Gill Crosse folded his arms over his chest and slouched on one leg. No more. He refused to do it. He will not press one more button. He wondered how it was that all these people were able to run around in the open. They either had nice offices or could move around in fresh air. Meanwhile, Gill stood encaged in a box that moved up and down and dinged at each floor. Man, woman, and child had meandered in all day, and told him what level they wanted to be transported to. Gill would politely answer them “Yes,” “ma’am” or “sir.” But did he once ever receive a thank you? Did they once ever nod a goodbye? No. Curling his gloved hand, Gill was well aware of how he looked in his uniform. The Hotel Luxury made all bellboys wear hats, pleated trousers, and gold-buttoned coats. And, with that ridiculous boxy hat (the kind that monkeys in movies wear), Gill was conscious that the look made his hair tuft out at the edges and his face seem even puffier than it already looked without the added idiot effects. Lines had deepened on his face. Twenty years of work and three raises. Only ten bucks an hour. No, he had made up his mind. Not one more button would be pushed. By anyone. If he was stuck here, so were they.

The elevator came to a stop at the lobby floor. Determined, Gill clenched his fists, as a man dressed in a vest with an apron tied tightly around his waist and spiky hair, pushed a dinner cart into the space. Great, Gill thought, another one of them. The waiters, running around and delivering stuff all over the hotel. They make twelve bucks an hour.

“Floor nine, please,” the waiter said.

Gill leaned his back against the wall next to the button columns. He kept his arms crossed and propped one foot atop the other. Nope. Not doing it.

The waiter cleared his throat and said again, “Floor nine, please.”

Gill watched the doors slide to a close and stood a little straighter, blocking the numbers from view. He pretended not to hear the waiter, curling his left hand in front of his face, examining the dirt on his forefinger.

“Sir?” The man shifted the weight of his feet. “I’d like floor nine, please.”

Still, no response. The elevator started moving up levels, the red number shifting upwards every couple seconds. Two, three, four…

“What are you doing?” the waiter finally said. “Why won’t you press the button?”

Gill smiled then and laughed a little. Nope, not doing it.

“Come on, man. I’ve just got to deliver this food on floor nine. Just press the button or move so I can do it.”

The waiter tried to maneuver around Gill, stepping behind the button-pusher and trying to grab at the keys. But Gill, despite the age disparity in favor of the waiter, was quick with determination. No hand would grace his buttons.

The waiter grabbed at his own hair in frustration. “Dude. What’s your problem? Just let me out, man. I just need out. I’ll walk the food up the stairs, okay? Just let me out.” They were at floor six.

Gill stood stoic—hands pressed into the waiter’s arms to keep him from advancing. No one—including himself—would touch his buttons. The waiter watched as the number counter moved upward. Then, just as they thought they were to pass floor nine, the elevator stopped moving and the doors came open, emitting fresh air. They were at floor eight. The waiter grabbed his cart and ran from the elevator, almost knocking over the elderly couple trying to get on.

The old man nodded hello to Gill and said, “Floor one, please.”

Gill smiled and crossed his arms.

-Chels

*This short fiction was written for my creative writing: fiction class on January 12, 2009; it is subject to being rewritten and most likely will be as this is only the first draft. Also, the prompt for this story is as follows: create tension between two characters, write one page. I wrote three. haha. Enjoy *

I KNOW WHY THE CROW WILL CAW

I know why the Crow will caw
—the crow will caw—
he will caw in Chicago next to his cousin, the Dove

I know why the Dove will coo
—the Dove will coo—
she will coo in New York City
where she searches for food
next to her companion, the Robin

and I know where the Robin flies,
why she sings, and why she cries
and when she falls
—when her wings cease to beat—
she sings no more
—no more will the Robin sing—

a caw is heard in the distance
and the Crow, he freezes
—his wings sputter to a stop—
and no more does he caw
just like the Robin, who sang

and I know where the Dove rests
—she rests in the park next to the bench—
and the worm escapes her, for her mouth is suddenly slack
and her wings will not wave
—she cannot leave the ground—
suddenly her coo is heard no more
just like the Crow, who cawed
and the Robin’s song
no more will they be heard

I know when it rains and pours
the Robin will offer her jacket—brown-speckled—
and the rain will fall
just like the Crow will caw
and the Dove will coo
rain will start to fall
and the Robin will offer her jacket

somewhere above she sings
and her jacket—brown-speckled—protects some
but many are hit
and then they fall
and no more might they sing
their coats—speckled are they—now thrown in the ring

they fight a battle
against an invincible foe,
yet they lost long ago,
so they throw in their jackets—speckled-jackets—
and, the Robin, she sings a song
—a prolific song—
and her jacket—brown-speckled—protects what it can,
as she sings from Heaven above.

–Chels

*This poem was published in a journal sold to raise money to help find a cure for the AIDS disease. The hyphenated areas are meant to be echoed when read aloud.

THE BOOGEY MAN

They say I am your imagination
—the liar beneath your bed,
behind closet doors.
I am a creature
and folklore has sent me to beseech you
“Come here, my child,” I say.

My body is illustrated by you—
hot tamales glaring
muscled sweetarts rolling
laffy taffy tongue snarling—
gobbling—boys and girls.

You lie there
—vacant—
cotton candy dreams shining,
tumble-weeding in your mind.
I can see it in your twitch,
behind your lemon drop eyelids.
I’ve heard it—your assumed purity—
blowing bubbles in your scream.
I cackle.

Beneath your night breath
you groan,
eager to escape this nightmare
that is me.
I send you goose-bumps that trigger a shiver
and pray you never learn that

I am your Pinocchio.

And so I draw the shadows near my breasts
—facades soaked in fool’s gold—
while you rest unaware.

The tip of my finger slithers across your face,
as I lean in.

I whisper, “Wake up!”

-Chels

JUDAS ISCARIOT’S LIPS

I am crusty,
flaking with each lie.
Our face is masked,
and I do not unveil our untruth.
We sit next to him—
the one I betrayed,
and I continue to scald him—
to cut his skin—
as we pretend.

In hours, it will be over.
The daggers I cover have dulled.
An innocent man will be nailed upon the cross,
and Death will stalk him there.

He breaks bread.
Pieces of the crust speckle his beard
like dying embers against the patched earth.
And his wine—it splashes over,
painting splotches of fallen stars on the table top.

I wonder at his serenity—
surely, he cannot know
of our dissipated friendship.
And I wonder,
whatever should I answer
if he were to ask—
if he were to say—
That I know.
I know what you’ve done.

I am gritty,
tougher than the calloused.
He walked on water,
cured, lepers and the blind.
Fool! Can’t he see?
We bring him Death.

The three kings brought him:
gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

And so I spit acid.
Soon it will be over.
We have sparred, and we have won.

Yet—

in his lips
— in his eyes—
he knows of my betrayal—

Shh! He speaks.

-Chels

Thank you for visiting this website! My name is Chelsie Bryant, and I am a sophomore at the University of Cincinnati (if you have not seen the About page, check it out to learn more!). As an English literature major with a track in creative writing: fiction, I am looking to become a published novelist. This website exists primarily to promote my writings; however, there may or may not be a few postings here and there to chronicle my journey through the university’s English program and my life here as I discover who I am. I would also like to issue a big thank you to my friend, Brandon Schamer, who has created this website for me!

-Chels