In 2008, I managed a black-box theatre and rehearsal space just off of Times Square. A bit more on that can be found in an earlier post.
One of the things I just failed to launch was one evening a week where our resident ensemble performed an hour of original short plays and vignettes. “Slice of life in NYC” sort of thing. Short, punchy, experimental stuff. I had written a number of short pieces to try out in the first evening, and would have been joined by some other writer friends of mine in time had it been successful. I wanted to call it Express Stops.
I began pursuing my undergraduate degree in Studio Arts in 1994 from a well-known conservative evangelical Christian college in the midwest.
In those days of yore, a good friend and I used to write collaboratively, utilizing an early website for hypertext fiction authors called Addventure. It’s staggering to recall that we were using dial-up modems in the dorms back then, and queuing up in the computer labs to get the better connection. Heck, the internet was just in its infancy for us.
Our writing is still there after all these years. My username at the time was The Author.
Anyway. We also used to nip off to a local arcade/bowling alley/pizza joint in the early afternoon when it was virtually empty and do classwork as well as write together in the party room. After graduation, we spent a few years living around the college town and managed to write more together in that time. All up we surely had several dozen stories written, mostly focusing on the absurd, sci-fi, thriller-type scenarios set in places very similar to our quaint evangelical college town populated by characters very similar to people we had known there.
In our stories, we called this town “Bedville”.
Here is one story from that time.
STEVE TRAPPER SLOWED HIS CAR to a crawl and eased it into an empty parking space across from Bedville’s old art supply store. Christmas wreaths and red ribbon bows were hung from every streetlight and telephone pole, while a soft drift of snow obscured the brick and stone landscape. An old man clad in black perched on an old cast-iron bench, hands in pockets and white breath billowing out. Steve eyed the man cautiously as he locked his car door and strode toward a large red brick building across the street.