Sell

I'd like to see my son Brian write more stuff! This is quality!

Black Text

I picked my head up and opened my eyes at that too familiar sound. The reaction to a text tone is sort of Pavlovian, an immediate learned reaction to that certain personal sound of a personal message received. The anticipation of another’s immediate thought, response or proposition, sent in the moment, rarely left to simmer. The specific reaction may change but there is always the quick jerk and thought, the shift of focus, an excitement or dread, sadness or salivation. Even wasted.

I looked around whatever room I was in, my head and eyes weighed down by too much to remember. Everything was slow and heavy, the night had taken its toll.

I didn’t see my phone anywhere in my blacked-out vicinity. Three bodies I couldn’t identify were on the floor to the left of the too-uncomfortable chair I guessed I had passed out in. Two of the bodies embraced.

A few sudden vibrations shook my leg and another tone rang out, much more clearly from around my groin this time. A closely following second tone is usually attached to much stronger feelings, good or bad, but I couldn’t remember which way I was supposed to feel. What was I talking about?

I felt around on my thighs where the pockets of my jeans would be. I bumped into the candybar bulge of my phone on my left leg. It took every ounce of concentration and strength, plus an audible groan, to shift my weight and reach into my pocket. As I grabbed my phone, I could feel the quick succession of short vibrations leading up to a third tone.

“Fuck,” I mumbled to myself, fighting the urge to vomit from just speaking. As my phone emitted another of its twinkling tones, I wriggled it from my jeans, pockets tight. I was either in some deep shit or doing something cute, or funny, or just right in some way. And all on auto-pilot. I hoped for anything close to the latter but expected the former as I tapped the power button on the top edge of the phone to turn on the screen. Who was I even talking to?

My mind knew it should’ve felt more nervous, or anticipated at least, but it didn’t care, staying tucked in its warm blanket of intoxicants. The screen flicked on and my finger automatically glided in the pattern to get past the lock screen.

I opened up the string of messages and attempted to read but could barely understand anything I was seeing. The first sentence was only half a sentence. I could read words separately but couldn’t comprehend full sentences. I skipped over words entirely and forgot others as soon as I read them. Feeling frustrated and illiterate, my attempt at reading turned into a skimming, catching words sporadically. There were numerous words in all-caps, a few “love”s, more “hate”s, every explicative I could think of and a disconcerting lack of emoticons.

I stopped and took a breath, slowing down and reminding myself that this was serious and no time for skimming. Triple-tone. I started to reread the first sentence which was still unusually cut-off at the beginning. I realized I had been attempting to read the thread in reverse order, the truncated first sentence being the continuation of the message before. I flicked up to the top and gathered myself to start reading once again, this time in the right position. But before I could get past the first “I”, my phone vibrated again, letting out another tone that lost impact every time I heard it. A notification popped down from the top of the screen and quickly disappeared.

The sound, vibration and what I thought was a quick glance in attempt to catch the dropping notification threw me off balance again. I looked back at the messages and noticed I had been bumped down to that most recent text in the thread. I hadn’t even thought to check who I was talking to. I was quickly snapped out of all intoxication when I saw who it was.

The newest message was much shorter than the others, and much easier to comprehend.

“We’re over. Goodbye.”

FEB
201125

For more from Brian: 

Sell Your Soul: http://www.briansell.com/