What do you write?

Stories. At least, that’s what I need to tell myself in order to write anything—fiction, non­fic­tion, screen­play, even dabs of poetry. It all comes back to writing some sort of story in some sort of fashion in which themes usually focus on belong­ing or grief.

Is there an author or artist who has most pro­found­ly influ­enced your work?

C.S. Lewis. Not for his Narnia series, sur­pris­ing­ly, but for much of his other work. He con­veyed an imag­i­na­tion that crossed the bound­aries of genre and of audi­ence. I, too, hope to one day see my name (in however many pseu­do­nyms) among such a breadth of literature.

 

Why did you choose Stonecoast for your MFA?

Writing isn’t one of those careers for which I could put a hold on income and family respon­si­bil­i­ties to pursue. I wanted to learn how to develop a writing prac­tice that would be sus­tain­able well after grad­u­a­tion. Although Stonecoast is cer­tain­ly not the only low res­i­den­cy MFA program to offer such an expe­ri­ence, Stonecoast is unique in its incred­i­bly diverse faculty, oppor­tu­ni­ties to study popular fiction (and be respect­ed for doing so), and a body of alumni whose suc­cess­es extend to mul­ti­ple areas within the field.

 

What is your favorite Stonecoast memory?

The first time I read a piece of my writing aloud at an Open Mic during res­i­den­cy. The power that comes from having a sup­port­ive com­mu­ni­ty of stu­dents and mentors is visceral.

 

What do you hope to accom­plish in the future?

Read more. Com­plete as many man­u­scripts as pos­si­ble. And one day start my own non-profit press.

 

If you could have written one book, story, or poem that already exists, which would you choose?

I have to choose two works—a book and a play. 

Alice in Won­der­land by Lewis Carroll because of my fas­ci­na­tion with linguistics.

Death of a Sales­man by Arthur Miller because of its uncanny sim­i­lar­i­ty to dynam­ics I’ve expe­ri­enced in my own life.

 

***The fol­low­ing is an excerpt of a spec­u­la­tive fiction short story that follows two char­ac­ters unknown to each other, Jacob and Hester.

“Roulette”

By Adam Rodriquez-Dunn

Aidan was five-years-old when he decided to stop living.

“What should we do?” his father asked. “Do you think we could con­vince him to wait a little longer?”

“I don’t know,” his mother replied as she rubbed her cheek. “Maybe we can ask the seers to make an exception?”

“You know we can’t do that! He’d die anyway if he knew.”

Aidan’s parents sat on the green velvet couch in their living room, neither looking at the other. His mother blushed as she brushed her cheek with her lace glove. His father slumped over in his cor­duroy jacket, staring through his bifo­cals at the TV set, its chloro­phyll-like reflec­tion turning their brown faces a dark sage.

“Where do you think he got the idea to do it at this age?” he won­dered aloud.

“I don’t know.”

The man saw his face dis­tort­ed in the fisheye glass screen of the tele­vi­sion. “What if I can’t go on after this, Bebe?”

“Wait,” she demand­ed, turning toward him. “You’re telling me that you’re going to leave me, too?”

“He’s only five. Could you ever imagine–”

“No, I could­n’t! Of course I could­n’t. But there’s no rule saying he can’t. The Bureau–”

“The Bureau,” his father said, shaking his head. “What the hell does the Bureau know?”

His mother relaxed her shoul­ders. “This is nuts, Jacob. This is all nuts. But if we don’t respect his deci­sion, then every­thing else would fall apart.”

Jacob knew his wife was right. Once one person was denied the choice over life or death, the system would crumble as quickly as his son’s wooden blocks. Deny one person, deny all. That was as much the coun­try’s slogan as its new front-facing one: In fide provo­ca­mus. “In faith we challenge.”

“So we just let him?”

Bebe looked away again. “I think we have to.”

#

Amid the sounds of brass horns, somehow in harmony despite their various tunes played all at once across the city, the night sky above the Decatur Cafe was clear. 

Hester patted the white powder off her hands and onto her apron before taking a tray with two serv­ings of beignets to one of the outdoor tables, steady­ing two porce­lain cups and a thermal carafe of hot coffee in the tray’s center.

“Here you go, miss,” she said as she placed one of the red-check­ered paper plat­ters onto the table, then repeat­ed the process for the girl’s com­pan­ion before setting the coffee and cups. “I hope you enjoy.”

“Oh, ma’am,” said the girl, no older than fifteen. “I’m sorry, but I ordered tea, not coffee.” Then she smiled, showing her beau­ti­ful­ly arranged, sym­met­ri­cal teeth. Her grin was pure, Hester thought, sincere as unadul­ter­at­ed sounds uttered by infants.

“I’m sorry, dear. My memory must be slippin’,” Hester said. “I’ll come right back with a pot of hot water for you and a tea bag.”

She carried the tray in one hand and walked back toward the kitchen, her steps short and barely lifting above the cob­ble­stones. She heard the girls’ voices behind her com­pet­ing with the nearby music, pro­ject­ing so each could hear the other.

The girl’s com­pan­ion, a young woman in her twen­ties with hoop ear­rings, said, “Her memory must be slippin’? How has she not slipped already and cracked her hip open?”

The smiling girl retort­ed, “That’s not nice of you. I say, good for her for lasting so long. It’s not easy to live that many years in our day and age.”

“How old do you think you’ll be when you decide?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” The girl tore off a piece of the beignet and played with its fried, oily crust in her fingers like a cat batting at its toy. “I don’t think I want to make the decision.”

The woman snick­ered. “You want to be like her? A fossil that happens to be breath­ing?” She sipped her coffee.

Behind the counter, Hester frowned while she waited for the water to boil. It wasn’t the first time someone had attacked her most con­spic­u­ous feature, not by decades. The first time hap­pened while she was learn­ing how to wind­surf off the coast of Florida.

“How in the world do you think you’re gonna do this?” chided a tart little brunette in a surf suit. “Do you have a death wish?” Hester was forty-five.

“If I did, I would have done it a long time ago. Prob­a­bly when I was–how old are you?”

“Thirty-one.”

“Prob­a­bly when I was thirty-one.”

That puck­ered her tart mouth shut.

…Suri Pan­dusthil, and Justin Brakart. Hester turned toward the large flat-screen TV mounted in the corner where the walls of the kitchen and the cashier’s station met. This con­cludes today’s account of inor­gan­ic fatal­i­ties, as trend­ing online. For a com­plete list, follow us at–

The kettle began to whistle. She placed it on the tray with a tea bag and walked back to the table.

“I’m think­ing fifty-nine, but no later than sixty,” the woman was telling the girl as Hester approached. “I just can’t imagine going beyond that.”

“Well, doesn’t it depend on so many things?” the girl replied, then glanced up at Hester to thank her with a smile for the tea before return­ing to her friend. “Like, what if you have chil­dren? Would­n’t you want to be there for them?”

As Hester started to leave, the woman said, “Hey, come over here!” When Hester turned around she noticed the girl staring at her friend with wide eyes. “Do you have any kids?”

“No, miss.”

“And how old are you?”

“Natalie!” the girl protested.

“It’s okay, darlin’. I’m very happy with my age. I’m seventy-eight.”

“You married?” Natalie pressed.

“I was. My husband made the deci­sion when he was thirty.”

“So why are you still stickin’ around?”

“Cause I ain’t dead yet,” Hester answered. The girl smiled.

“Well, I don’t know if I’d be waiting around that long for death to come take me.”

“Natalie, stop it.”

“What?” said Natalie. “If I didn’t have any­thing keepin’ me here past my prime, why bother?”

“Darlin’,” Hester said, “you’ve got to show up for your­self. People come and go all the time.” She waved her hand back and forth. “That don’t mean you have to go with them.”

“My mom decided when she was forty-seven,” the girl inter­ject­ed. “I wish she hadn’t. I wish she had stayed.”

“I’m so sorry,” Hester said, and placed her hand over the girl’s. “You know, I wish more people hadn’t, too. In fact, it would’ve been better had that Bureau never come around in the first place.”

“And what about all those people you hear about all the time on the news?” said Natalie. “You rather every­one end up like them?”

“Living ain’t easy,” said Hester.

“Neither is getting your brain blown up to pieces.”

“Natalie!”

“Or cancer, for that matter,” Hester said. “Like my husband would’ve died from. But, you know, even though I would never want anyone to suffer through some­thing like that, just one more day togeth­er would have been nice.”

“How old would he have been when he got it?” the girl asked.

“Forty-five.” The pair at the table fell silent. “You see, there’s always a catch. You gotta be willing to sac­ri­fice now for the then. I just ain’t willin’ to do that.”

“You’d rather be hit by a car?” Natalie con­tin­ued. “Or drown in Lake Pontchar­train? Or–”

“No. I’d rather listen to the music whose notes lift up to the stars at night. Or stand in the clouds on top of Machu Picchu. Or swish the fer­ment­ed juice from Italian grapes around my tongue.”

“Did you do all that?” asked the girl.

Hester nodded, then looked at Natalie. “What have you done, darlin’, besides live like you’re waitin’ to die?”

Natalie stared across at her friend, then quickly placed the cup to her lips and sipped without stop­ping, as though Hester would keel over on the spot before it was empty.

But Hester had made it seventy-eight years. Through wars, polit­i­cal move­ments, dis­eases, eco­nom­ic col­laps­es. She could make it through a cup of coffee.

#