Campus Collection: Junior Stories Written by Matt Beyer
An incomplete and rough compilation of (4) short stories written my junior year of college. They’re not perfect, but I’d love feedback. Hope you enjoy!
Mad Man Sam
By Matt Beyer
“Sir, I’m sorry, but Dr. Patterson is out today. However, I do have an opening with Doctor Holland. He’s been newly transferred, would you like to meet with him”? Mr. Samuels let out a grunt but conceded: 9:30 a.m. the next morning for evaluation.
Samuels, or “Mad Man Sam” to those who had to misfortune to know him, had tossed his hypertension medication away weeks ago. He wrenched his crumpled frame into his beaten Oldsmobile and puttered to the hospital, muttering about his god-damn chest pains, the god-damn potholes, and about his god-damn rotting cigarettes.
Samuels couldn’t restrain a smirk when he noticed the doctor with a robe made of felt, and a wreath of hair. He also had radiating eyes and a towering and hearty body.
“Mr. Samuels, I urge you to continue to take your medication…”
“I’ll see you in hell before I do”! exclaimed Samuels as he bit his upper lip.
The Doctor raised an eyebrow. Whether out of jest or innocent inquiry, he asked “I take it you’re an atheist?”. Samuels just spat at the Doctor’s feet and marched out the door. The doctor merely sighed and waited.
Shortly afterward, Samuels’ body tightened, collapsed, and stilled.
Body and Spirit
By Matt Beyer
I was seventeen when I received my first drum and sticks in Camp Randall. It was the Spring of 1861. The commanding officer of the 2nd Wisconsin Infantry had been inspecting rank that day and he stopped in front of me. He was a foot and a half taller than I was then. His shoes had been polished and neatly laced. His trousers were pressed and his coat was neatly wrapped around a slim frame, yet solid as a cedar tree. Glimmering brass buttons adorned the front and his shoulders carried two bars of gold on the lapels, yet he held himself high. As I lifted my eyes to behold his face, I was nearly blinded by the halo that framed his head. There, atop the crown of his head, was the highest mark of honor for any soldier: the black slouch hat of the Iron Brigade, with heaven’s horn serving as Good Friday ash.
The officer, looking down at me, and said “Son…”. “18, sir”, I told him, before he could finish. It was a number I’d memorized for the past two months. I’d lie in bed at night and tell myself, ‘Don’t squint at the officers. Look them right in the eye and they won’t know the difference’.
I realized my mistake too late and the sweat arising beneath the uniform made my skin singe with itchiness. The officer, seemingly unperturbed by the infraction, continued: “Do you know why you carry that drum around?”. The itchiness had worked its way it my palms and I dropped my sticks. I darted like a swallow to retrieve them, banging the cumbersome drum against the ground. Rising, I bit my lip so the officer couldn’t catch the whimper that escaped my breath, but surrendered my dignity when I bowed my head and waited for the reprimanding I knew I’d surely get.
The man took a step toward me, then asked me to lift my head. As I leveled my gaze, I noticed his eyes, which were as blue as cornflowers. Then he placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “Best to keep this piece off the ground, my boy. Here (he pointed to the instrument) lies the heart of the army: it lies beneath the skin of canvas and gives life not to one, but to many”.
The officer then rose, gave a slight nod, and advanced down the line.
Source for which the story is based: https://www.wisconsinhistory.org/Records/Article/CS2025, “2nd Wisconsin Infantry History”
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