Senior Writing Portfolio Students
Millikin University

Michael Cummings

biography

I was born on July 6, 1984, in Birdseye, IN. I will graduate in May, 2007 as a BA with a double major in Literature and Writing. Overall, I feel that my college years have constituted the most fruitful personal growth it is likely I will ever experience, and I occasionally feel inspired to contribute something important to society. The rest of the time, I’m happy.

Writing Theory

Making Sense of Lives

It was not long after I began taking writing seriously that I discovered what is so magical about stories. People throughout time have used stories to make sense of their lives. Stories are at the root of every religion and every culture. They shape how we view family members, neighbors, historical figures, and even ourselves. We go through life hearing one after another after another. They are a tool we use to make sense of our emotions and our humanity. People love to hear stories because they enrich our understanding of what life essentially is. They force us to recognize emotional states and how people behave in different situations.

Writing stories helps me to learn about myself from myself. The act of combining words to symbolize physical characteristics, emotional states, or the beauty of individual moments in time is not simply the act of telling a story. It works on a much more important level. My best writing is not an accurate representation of reality as it is sensible to me. On the contrary, it creates new angles from which I can look at the world. Just as I am shaping and crafting a piece of writing, it is shaping and crafting me in return, helping me to develop a better sense of my relationship to the world.

My ambition is quite simple. I write in order to learn about what I am.

Writing Sample

Introduction to "Unwelcome Traveler"

This story is, as much as any story can be, a reflection of real events.  A wild dog had started raiding our trash cans at night, so I decided that instead of cleaning up the mess every day, I would leave leftovers out for it to eat.  It worked, and the pup warmed up to me.  She was a good judge of character, and always curious, usually running way ahead of me on the trail to inspect the remains of some unfortunate carcass.  This story marks the last day I spent with this fine creature. 

Unwelcome Traveler

I’ve lived twenty feet from the rail line that runs through Birdseye for my entire life, and as a result the sound of trains rumbling through the crossing with whistles blaring has become a pleasant noise during my homecomings from college. I never mind being jarred from sleep by the 3am freighter, which has strangely become a whipping boy for town imperfections like unkempt lawns, drug abuse, domestic disputes, and epidemic unemployment. As a boy I could never fight the urge to disobey my parents and undertake the lonely journey down the tracks.

The line ran down deep into the Hoosier National Forest, and cut right through the center of the most popular hiking trails. Crossing over the line where the outside world stops and the shadows of the forest begin was like pulling a warm blanket up to my neck. Joining me on this journey was a golden labrador I had found tied to the railroad tracks two years before. He was only a puppy then, and must have been unwanted by a really creative psychotic. When I brought him back home and put him on a chain, he frequently tried to sprint as fast as possible in one direction to break free, and more than a few times I unhooked his chain out of guilt and told him, “Go, if you want to.” Each time he would sit down quietly by his food dish, never leaving to explore a scent or sound, and I think if I could have left him unhooked he would have caused much less trouble.

Like any animal raised in a town, he appeared clumsy and out of place at first glance. I’ve always felt that as a reaction to the dull life of a cage or chain, he had shut off his evolutionary histories and instincts so that they wouldn’t drive him crazy in a world where his chain wasn’t long enough to use them.

So our trip began as usual, through town and down the railroad tracks, until we encountered a stopped train, an event not uncommon to the hilly terrain, as cars become unattached and must be retrieved. Stopped trains made me nervous, which made the dog nervous, because the conductors get pretty angry about all of the foot traffic on the tracks. I’m generally one who responds poorly to confrontation, so I decided it would be best to take one of the offshooting trails before I got any closer to the back of the train.

The trail I took happened to be one I know very well and I made plans to visit a landmark called Turtle Rock, an underground sedimentary rock, about a half mile from the tracks. Its top sticks out, giving the impression of a large turtle shell. As we came closer to it, Boogs broke into a gallop, led by some curiosity of scent, and quickly was out of my sight. He does this numerous times throughout every hike, and I thought nothing of it, as he usually is just after the scent of a squirrel or a raccoon. I continued on, wondering when he’d return, and I found myself in a sort daydream, imagining his dropping an unfortunate rabbit or squirrel at my feet as an offering of friends. I snapped out of it and looked around, realizing that the clearing for Turtle Rock was approaching, and that my breathing had become more labored due to our brisk pace. I faintly heard someone talking, the voice growing louder as I drew closer. The person seemed to be talking in a baby voice, which means they probably discovered my dog. I thought at first that they must be horseback riders, in which case I felt very guilty about letting my dog run loose. As I came around the bend just before the clearing, I saw through the trees a man sitting down on a fallen log, petting my dog. The Hoosier National Forest attracts mountain bikers, horseback riders and other outdoor enthusiasts from all across the nation and I always find it interesting to start a conversation with them. I approached the man, who either didn’t see me or simply didn’t want to pull his attention from the dog yet. Seeing your pet interact politely with another person makes you feel like a parent at a high school graduation, proud of their child but selfishly proud of the job they did raising them. My heart swelled and made me eager to talk to this man, to let him know that I am the one who taught this animal its chivalrous ways.

“Hello, there,” I blurted when I finally came close enough to begin conversation.

His focus remained on the dog, and I noticed that he was sitting on the same fallen tree that I normally sit at when I rest at Turtle Rock. Over the years it has become a legendary place to smoke marijuana, and consequently is avoided by most people. The rock itself was covered with all sorts of engravings, from the classic “I was here” to the sentimental “Johnny + Susie”. The man still did not acknowledge me and for some reason I no longer wanted to speak to him. I could tell he was a stranger. I studied his face for a moment and decided definitely that I don’t like him. My dog, however, seemed to think he was all right.

“Nice dog.” He caught me by surprise. I was not expecting him to speak yet, and my face obviously showed my apprehensions toward him. No matter how hard I fought myself, I could not muster a convincing smile.

“Yeah….” I couldn’t help but feel foolish. I have always been poor at small talk and suddenly all I wanted to do grab my dog and run back home. I decided instead to start again and asked, “Did you come down to see the trails?”

“No,” he replied quickly. This man strangely intimidated me. His face offered no insight as to what he was thinking, a skill I have always longed for, and he seemed, for some reason, to be very wise. “Just stopped here for a couple of minutes.”

“So did you come in on the main trail?” Why was I still talking to this man? I obviously felt uncomfortable with him and he seemed to be getting annoyed.

“This is a nice dog,” he said again. In the middle of his sentence I realized that the man did not come in on one of the trails at all. I could barely see a children’s shoebox resting beside him and with further review saw what appeared to be lice sacks in his hair. It occurred to me that this man had gotten off the train when it had stopped and fled to the forest before the conductors could spot him.

I was afraid. I had heard stories about people hopping trains but had never seen one in person and always thought that those who said they had were lying. I tried to remain composed.

“I think I’d like to keep this dog,” he said, seemingly to himself.

“Excuse me?”

“Your dog here, I like him. You mind if he stays with me?”

“Well—“

“Well what?” His interruption was like a surprise uppercut.

“WELL,” I started again, “I don’t know exactly what you’re asking. He’s my dog, I raised him, and I think I’ll be on my way home with him at my side.” I wish I would have phrased this differently, but was proud nonetheless to have gotten that many words out at once without stumbling over them.

He stood up, dusted his pants off, scooped up his box and said, “What the hell do you mean? It’s just a fuckin dog.”

“Yes, and it’s my dog.”

“Well, I’m still going to take it.”

“Sir, you are not going to steal my dog. I don’t know where you are from, where you going, what you are doing here, but I’ve got to be moving on and this dog is going to follow me whether I say you can keep him or not. Let’s go, boy.” I slapped my thigh, but the dog was now between us, confused, and made no indication that he preferred me to this monster. My feelings took a strange turn toward intense betrayal. It became clear to me at that moment that the man had at some point unsheathed a large hunting knife.

My body paralyzed. My mind escaped the moment, resigning from its position as an active participant to simply an observer of the moment. He pointed the knife at me and again asked for the dog, and I watched my hands raise with a pleading disposition. I heard my voice mumble, “Fine. Y--You can keep the dog.”

“Well thanks.”

He grabbed Boogs by the collar and they walked away without either ever looking back. In my mind I was running behind him to save my lost pet, but in reality I was turning around and slinking back along the path, remembering that I would have to take the long way home because the train was still immobile. I had given up so easily.