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Morning after

In by Wyatt on February 28, 2009 at 5:05 pm

Steve lay in bed staring at the pattern created by sunlight sifting through the sheets over his eyes. Little honeycombs of unfocused refraction bounced into his retinas. He wondered what caused these funny patterns; maybe it was the light beams themselves bending, or maybe it was his eyes bending around them.

Steve lay in bed staring at the ceiling. There was nothing particularly interesting on the ceiling, so he got bored quickly. He kept looking at the ceiling though because it was a little less difficult than thinking about light refractions, and besides he was bored with those too now.

Steve lay in bed staring at the window. It was made of glass rectangles the size of his head, stuck together with white wooden fixings. The painters had slopped paint from the fixings onto the panes, which daubed lightness on the view beyond the window.

Steve coughed gently.

Steve stared at his desk lamp. It was a good desk lamp that had served him well. He wasn’t sure if it were halogen or compact fluorescent, but he knew it produced light when it was dark, and that was pretty impressive in and of itself. Steve wondered how many hours that lamp had been turned on, and how many more it would be used before the bulb would die. He also wondered whether it actually produced light, or if it just sucked in darkness like a photonic vacuum cleaner.

Steve’s mouth was dry and his head felt numb.

Steve thought about taking a shower. He pictured the steamy water scalding his skin, opening the shower window to let fresh, frigid air in, and staring at the giant tree outside, with happy sun rays wafting in on his wet face. He rolled over and covered his back with the sheet. The sheet felt a little scummy, but he’d wash it tomorrow. Maybe.

Steve thought about his plans for the day. First he would eat something, he supposed. Maybe a frozen burrito or ramen cup. And then he would ride his bike somewhere, perhaps, like the post office, because he hadn’t checked his mailbox for a long while. And maybe he would see someone he knew and start chatting to them, and be invited to another party tonight. He thought he’d politely refuse, and then ride his bike back.

Steve reached down to his waist to see why it was sore and saw that he was still wearing the belt with the giant buckle his dad had bought him in Miami three years ago. The bull-horn shaped had been branded above his crotch because he’d been sleeping on his stomach.

Steve thought about getting out of bed, getting a glass of water, or seven, downing a couple Advil, taking a shower, getting some food, going outside, running some errands, maybe even starting a little work if he felt so inclined, and generally participating in vertically oriented activities. But all he did was think about them. He rolled over and closed his eyes.

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Good Morning (500 Friday)

In by Chris on February 27, 2009 at 11:35 pm

            One day Jeremiah was driving to work and he got stuck behind a street sweeper. It was loud and he could see the dark grey exhaust pouring out of its backside. He drove along on the very clean street at five miles an hour, cursing the whole way.

            “Goddamn traffic sweeper thing in my way!”

            It turned down a different residential street, and his way was clear. He floored it. Soon he was at 7-11, picking up Shawn and purchasing their customary morning slushies. He got blue raspberry, like he sometimes liked to. Shawn was also mad because apparently on the way to the 7-11 a biker had run through a puddle right next to him, splashing all kinds of mud ovals on his pants. He had run back home to change, and luckily Jeremiah was late because of the street sweeper.

            “That bike dude was a turd.”

            They got on the highway and chose to rock out to AC/DC. They were still a little mad or something, and Jeremiah got to speeding. He was going fifteen over swerving around a VW bug when a cop appeared behind them and started flashing its lights.

            “That thing was nowhere! It came from the sky!”

            The cop was nice because Jeremiah gave him his half-empty slushie. As they drove away he pounded fists with Shawn in an exasperated and relieved way.

            “We sure are lucky sometimes.”

            Off the freeway again, they saw some abandoned sofas on the exit ramp. The foam was showing through most of the cushions and it was black.

            “Yo remember that, I want that flowery one.”

            The light, like normal, went green twice for the other two directions before finally letting them through. A BMW with a clear case of young professional road rage was right behind them, flashing her brights the instant the light changed. She honked several times over the next two blocks and changed lanes four times, but still she was behind them.

            “OK lady! Take some of this!”

            He braked hard then accelerated, then repeated that for several minutes. She finally took a side street. They were grinning because it was fun. Until they noticed what time it was, because the little glowing digits read 9:11.

            “Work starts at nine!”

            “No crap!”

            “Plus 9:11 is unlucky!”

            They were only three blocks away and had to sit at each red light and watch mattress and sandwich salesmen walk out onto the street corners and adjust their body signs. One held his up for a few minutes before he crawled into it so that he could know exactly what he was selling with his body. It was a five dollar foot long. They pulled into the parking lot and somehow both managed to slam the edge of the sport jacket into the car door.

            “Damn!”

            “Damnit!”

            “Shut up!”

            And right when they were getting out of the car the clouds decided to let loose a brief fluster of rain.

            “Wet!”

            Then the day started.

In by Lara on February 27, 2009 at 2:46 pm

It was never meant to be torn. The sunbathed wearers, shorn of escapades wrought on the horizon pleaded insanity, but only the whistling bristles swayed towards infinity. The liars and cheats, the scoundrels and hags.  And to what purpose could it possibly serve while the doldrums abound in resilient anticipation of the calm? They lay dormant once, twice, and maybe the third was a fairy-tailed fluke. Gestation could only last for so long and the sepulchre of morn lingered in corners of hatching shadows. Perhaps the yearning roar could not sustain its insatiable fight. The denizen of the dreadful, palpable might. 

Focus

In by Lara on February 27, 2009 at 2:45 pm

One day, she woke up and the world was out of focus. She tried to make out the clock, but it was just a blurry white and black orbs. But it wasn’t just her eyes. It wasn’t that simple. She tried speaking, and words entered her ears as if they were insulated in marshmallows. She tried moving. It was like walking in hummus. The air was dense and thick, and she felt as if she was breathing in feathers. Frustration wasn’t even an option, because her own thoughts seemed to drip away like beads of sweat on a hot day.  

Guest Post: Mary-Ann Ortiz-Luis

In by New Author on February 27, 2009 at 2:13 pm

It took me a while to understand my profound grief over your new life away. I realize now that I feared you would be taking with you all eighteen years of who I have been. It turns out, you didn’t. You have not really left. You are in the hum of the kitchen and the hallways, the music from your piano, the dog-eared books you read and shared, the organized clutter of your things. You never really left. You are always here.

The proverbial umbilical cord no longer pulls nor strains. Rather, a welcome of separateness has taken over.

little things

In by Wyatt on February 27, 2009 at 2:18 am

What is seen without the eyes? What is tasted without the tongue? What is smelt through ears and heard on skin?

The little things. The refractions. Tiny ripples in perception lost in the barrage of rich information.

What if you could only taste without your tongue? Grab a chunk of prime rib in between your fingers and squeeze; listen to the echo of its long lost beating heart; feel the distant shadow of its warm and grass-stained breath.

Would you feel disabled, incomplete, distant? Or would the richness of experience drawn from ephemeral peripheral hints of meaning distill life pure?

Who

In by Wyatt on February 27, 2009 at 2:04 am

Greetings. You look nice today. Thanks. You too. Want to watch me brush my teeth again? I guess you have to.

Why do you never say anything? All you do is look! What if I don’t want you to look? DON’T LOOK. Speak! SPEAK TO ME.

Very well.

Oh God. Oh no. No. You didn’t say anything. No!

Yes. I did.

WHAT! Who are… you?

Myself.

So you can talk.

Of course.

But… why only now?

Why not.

What’s that sound?

The shower curtain.

You can hear! How?

You can hear.

You’re creepy.

Hmmm.

Please leave.

You wouldn’t want that.

Guest Author: Maggie Oran

In by New Author on February 27, 2009 at 1:44 am

Today I did not open my mouth. I didn’t say a word. I watched the planes swerve through the sky, eerie angles adorned with lights, talking to the night in a loud, low hum the same way that waves talk to the sand. On the ground, the orb-shaped street lights lit the undersides of oaks; the trees looked artificial, as though in a set for a play. In the darkroom, in the mysterious half-light, in plastic pans of not-water, black lines became windows, carousels, and fog over the beach – bookshelves, and shadows. I leaned over and watched in silence.

Guest Author: Maggie Oran

In by New Author on February 27, 2009 at 1:43 am

Don’t drink the water – read the signs. Don’t tell me your purple nail polish matches what you’re wearing (or anything you own). This is character development. I know where you’re going, and I’ll make sure you get there.

Watch your step, and put on a pair of more comfortable shoes. You have to listen to me, because I won’t go away, you can’t make me leave. Put on your sunglasses. You don’t want them to know what you might have been in a past life, or even yesterday. Sometimes I think life moves too fast, you know what I mean?

Ten Poems

In by Chris on February 27, 2009 at 12:02 am

Jewelry sold
Time’s getting old
And the crosswalks are wide
 

Blink
Stroller mom
Sidewalk thinking other things
Shopping-cart bum
Blink
 

Fresh trim to adorn
Houses been torn
Paint worn
Reborn
 

Freedom?
            Richdom
            Poordom
Freedom?
            Babydom
            Elderlydom
Freedom?
            Blackdom
            Whitedom
            Mexicandom
 

An overflowing abortion clinic
And a high horse political cynic
 

Door was open wide
Stepped through
You were not inside
 

You gave
Nice Smile
I’ll behave
Rusty knife
Placid life
 

Professor Loague has a backwards hat and asks many questions
 

Stumps
Are understandable
When I’m wandering.
Roofs and forests above
 

Where
Are
Silver toy cars?
Here
Comes
A large animal

Sunrise Farms (FIN)

In by Chris on February 26, 2009 at 1:22 am

            “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “WEED!” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.”

Thank you, kind sir

In by Lara on February 25, 2009 at 9:33 pm
Some crusty old man approaches me one day.

Nothing compels—not pity—my stay,

I see red rimming his moistened, sleep-deprived eyes,

yet I stand transfixed as his cigarette dies.

He coughs and asks for only one thing

Will I listen to his song? The only song he can wring

out of his bones, into the air, for me

for them, for all the world to see.

I open my ears and the old man stands tall

He opens his mouth, I welcome the fall

of languid squalor, such dulcet tones.

It says, I have been there, and I am alone.

Lies

In by Lara on February 25, 2009 at 8:30 pm

What if I said I didn’t love you anymore?

Try it.

I don’t love you anymore.

I don’t believe you.

Well, that’s because I still love you.

Then why would you ask me what I thought if you said you didn’t love me anymore.

I don’t know. It was a thought experiment.

For what?

I don’t know. Maybe to see if you if you still loved me.

Why don’t you just ask?

No.

Why?

Because I don’t want to know the answer.

Try it.

 

Do you still love me?

No.

I don’t believe you.

Well, that’s because I still do. 

Race or chase

In by Wyatt on February 25, 2009 at 2:47 am

Running running running running running feet don’t graze the ground to breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe breath doesn’t grace the throat to beat beat beat beat beat blood barely hits the heart doesn’t drip drip drip drip drip sweat slips down the brow over gaze gaze gaze gaze gaze the horizon isn’t any closer to taste taste taste taste taste the metal sandpaper of thirst so rush rush rush rush rush adrenals squeeze free energy and crack crack crack crack crack bones rube bones and moan a wonder wonder wonder wonder wonder why are you still alive? Because you do.

Garden And All

In by Chris on February 25, 2009 at 1:37 am

Nothing depends on that red wheelbarrow
Sitting in the corner of the garden
I see it
And smile with the earthworms.
They wriggle up its iron haunches
Smiling and giggling.
Rain, chickens, hoes, vegetables
That garden is a city block
Or a deep-sea vent
Where extremophiles gurgle.
Oh silky puddles!
Confused pumpkin flowers!
You’re not the reason I’m here
With my arched rib bones
And cathedral heart.
Perpetual glaze of dragonflies
Song movements of the shadows
I see them
And take feather drop steps
So my sneakers stay clean.
Curious eyes
And I am inside
They miss my belt buckle.

Group project

In by Wyatt on February 24, 2009 at 1:05 am

1:I think it’ll be okay if it’s ten pages?
2:Maybe if we double space it…
3:but it’s only supposed to be seven!
2:Maybe we can just double space some parts?
1:No we should do the whole ten. Ten’s a nice number.
3:You’re mum’s a nice number, we can’t have more than seven!
2:Oh no, someone stole cookie dough from my dorm’s fridge…
3:Stop checking email!
1:Yeah we really need to finish this!
2:Hey shut up you were on facebook!
3:that’s different!
2:Pshh right. I’m hungry!
4:[looks up] I just permanently deleted the whole document. You guys figure this out. Peace.

Sunrise Farms (III)

In by Chris on February 24, 2009 at 1:04 am

            “Weed.”
            “Weed.”
            “Weed.”
            After each time he said “weed”, Blake added a number in his head.
            “Weed.” 4,214.
            “Weed.” 4,215.
            Each night he carefully entered his day’s total into a small notebook, totaling as he went. In three years at Sunrise Farms, he had pulled a little over nine million weeds. It was his self-imposed penance; only when he had pulled ten million little plants out of the soil would he allow himself to return home and enroll in the last class he needed to earn his high school diploma. He combed through a zucchini plant. Soon, now.
            “Weed.” 4,528.

Things to Do in Palo Alto

In by Lara on February 23, 2009 at 3:48 pm

Riding our bikes down University Ave. only on sidewalks

and press our noses to the creamery windows,

eyeing dreamery aisles of milkshakes and sammies

Cruising down the El Camino

(Double “the.” Morons.)

            Zooming vehicles along on “the car”—har har har

Taking a different approach…walking it

            now it’s seemingly interminable, “the car,”

almost tempting to hitch hike, but hah, in Palo Alto?

Lamenting the banality of your situation in Palo-hum-diddly-Alto

            shutting down before the cows come home. Usually.

so far from San-buzz-buzz-buzz-Francisco

Brainstorming together about what to do in Palo-peachy-Alto

            what to do what to to do what to do?

Guest Author: MBrandt

In by Michael, by New Author on February 23, 2009 at 2:11 am

Convenience

How it is: fruit on the bottom! (mix it yourself). Self-service gas! (pump
it yourself). Speedy checkout lanes! (scan and bag your items yourself).

That’s not really convenience. Sometimes more personal involvement doesn’t
mean better- it just means more work.

What’s next? Build your own television kits! Do it yourself doctor’s
appointments! Subway: now featuring a make your own sandwich station!

I see what they are trying to do.

Here is what I want: Chicken sandwiches at the touch of a remote! Adjustable
weather! Not just predictive texting, but predictive phone calls!

Now that’s some convenience for your ass.

1 in a 100

In by Lara on February 23, 2009 at 1:24 am

Dialing 1, 2, 3.

Buzz buzz buzz buzz

Beep.

 

Operator: Operator.

Caller: I’d like to be transferred to Mr. Richard Tratham please.

Operator: Are you holding any radioactive or potentially hazardous substances?

Caller: No.

Operator: Understand that we are not responsible for the loss of any clothing, accessory, or jewelry components. In the event that part of your entity is damaged or somehow altered in the transference, please see a–

Caller: –Yes, I know the drill.

Operator: Please hold.

 

Shwzaspperueska;lskeqkejrlapsoqazzzzzzz—

 

Error: Transferrence incomplete.

Operator: Sir?

 

Operator: Sir? Oh no, Maureen, get the nuclear positron zapnaf. We have another one.

The Wanderer

In by Chris on February 22, 2009 at 11:53 pm

            The pillow was lumpy no matter how she fluffed it. She had opened the window, and the breeze had finally lost its heat. She counted, lying on her back, backwards and forwards…

            Then she heard something. A lonely wail, washed over again and again by the night air. Frogs croaking. Or a man singing?

            Slipping to the window, she stuck her head out. The house stood alone on a hill and below her spread the black fields. In the middle of one flickered a fire, and the breeze brought her the words.


“Momma I been away

Momma I’m gonna stay”

Pizza

In by Wyatt on February 22, 2009 at 3:40 pm

Pizza. There. She did it. Every single time she stares at that glowing white rectangle with blinking black ‘I’ in the left top corner, the first word that comes to her mind is Pizza. It’s a tic. She has no control, takes no responsibility. My name is Aida, and I’m an alcoholic. Absolution through forced voluntary admission. Perhaps now her slate’d be clean, now she could talk about anything without knowing an Italian delight would slowly be cooling in the corner, left dejectedly out, rejected by her inability to reign in her mind. Pizza, pizza pizza. The reason she purged.

Cold-pressed Time

In by Wyatt on February 22, 2009 at 3:28 pm

The cycle of semantics seems inherently compelling swelling jelly swirling hell he barely gropes to stay afloat among a mass of messy sea to see two seers who be freer than the sleepers— who peep once— know the ensconced persons want one per bun but don’t get none (his will was done when he shot gun then run begun and won’t come home to comb the loam tomed in his bones, he can’t become a humdrum bum from Mumma’s slum ‘cause scars cut far, stuck in black tar, ash wafts above bizarre cigars); thus rush to brusquely thrust… he must.

Nose Goes

In by Lara on February 22, 2009 at 1:19 am

“Wanna go to the market?”

“Sure, I could grab a bite.” Mark shrugged.

Penny laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

She just shook her head and hopped down from the bed. “Let’s go!”

Once through the sliding doors, Penny immediately darted to the pasta aisle. Mark was thinking of a nice fettucini alfredo, but there were no sauce-filled jars, nor packages of pasta. There were just walls with rows and rows of indents.

“Mmmm!” Penny pressed her nose into a groove labelled “marinara.”

“Uh…I thought we were getting food.” 

She laughed again.

“You’re so silly, what century do you think we’re in?”

Honest

In by Lara on February 21, 2009 at 11:40 pm

Acting is fascinating and problematic for me. I’ve had glimpses of what it’s like to really act and they’ve been glorious moments of liberation! I don’t know how to induce or control these uninhibited releases of creative spontaneity so that they happen when I want them to and for a longer period of time! More often than not, I find myself drifting slowly back into awareness of myself, and that severely clamps down on my ability to…act. It’s the ugly side of self-realization. It manifests itself in hesitation, but I’m learning to stop stopping and just go with the flow.

Sunrise Farms (II)

In by Chris on February 21, 2009 at 10:55 pm

            “Weed.”
            “Weed.”
            “Weed.”
            Jenny tried to look at each weed as an ancient tree, and imagined the little clod of dirt clinging to the roots was a massive hunk of the earth’s crust being rent from the ground. The blooming rows of dahlias in which she worked all day with Blake and the new guy Tyler were galaxies with bursting suns and orbiting planets. Earthworms were dinosaurs. She did this to feel smaller, like her life in these few acres was just as cosmic and meaningful as that of a famous poet or author. Each day, the weeds grew higher.

Oh Noetry

In by Chris on February 21, 2009 at 5:00 am

(Collabo between Chris and Charmaine late at night)

How hunger eats mealworms
Amazing Anastasia like fold and teal
Gold coin, bullion poppy fields
Tape the door shut
Bridge over decimate palpitate congruently fluently
Snake skin drain galaxies
Menagerie of fire forestry
Big Ben oversees oceans dispenser flavor
Gown faded traded and escapaded
Twin origin origami soup flyers
Bollards bonanza
Pop goes my weasel
Reason isn’t princely or humane bubbles
Trailer park mailer arc stop
Begin how to start enjoying this stardust
Hobo hopping assuredly Argentina
Autumn struts without pompous phone books
Ceremonial belt
Secondary slip
Everybody waits for some miraculous minor shirtsleeve
Gentrification can what around phantoms apparent

Many uses for a roll of toilet paper

In by Wyatt on February 20, 2009 at 9:03 pm

Many uses for a roll of toilet paper:

1) Wipe your bum
2) Blow your nose
3) Piece of art
4) Didgeridoo
5) Bandage for a swollen finger
6) Telescope
7) Head pillow
8) Football
9) Wallpaper with its elegant textures
10) Surrender flag
11) Step-up to reach the top of the medicine cupboard
12) Sponge for soaking up spilt milk
13) Telephone over shoutable distances
14) Scroll for unimportant scribbles
15) Book-end for light reading
16) Lamp shade on dirty lamps
17) Fuel for bonfire
18) Deodorant for underarms
19) Exterior decoration for house or office
20) Bottomless cup

After School

In by Wyatt on February 20, 2009 at 8:50 pm

“Suze?”

“Yeeeesss?” Suzie replied from the other room.

“There’re critters in the kitchen.”

“Ohhh?”

“They’re squirming all over the walls.”

“Okayyy, well whatta they look like, Ali?” Suzie asked.

“Candy. They’re candy critters.” Ali peered down at the writhing mass of bug-like treats rushing around her ankles. Junior Mints with hairy legs scuttled and segmented Twinkies squirmed worm-like along the countertop.

Ali chomped down on a Hot Tamale caterpillar. “They still taste the same.”

“Sure.”

Ali brushed some Milk Dud leeches off the chair and opened her phone. “Suze, Josh didn’t message back. Do you think he still likes me?”

Oh baby.

In by Wyatt on February 20, 2009 at 8:17 pm

How don’t you look? Soft ripe peach fuzz with gently baked bread enshrouded in creamy tan silk from a tropical coconut beach in the middle of the deserted Pacific… innocent raw beauty waiting to be observed. Graceful crests are divided by a sensuous dark valley, a naughty valley, pointing up to heaven and impossibly down to heaven too; it’s an arrow, a helpful sign at a branch in the road that advises, “Settle down, either way’s good!” Up to lips and down to lips! But whether or not you follow its direction, it’s the line you keep coming back to.

And she lived happily ever after

In by Lara on February 19, 2009 at 11:37 pm

Once upon a time there was a princess, but this princess was not head over heels in love with her prince-to-be. In fact, she thought he was ugly, crass, and frankly, mentally retarded. The wedding was soon. It was too late to grow her hair, and forget about the fairy godmother—she had set up a sustainable transportation business. The princess had to take things into her own hands, and that’s exactly what she did. On the day of the wedding she socked the prince a good one, used her dress as a flotation device, and paddled into the horizon.

Sunrise Farms

In by Chris on February 19, 2009 at 12:55 pm

           “Weed.”
            “Weed.”
            “Weed.”
            To pass the time they said “weed” each time they pulled one up, no matter how small.
            Tyler rocked back on his heels and wiped at his forehead with his grimy rubber glove. The last three days had been nothing but weeding; he had stopped trying to get the dirt from under his fingernails at night. Once he shouted “WEED!” to be funny. Jenny and Blake had smiled a little. Three days at his new job at Sunrise Farms, and he still knew nothing about the two except how they tended to say “weed”. It felt strange.

Words/MY MIND

In by Chris on February 19, 2009 at 12:49 am

            Spirals shellacking sounds like papyrus stacking and a virus attacking but the breeze brings things meant for the trees, the leaves, the miniscule prophesies of a thousand degrees of periscopes and perishing hopes and cherishing various areas of hilarious precarious provisions that envision the missions and carry contortions so many revisions will bury the oceans and deliver the motions, the potions, the quotients so slivers are removed and misgivers are to prove the foundational spatial relational players of meditational prayers, the truth-sayers, the movement of stars and musical bars and everything, everywhere, the county fair, all my hair, and INFINITY!!!

Grandiose

In by Lara on February 18, 2009 at 9:31 pm

Ladies and Gentlemen, I speak to you now from a position of well-informed consent, of which extreme precautions were taken. This is of the utmost importance, significant not only in the realms of idea and thought, but of movement and speech. It has induced cataclysmic factors in the past, influenced eminent facets of the present world, and continues to seep insidiously into the future. The power and will of the people will be heard, willingly or not, but if it must be articulated in this form, one way or another, neither friend nor foe can succeed, nor can events transpire. 

Negative Nancy

In by Lara on February 18, 2009 at 7:44 pm

Nancy was a cute kid, a smiling baby with a gap between her front teeth. She grew up to be an angsty teen and an even more bitter college graduate, feeling hopeless in her pursuit for a life that just didn’t suit her. “Let your path unfold,” her sister once told her. Her sister, constantly changing religions, was frankly annoying. Nancy was so bitter and uptight, that her path remained stubborn and quite folded. “You ever gonna have kids, honey?” her mother asked. She kept her lips firmly closed, not to mention other things (which may have been the problem). 

Sandra

In by Wyatt on February 18, 2009 at 2:31 pm

Sandra shuffled when she walked because the heels of her shoes were too far from the heels of her feet on account of they were too high. Sandra didn’t mind the shuffling when anyone was looking but she hated the little scuffle-scuffle secretly when she was alone, traipsing down an afternoon avenue on her was home from school. Sometimes dumb boys would ride their skateboards past her and their shoes would shuffle but somehow it was okay and even a good thing; but she just wanted to be taller, and more woman-shaped, and less young. Until then, she scuffled.

Come ON!

In by Wyatt on February 18, 2009 at 2:30 pm

All I wanna do is write, this computer crap is crampin my style all I wanna do is get down some precious thoughts before they vanish into the aether but the file wont open the power won’t turn on the program won’t run my keys stick the lights are broken my mac has a virus and those are rarer than shiny pokemon cards my power cord doesn’t reach the wall my screen’s too glary but fuck all I wanna do is write, man, when did my world shift to require electricity to write? Gimme blood and papyrus I’m gonna write.

The Copy Machine

In by Chris on February 18, 2009 at 1:06 am

            On Tuesday he went to work as normal. The copy machine acted up during lunch break, growing tentacles that knocked papers, staplers, and things everywhere. So he stuffed the rest of his egg salad sandwich into his left cheek and turned his right forearm into an axe, chopping off all the tentacles. The severed pieces, green and blotchy, twitched and turned into sushi rolls, which he and his coworkers greedily ate the rest of the afternoon. That night as he slept the sushi-tentacles in his stomach cried out longingly. But he was very tired, so he did not hear them.

Lyrics

In by Chris on February 16, 2009 at 11:36 pm

How happy are you,
On a scale of one and two?
 
Oh you’re a fool, you’re a fool!
 
Where did you see me
Where did the night fly
Where would you see me
If the turtles cried?
 
Not too cool, too cool!
 
And if the core of the earth
Came to the surface
Would we like it?
And if the stars in the skies
Gave us our purpose
Would we try?
 
Ohhhhh ohhhhhh
 
Father of the feathers!
Mother of the meanderers!
And here we are again
 
Not so good, not so good
No not so good, not so good
 
Ohhhhhhhhh

Wasting Time

In by Lara on February 16, 2009 at 9:04 pm

I took the minutes, the hours, the days, the hands of the clock, the digital pigments on my watch, too. Scrunched ‘em up real good into one compact jumble of numbers and moments, and tossed ‘em over my shoulder. True, they weren’t used fragments. In fact, many of those moments were still hollow and glowing with potential energy and space to be filled.  But nope, they’re in the bin now. I’m not going to watch the numbers fly past my eyes, nor the hands spin round and round in futile ecstasy. I’ve conquered you, foul demon of the fourth dimension.

Pineapple and Toast

In by Wyatt on February 16, 2009 at 1:23 pm

Moods are bitchy little things aren’t they? Who gave neurotransmitters— mere chemicals— the power to spoil a giggly Sunday brunch or render a sharply rainy day in glad, fuzzy hues? Moods are malleable, changeable even – like a heavy, moth-eaten coat taken off on a muggy day; but when you remove it the lining sticks to your arm and the scent lingers behind. Bad moods burden one with Sisyphean weight. Metamorphosis takes arduous effort, mental sweat, unfailing optimism, and blind self-confidence. Constant energy required! Dispelling glumness takes perpetual focus and upkeep. So why bother? Well, life’s more fun when happy…! Attack!

A Bathroom Reader

In by Lara on February 16, 2009 at 12:59 am

Whenever I go into a public restroom, I remember this fact I read. It said that contrary to what many believe, the least used stall is the one closest to the entrance. So, naturally I started going into the very first stall in public restrooms, but then I thought, how did they even measure that? Did they record who went into which stall in several major cities? And if I read that statistic in a very well known book, sold in stores nationwide, how many other people are now using the first stall more than they would have before?  

The Spirituals

In by Chris on February 15, 2009 at 10:50 pm

They sang as they worked, and he sat at his desk, angry. The Georgia air wasn’t moving and the heat sank into his skin. About noon, one of them came to the open window, covered with sweat and red dust, and knocked.

            He shouted, “What is it?”

            The man said, “Suh, we’s wonderin’ if you wantin’ tha graves facin’ uh partic’lur way.”

            He lost his head and threw a paperweight from his desk at the slave, hitting him on the forehead. The slave shouted, then retreated to the field, muttering.

            He pounded his desk and the slaves’ spirituals entered him.

Blind Revelations Before Sunrise

In by Lara on February 15, 2009 at 4:41 am

Fog still lingers upon wet asphalt, coating it with an ethereal glow, and street lanterns imbued with a sense of purpose remain lit despite the imminent rise. It’s yellow, but more of the mustard variety. It seeps into your eye sockets if you’re one of the unfortunate ones. Doze-deprived. Slumber-challenged. Some might say zombie. But there is something vaguely enlightening about this time of day. That time when the moon is loitering around in the sky, cherishing the last few precious moments of prominence. I’m not quite sure what it is, though. I think I’ll just go back to sleep.

Oh dear.

In by Wyatt on February 15, 2009 at 1:45 am

There are times when all that I do is imbued with a tangible quality of consequence. When I drink. When I fight. When I fail. This sense is comforting, it grounds me to reality and keeps my head vaguely up and in the rightish direction. Action reaction, it’s the last law. But sometimes there’s a disconnect. The consequences are so removed from the reality that I’m flung far out from the present moment, potential future, and all that exists is an unending past. When I drive a car I feel this way. The slightest nudge could cause calamity. How daft!

The Ferry

In by Chris on February 14, 2009 at 6:41 pm

            All right people, keep it moving, this ain’t that complicated! One two and through you go! Three four let’s fit some more! That’s right! Plenty of room for everyone on board! Not like my family’s life! No room for me there! Just file to the back of the ferry, ladies and gentlemen, and we’ll get ‘er started in no time! No time at all! My dad has no time for me anymore! Hahaha! Sir, ma’am, sir, sir, sir, ma’am, welcome to the Tillimook! Everyone on board? Welcome to the straight of Juan de Fuca! Goodbye land! Take us somewhere, Captain!

Heart

In by Wyatt on February 14, 2009 at 3:57 am

I want to squeeze you with passion until I’m spent and you’re empty. But what will that achieve, we’ll both be gone! I want to nibble your smiled lips until they tickle me back. But then the embrace will falter for we’ll both be laughing! I want to caress your clothed legs, until the cloth is no more. But that could take so long, and clothing isn’t cheap! I want to rest your wanted form flat and answer all questions. But then what could possibly be the point of continued living!

So, we can never be together! Until the end.

Hearth

In by Wyatt on February 14, 2009 at 3:41 am

Good night everyone! Oh you’re going? Tell us about your lover! No, maybe tomorrow. I love this fire. I know! The flames lick so high. That’s what she said! Gentle giggles. I really want some of those are-gill-o socks. What?! It’s the way my friend says argyle! You look wet, close the door! Where’d you come from? A party, but this is cozier. There’s no place more welcoming. More loving. More carefree. More uneventful… in this moment. Everything now is warm, golden, soft and good. We should lie here all weekend!

I want some cocoa, is anyone else so inclined?

Like a moth to a flame…

In by Lara on February 14, 2009 at 1:29 am

Sometimes I look at moths and think, wow they’re really very ugly creatures aren’t they? How can they even stand the look of themselves when there are butterflies out there? Sure, they can fly, but only towards lights. And sometimes they’ll perish in their own proverbial flames of passion. Man, if I were a moth, I’d look at my reflection in a window or something and get depressed just seeing how…grey I am. But maybe that’s why they zoom into the fire, so for an instant—even if it’s for a second, dancing pigments alight upon their wings.

Intermingling

In by Chris on February 13, 2009 at 10:08 pm

            I am not what every person imagine. Possibly I am you, we’re souls, myself  twining together beautiful landscapes. A it, a be. The full whole circle minting O on men, bees, grass, cities, planets, galaxies, firelight, ideologies. Imagination I be. But what, where I am for? What might spring hellish heavenly fantasies, I am not able, I do not know. Trees, leaves swaying wherever I go. Out. Over. Among. I do, I am. One, many, being, beings, a go and feel place amidst careful dreamers wondering. A me who can’t quite retain I or you, they mixed freely between I.