shoots & latter
My seventh-grade Social Studies teacher, whose name was forgettable but her Barbie-yellow hair and bustline was not, conducted class by having us read a chapter quietly from our desks and answer the ten bolded questions found at the end. She'd wait until the next class to give the answers, then for the remaining 45 minutes, we'd quietly read the next chapter. She'd shake things up occasionally by going down the row and having us read aloud a paragraph each. The class was as stimulating as studying insects' fecal habits.
To pass the quiet-reading time, my friend Stephanie and I wrote elaborate stories to each other. It started with a note I wrote, teasing her about the lust of her life, Bud Decksterr. [We pretended that his middle name was Victor, thus giving him the titillating initials, B.V.D.] In my note, B.V.D. decided to break up with the vile wench Melissa, only to throw himself at Stephanie and beg her forgiveness for his deplorable weakness for loose girls with ratty hair and big asses.
She wrote back that yes, she would forgive him if only his best friend M.A.P. (Marvin "Aaron" Pohler) would finally admit that it was me he had been pining for and to dump Julie and her thick ankles. In our fifth-period-confined reality, we were hot, desirable babes with acid tongues and witty comebacks.
The single-sheet notes were soon replaced with a spiral notebook. Our stories grew so long and involved, we'd have to take them home to finish our entries. Subsequent volumes followed. We'd pass back these notebooks to read during class. The entries would trigger long giggling fits that neither one of us controlled very well. Barbie, who always seemed a little taken aback upon noticing thirty kids sitting in her classroom, never gave us much guff.
Years later, through some high school reunion website, I had gotten an email from Stephanie asking how I was doing and if I remembered those spiral notebooks. Of course I did. I even remembered our fat, cursive writing, and how she used little circles to dot her 'i's.
This is really just a long-winded, roundabout way of introducing Shoots & Latter, in honor of Stephanie's and my spiral-notebooked stories. There are earlier, more happening versions of this kind of collaboration out there, but I hope this one has staying power.
To pass the quiet-reading time, my friend Stephanie and I wrote elaborate stories to each other. It started with a note I wrote, teasing her about the lust of her life, Bud Decksterr. [We pretended that his middle name was Victor, thus giving him the titillating initials, B.V.D.] In my note, B.V.D. decided to break up with the vile wench Melissa, only to throw himself at Stephanie and beg her forgiveness for his deplorable weakness for loose girls with ratty hair and big asses.
She wrote back that yes, she would forgive him if only his best friend M.A.P. (Marvin "Aaron" Pohler) would finally admit that it was me he had been pining for and to dump Julie and her thick ankles. In our fifth-period-confined reality, we were hot, desirable babes with acid tongues and witty comebacks.
The single-sheet notes were soon replaced with a spiral notebook. Our stories grew so long and involved, we'd have to take them home to finish our entries. Subsequent volumes followed. We'd pass back these notebooks to read during class. The entries would trigger long giggling fits that neither one of us controlled very well. Barbie, who always seemed a little taken aback upon noticing thirty kids sitting in her classroom, never gave us much guff.
Years later, through some high school reunion website, I had gotten an email from Stephanie asking how I was doing and if I remembered those spiral notebooks. Of course I did. I even remembered our fat, cursive writing, and how she used little circles to dot her 'i's.
This is really just a long-winded, roundabout way of introducing Shoots & Latter, in honor of Stephanie's and my spiral-notebooked stories. There are earlier, more happening versions of this kind of collaboration out there, but I hope this one has staying power.
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