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Archive for April, 2009|Monthly archive page

Making Environmentalism Popular

In by Chris on April 30, 2009 at 10:10 pm

I gotta make the green so I can live green cuz saving the planet is very taxing. All I’m trying to do is bring home the tofu. Go green or go home, that’s what I say. If you love it you live it, if you see it you be it, if you mean it you green it. I’ve got solar panels instead of a lawn and mini windmills all over my bike helmet. My ideas burn the midnight alternative energy source. Thinking outside of the planet-box is just my style.

Authorial note: I’m not being facetious! Let’s save the planet!


Sweonj Dxpzk Noamep

In by Chris on April 30, 2009 at 9:06 pm

Foijc ois sijo cosc qoen neoakljs its djoox. Scoxn c ajo nl asdfo ce, asdofj ei asdnfo inne, xonawe wo cnoe not cnt. Dosan ka nwo asodjf coa kn oww ane. Aedooe bds anosd lek k lkw a xwnod ewnl xocn elwk kd, sdfn qcloe cndos djo en ao. Wrxo cnod lkjasd djosa kel n aon code doseno sfnnw clk dk cnoa teero e xno awoop cdonsk hiefw ona kwek c ajoe pyts. Ytz dosne z asden stupid ewnodak sno inez od cnoopr s snodc pkone oadn.

It’s written in code, hooray! Try to figure it out if you can!

Guest Author: Liz Parissenti

In by New Author on April 30, 2009 at 8:48 pm

“He Lived In A Grey World”

He lived in a grey world. Dust covered everything, seeping into cracks and crannies, suspending in the air. It crept under his door and lightly blanketed his bed in the morning, sifting through his dark hair until it shimmered, a thinning silver crown, in the sunlight. Sometimes the wind brought brown dust; then he would stand outside and let the granules surround and pass him by. He couldn’t remember the feeling of soft, clean skin against his jeans, or the taste of water that ran clear from the spigot. The water was never blue, and the sky was never grey.

Ah Yes, Young Grasshopper

In by Lara on April 30, 2009 at 12:09 am

The grasshopper was hopping along when he saw a flower in distress.

“What’s wrong?”

“That thorny one is bullying me!” sniffled the flower.

“Can I help?”

“Oh I don’t know. She’s just so thorny and mean!”

Her petals drooped dramatically.

“Have you told her to stop?”

The flower seemed to perk up with brave defiance for an instant, but immediately deflated.

“What’s the use? I know she won’t.”

“Well, what about talking to her about it?”

The flower laughed bitterly.

“That never works.”

The grasshopper shrugged and just kept hopping along, wishing he felt sorrier for the plant, but couldn’t.

Setting Forth

In by Chris on April 29, 2009 at 11:30 pm

            Goodbye mom and dad. Goodbye brothers. Goodbye house, street, and Puget Sound behind the trees. It’s time for me to go. Don’t worry mom, I’ve got my backpack and some clothes. I’ll take the hat you knitted me, I love how warm it is. Dad, I took one of the maps out of your glove box, I hope you don’t mind. My heart’s home is in Washington, but I have a bicycle and the world spreads before me. I’m writing this as the sun is rising, when it sets again I will be gone. Someday I will appear home again.


In by Wyatt on April 29, 2009 at 10:47 pm


The little boat putters around the cozy harbour.


The tractor trickles around the farm, dragging its gentle plough through the soil.


The pick up truck plunks down the dirt road on bouncy treads.


The propeller plane coasts down the runway, ready for takeoff.


The farmer’s daughter scuffles down her lonely hardwood hallway


The boyfriend smokes to underground trance through bulky headphones and stares at the wheat.


The air sits, then shifts, then sits again, lightly brushing things, then ducking away; always shifting but staying the same.

Debrief comments

In by Wyatt on April 29, 2009 at 12:37 am

I think you really missed the mark on that one. It was pretty far off. There was no arc, no gripping plot, no reason behind the actions, and no personality behind the character. I’m actually not sure what your own motive was – that’s how little I got it.

It turned me off. I get it: you’re angry. But don’t be angry at me, that turns the audience off. Tell me why you’re angry. Is it because you were wronged? Weak reason. Is it because you care? Better.

If you actually care about this, you need to develop it further.

The girl with the yellow scarf

In by Lara on April 28, 2009 at 11:10 pm

The girl with the yellow scarf went to the market. When she paid, the cashier said, “my, what a glorious yellow scarf you have on there!” Next, she went to a café to have a tomato cheese sandwich and read her book. There were no seats left, but a gentleman offered her a seat. He, too, commented “what a radiant scarf you’ve got on there!” As she walked back home, a homeless man begged, “Such a lovely scarf, any amount will do!” The girl took off her scarf and donned it on the beggar, and flounced all the way home.

Family Vacation – 1,100 Words to make up for time lost

In by Lara on April 27, 2009 at 2:24 pm

Family vacations are challenging. I like to use the word challenging because sometimes I like to rise to the challenge, and sometimes I feel like I’d rather stick my helmet-less head into outer space.

This one is more challenging than usual. To start off, it’s last minute, and rightly so, I suppose. It’s my maternal grandparents’ anniversary and my grandfather’s birthday. A fucking double whammy. So where do we go to celebrate this momentous occasion? None other than geriatric paradise—Orlando, Florida.

Upper crust WASP’s go to Europe. Middle America goes to Florida. Each to their own crack, I suppose. But the funny thing is, my family isn’t even from Middle America. We couldn’t be more opposite, but I guess somewhere in the back of my grandmother’s deteriorating mind, she thinks her grandkids are still five-years-old and want to go on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride until we puke out the pink cotton candy we stuffed our faces with an hour earlier.

So I get into Orlando at 7:00am Saturday morning having flown out really early from New York. My cell phone goes off constantly right when I turn it on, and somehow I already have five text messages from my girlfriend. Great. She’s probably PMSing and wants to talk to me about her insecurities. I turn my phone off. I’m hungover as shit, completely dehydrated, and running on zero energy from an all-night bar-hopping ragefest the night before. (I say “ragefest” with facetiousness, by the way. To say it seriously would make me a huge douchefuck.)

“Robbie! Robbie! Robbie! Robbie is HERE!”

“Oh shit,” I swear under my breath as I see my little cousin gallop towards me, taking four strides for every two my uncle takes to keep up with him.

“Heya bud.” I manage to smile. I haven’t seen this kid since he was in a cradle, and now he has tufts of blond hair sprouting everywhere. And snot. Lots of snot. Nevertheless, he’s seems like a spiffy dude, and I decide to like him.

“Looks like Tim likes ya just fine. How was the flight?”

“Oh hey, Uncle Rich. It was alright.”

He grins suggestively. “Long night, eh?”

“Um, yeah I guess.”

“Yeah, I remember those college days.”

“I’m not in college anymore, Uncle Rich. I graduated two years ago.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right,” he scratches his head, “so your girl keep you up all night? What’s her name again? Heather, right? Is she a fox in—“

“Rich!” My aunt has caught up, clutching one baby in her right hand and grasping the hands of two other toddlers. I forget every time what a traveling circus this family is.

“Hi Auntie Kim. Hi Rose. Hi Lily. Hi Petunia.” They all return my greeting except for Rose, who is still suckling at her mother’s huge teet.

“Is Rich bugging you again about the college heydays?” Auntie Kim says, readjusting her shirt. I can’t stop staring. I mean, her nipples are fucking gargantuan. It’s a little off-putting, to say the least, but I guess that’s what you get after four kids.

“Nah, it’s cool. Is my mom—“

“—Because you know it’s all about the grad school days. Remember, Rich? That’s how baby number one happened.”

“Oh I remember, peachy cakes.”

Oh god, before they start fucking right there on the blue and grey airport carpet in front of their kids and everyone, I interject and suggest we make our way out.

When we finally get to the hotel, I say hi to everyone—there’s 21 of us total. I barely have fifteen minutes to take a shower and get dressed before we take off for Disney Land. I find Ryan and Rita, both of whom are still in college, but are closer to my age and cynicism than the four young ones who are practically wetting themselves with excitement at the moment.

“Hey, man. You look like shit,” Ryan pats me on the back.

“Hey, nice to see you, too.”

We laugh. It’s kind of nice to see everyone again in some sort of sadistic way, I suppose.

Disney Land sucks. We walk around. I eat five churros because that’s what you crave when you’re hungover. I am coerced into going on several rounds of the Indiana Jones ride with Tim, which makes me puke up the abundance of churros. Lily and Petunia are pretty much grossed out by me and proceed to gossip about my tendency to puke incessantly throughout the rest of the day.

“Really lovely girls, you have there Auntie Kim.”
“Aw, thanks Robbie! I think they really like you.” She thinks I’m being sincere. “I hope you had fun today. Thanks so much for watching our little kiddlywinks. Your uncle and I really made use of those two hours.” She winks.

I almost puke again, but there’s nothing left in my stomach. But that’s okay, because now we’re on our way to the shitstorm of food Americans like to call buffets. This is where the fun really begins. We usually get separated into “the kids table” and “the adults table,” but my dad suggested we do it by first, second, and third generation table and fourth generation table. That way Ryan, Rita, and I wouldn’t have to sit with the flower children and their nannies.

I start to regret my dad’s political correctness about ten minutes into dinner, as I am sandwiched between my parents and at least five people away from Ryan and Rita.

“Why don’t we check out the beach tomorrow?” my mom proposes.

“Can you just stop planning for one second. It’s my dad’s birthday. Let’s just have a good time,” my dad spits back.

So I just sit back and remember why I love family get together so goddamn much, when oh great, Uncle Richie and Aunt Kim sit in front of us. Yay, more fake happy talk about their bitter lives as parents and mourning childless, single life.

Before I know it. It’s time for my grandparents to blow out their candles. They bring the kids over and Tim instantly clings to me, wiping his snot on my pant leg. Whatever. He’s in a helluva lot better place than I am right now. Happy Birthday to you, we sing. It takes my grandfather three successive tries to blow out the single candle they have planted on a small crème brûlée. Everyone starts to cry. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, babies. My mother cries. Auntie Kim cries. Uncle Richie cries.

I take Tim to the bathroom and he lays a big one in that pristine white toilet bowl. Not bad kid, not bad.

Social conStricture

In by Wyatt on April 27, 2009 at 2:07 pm

It is never appropriate to sit back on one’s chair such that less than four legs rest upon the ground, Dorothy. One mustn’t do that. It is taboo.

It is never appropriate to wear one’s corset untied such that one’s diaphragm has adequate freedom of movement. It is not the woman’s place in society to be comfortable. Nor is it the man’s, for he must always strangle himself in a tie and constrict his torso into a rigid suit.

Who made these rules? It is never appropriate to ask such questions. The benefit from enlightenment will never outweigh the cost.

Too prosaic to be fiction-worthy; what does it say about humanity…

In by Wyatt on April 27, 2009 at 2:00 pm

Once there was a kingdom of squiggles. They looked just like hairs from the top of your head, but when they moved they squiggled. They were a peace-loving people, too squiggly to get much done, but also too squiggly to care about it either.

One day a toothpick visited the kingdom. The squiggles didn’t know what to make of him. Try as they might, they could not teach him to squiggle. And try as he might, he couldn’t teach them to actually do anything.

They had a great feast in honor of their differences. The next day, the toothpick left.

Ode to Sill

In by Wyatt on April 27, 2009 at 1:52 pm

I see you sill. Just sitting there soaking up sun, why I bet you’d be a bronze berry if you weren’t painted so glossy white. Looking out into the world from your elevated perch. It feels good to be a sill, doesn’t it? The window, why, it doesn’t know what’s what, it’s too shallow, too transparent. But you, silly, have got a solid foundation and strong support network. You’re level, dependable, steady, and eager to support others’ weight when they need it.

I’m going to put a pot on you, with some seeds. You’ll watch them grow. And die. Forever.

Vie de Merde

In by Wyatt on April 27, 2009 at 1:37 pm

Today I farted on a raspberry Popsicle. I thought it would still be good so I licked it. It tasted like poo. FML.

Today my lover broke up with me. Via text message. From her new boyfriend’s phone. FML.

Today I stepped on a pigeon by accident and felt its tiny bones crunching under my foot. It wasn’t dead but it was paralyzed. I was hungry, so I killed it and ate it. Now I have cholera. FML.

Today I satisfied my chocolate cravings with the only candy in my cupboard: Choco X-Lax. I didn’t see the wrapper. FML.

Tongue Twisters for Young Adults

In by Wyatt on April 27, 2009 at 1:36 pm

Tongue twisters for young adults

Peter piper picked a pickled pepper off his peeper with a pair of prickly pincers but he popped off a peppy peeper portion with the pickled pepper. Now he only has two inches.

How much wood would or could a chick woodchuck suck without chucking sick chock if a chick woodchuck would suck thick chocked wood? Whatever amount, it would be splintery.

She sells her vagina by the seashore.

Red leather yellow leather bond Peggy’s bickering bachelorette prosties to the inbred porn bed frame.

Unique New Yorkers yearn to use new Youtube nudes with lube.

Useless Information, or, Something I Find Interesting, or, This Will Be A Key Component In Saving The World Someday

In by Chris on April 24, 2009 at 4:05 pm


In by Chris on April 24, 2009 at 1:55 am

Eighty-six albatrosses with blue lips all flying in a line northwards towards Australia.
Waterfalls flowing upwards towards the glaciers.
When will the top of the food chain finally consume every link below it?
There will be one in the ocean, in the Mariana Trench.
The other will roam the continents.
Toads and cicadas tuning and re-tuning each other throughout the night.
The oceans opening and closing like admonishing clam shells.
Heat seeping out of the cracks and vents of the earth.
Where have all of the mosquito catchers gone?
What is the meaning of troupe after troupe of ululating lemurs?


In by Wyatt on April 22, 2009 at 2:35 pm

Hopeful bottles of water lie waiting at the bottom of a tip. They are waiting for me. I wish to collect them for an art project. How quaint.

The bottles were extracted from dinosaur oil and pressed into shape. Then people filled them with water. Water comes out of a faucet, but no one knows that. It’s my secret. I don’t tell anyone because I need the bottles. The bottles are used for eleven minutes, and then discarded. They come here and I find them. In one thousand years they might decompose.

What a perfectly permanent material for my artwork!


In by Wyatt on April 22, 2009 at 2:28 pm

On my balcony there is a little white chair. I want to sit on it. But it is hot out there, hotter than in here. Perhaps I should sit in it anyway, and rub into my pores some sunscreen. And also, drink water out of a blue mug so that it looks cooler. Then I could be in the sunshine but also on the balcony and also cool.

But if I sit on the balcony I might not hear it when someone comes into my room to bludgeon me to death. And that would never do. One must be wary.


In by Wyatt on April 22, 2009 at 2:25 pm

Pink tweezers deserve to be cased inside pink leather cases. Jut as pink lipstick must be inside a pretty pink bag, and pink tampons inside a pretty pink box.

Pink is just so pretty!

Even prettier than pink, though, is pink with blue. Pink and blue look so good together. Pink and green look nice too. Pink goes with just everything!

I want a new pair of towel shorts. What color should I get them? Perhaps pink! It would match with everything. Even bubblegum. And raw flesh! Also, it is the color of my blood. I drink too much milk.

The Email List

In by Chris on April 22, 2009 at 10:41 am

Please join our club.
Why, persay, would I want to do that?
Our club has a golf cart. And a mission.
Oh, well in that case I’m all ears. Please tell me more.
Globalization. Engage. Multi-layered. China. Champion. Poor people. Comprehensive. Public service.
That is a brilliant idea.
Underprivileged. Unique. Dynamic. Sub-Saharan Africa.
How can I get involved?
Just come to our meeting, we always have snacks and finger painting. Can I put you down on out email list?
Why sure. That sounds like a great way to get information.
Sure is. Just one of our revolutionary new strategies.

Great Things Are Happening

In by Chris on April 21, 2009 at 7:29 pm

            Great things are happening all around us. Today I saw a mountain try to swallow the sun, fail, and go stumbling off across the horizon after it. I looked around, and no one else was there to notice. On the shoulders of highways people have told me tales of whispered conversations between leaves and stars and daring rescues of wayward comets. The cosmos is molding itself around us in fantastic ways. Where is the beginning and where is the end? Each valley on this planet is a perturbation, a personality, reaching out to the things surrounding it with legendary purposes.


In by Wyatt on April 21, 2009 at 12:17 am

I was reading someone’s mini-bio somewhere recently. “I like pasta Bolognese, patting my dog, Scruffles, and sleeping in on weekdays”. Innocuous enough. Then I did a double take.

“I’m an Activist”

Sitting there by itself, a perfect self-contained nugget of bullshit. An activist for what? Gay rights activist? Environmenal acticist? Anti-war activist? Pro-war activist?

Just Activist. When you need to bolster your rally turn-out, add an extra few decibels to your curbside chanting, or just strengthen your picket fence, call him.

Dial 1800-ACTIVIST. Get paid to protest. Be passionately apolitical. Make your voice heard, shouting from both sides. Irony?


It Is 90 Degrees Out Here

In by Chris on April 20, 2009 at 11:09 pm

            Sweltering heat. Hot as potatoes. Arid. A sandpaper mouthed afternoon.
            But it was great. Sure was. I got stung by a bee today, right in the leg, while I was sitting in the water.
            I’ve been stung before, on my feet and neck. But never on such a hot day. Hot as potatoes. Nope.
            Where the hell did that bee come from? Like a grim kamikaze pilot. Ended up buzzing around stuck in the water. Like it deserved.
            But I’m not angry. Oh no, not angry at that stupid bee.
            Too hot for that. Hot as fresh-baked, rosemary-seasoned potatoes.


In by Chris on April 19, 2009 at 11:18 pm

            We have all heard legends of how the universe expands until it is a single atom in the universe. He discovered that things were not as simple as that when he went to the post office and found Brazil inside his mailbox. The sounds of howler monkeys drew him in and for the next fourteen years he wandered the Amazon jungles, always thinking he was trapped in a metal box. But when he finally found a keyhole under a log, surrounded by fire ants, the exit was the chute of a volcano and he emerged a giant, wandering the land.

Ode to 100

In by Lara on April 16, 2009 at 1:41 am

A hundred words is a small, but perfect amount. It’s modest, but it can definitely pack a punch, and god knows it can deliver a line. It forces you to be precise and concise, but allows room to elaborate. It can be introspective, witty, bizarre, stupid, poetic, or all of the above and more! It’s a genre of it’s own. And as fast as it comes, it’s gone. And you, the reader, are left with a smile, a puzzled, pensive look, or an aha!, perhaps combined with the wonderment that such ideas could fit in a measly one hundred words.


In by Lara on April 16, 2009 at 1:41 am

It smells like ass. No, I can be more creative than that. It smells like potstickers that have been stuffed into used soccer socks, soiled with musty earth and Tabasco sauce. It smells like a skewered guts, festering in the sunlight, flies adding to the ambience. It’s insufferable. It feels thick and impenetrable. I can’t escape. It permeates everything, the walls, the sheets, the rug, and now, my clothes, my hair, my very skin. It’s rancid and stale and insidiously strong. It continues to seep into my nostrils without my knowledge, without my control. Goddamnit, it really smells like ass.

Thoughts And Actions

In by Chris on April 16, 2009 at 12:55 am

            What is there to think about, after all? Thinking is not doing. Thinking is only an attempt to remember or imagine scenarios and predict different outcomes. By thinking, we try to assign benefits and consequences to physical actions. Physical actions may be the manifestation of thought processes, but they are themselves the only thing that matters. Both can be random or impulsive, and rarely this will result in some revelation. More often, however, thoughts and actions lead to dead ends when they lack firm connections. I cannot say which is more important, thoughts or actions. They shoo each other on.


In by Lara on April 15, 2009 at 8:36 pm

If Derek were an animal, he’d be starfish. He has always known this about himself. Derek likes getting ready in the morning. It’s one of his favourite things to do, and this is good because he gets to do it every day. He enjoys being awoken by the shrill alarm clock, taking a hot shower, buttering two pieces of cinnamon raisin toast, and he particularly likes flicking his wrist back to check if he’ll be late. Derek’s nice, but he can be stubborn about certain things—like his morning routine. He is very proficient at both Tetris and at using chopsticks.


In by Lara on April 15, 2009 at 8:36 pm

Penelope is small and cute with straight chestnut brown hair and clear blue eyes. Sometimes she wears shirts or dresses with strange prints on them. For example, one is of two elephants who are smoking and playing a game of chess. She likes these quirky things. She also likes comic strips whose colours have been slightly faded into the black and white of the newspaper ink, almonds (just roasted and slightly salted), and aqua-coulored things. She is likeable, dynamic, and quite talkative if you get a chance to know her. Lastly, she’s a curious cat. Sometimes a little too curious.

We Get On Stage

In by Chris on April 15, 2009 at 1:08 am

            We get on stage. The audience doesn’t clap. We can’t see them because of the spotlights. The first song starts slowly. We look at each other. Should we have chosen a faster song. The bass misses a note. The drums crash. We sing words written in high school. The guitar solo. Things are moving out in the crowd. The song ends. We sing words that make us dreamers. We introduce ourselves. The chords progress back and forth. Fog rolls to the ceiling. Everyone sings along. We all sigh at the end. They call for an encore. We give them one.


In by Wyatt on April 14, 2009 at 1:08 am

There is simply no time. No time to floss. The bare essentials remain: brush teeth, wash face, set alarm. But all superfluities –riding the long way; checking in on the post box; writing for fun; and flossing – fell by the wayside in this hectic race against life. Dorothy hated her name. Dorothy is a stupid name, she thought. And now she was stuck with it until she could find time to floss (because surely this was indicative of her having sufficient white space to allocate some precious temporal resources to legally changing her monnicker). Dorothy. Eww. It just hurt.

Ode To Nestea Iced Tea From The Soda Machine

In by Chris on April 13, 2009 at 12:09 am

            You come out not-cold-enough with a weird miniature layer of foam that makes me question the cleanliness of the soda machine’s innards. When you’re in my pint glass and I hold you up to the light, you have the amber glow of watered down maple syrup. Your origins are dubious. You don’t need an expiration date because chemically, you’ll never go bad. You’re too wishy-washy to leave a lasting impression on my taste buds and you make my stomach feel like a simmering cauldron of witches’ secret potion. And yet I love you so right now, I love you so!

Good Options, All in All

In by Lara on April 12, 2009 at 10:33 pm

Saturday night, the cool kids version:

We all went out to dinner in the city. Then we wandered around in silly states, and found ourselves at this bar with crazy lights and good music. We danced until 4, and spent the rest of the time in a 24/7 diner, waiting for the Caltrain to open so we could head back.

What I actually did last Saturday night:

Played with Sculpey clay while watching re-runs of 30 Rock and The Daily Show. Then I read a little bit about traumatic brain injury. It was a pretty damn good evening, I’d say.


In by Lara on April 12, 2009 at 10:33 pm

I rub my eyes. Wiggle my nose. It’s allergy season and I’m not gonna sugar coat it for ya. Allergy season means noses full of snot, eyes full of morning gunk—except not just in the morning, and sinuses that give you that same urgency when you need to pee but can’t because you’re on a really long drive with no rest stop in sight. Sneezing. Hah. If only. I dream of sneezes sometimes. I dream that that expulsion of air and phlegm will someone alleviate the irritating itch that permeates my entire system. But until then. Just rub and wiggle.

You’ve Gotten Me Thinking

In by Chris on April 11, 2009 at 12:42 am

            I’m trying to remember the first time we said hi to each other or the first time we held hands, but all I can think about is little isolated moments like when I still wish I had kissed you on your front porch. Things change, time passes. It was a clear night we stepped into when I had to say goodnight. Two years later and a thousand miles away the sky is cloudy as we talk to each other through our computers, and my desk chair starts to feel square and uncomfortable. You’re making my skin feel that time again.

I appreciate

In by Lara on April 9, 2009 at 10:24 pm

I appreciate people who make me laugh. I appreciate people who are honest, even brutally so. I appreciate good-hearted people, the kind that will go out of their way to tell you about a song they heard on the radio they thought you might like, or the kind that’ll save a piece of their dessert when they are out at a restaurant so you can try it and tell them what you think. I appreciate people who care about the world. I appreciate unselfish people. I appreciate people who are bold and out there and radiant and bright. I appreciate.


In by Lara on April 9, 2009 at 10:24 pm

These are crooked times. They steal space and wheel ways in the pathetic existence that is our lives. So much suffering, so much death, so much wailing and howling and gnashing of teeth. At times it’s unbearable, and at others it merely seems the only reality we have ever known. Wear a helmet, young one, for you never know what may come along and bash your head into itself. Brutes are borne of this world, let no one tell you different. They will descend and crash. And the howling never stops. Yet, somehow, we find beauty and poignancy and softness.

Something Has Gone Drastically Wrong

In by Chris on April 9, 2009 at 12:31 am

Something has gone drastically wrong.
Did you leave a can of soda in the freezer again?
No, man, it’s bad.
Well, what happened?
I can’t tell you about it yet.
Why not?
Just, never mind, I’ll tell you about it later.
Is the body not deposed of yet? Come on man, you’ve known me long enough; I don’t work for the cops.
No just don’t worry about it.
You really did kill someone didn’t you? Was it Alice?
No, man! Forget about it.
What happened? I’ll have to assume you murdered Alice unless you tell me something different.
Never mind.

One Night Stand

In by Lara on April 8, 2009 at 4:47 pm

In response to you, my dear merry pops,

these are a few of my favorite things:

The knighted satin evenings of drips and drops

where croony music seeps slowly, slipping

sloppy kisses and even sloppier limbs.

The armchairs backed and stacked

as the tethers of the rug are

etched, stretched, strained,

while the restless phone on the nightstand rings in vain.

No hand can be spared, least of all an ear

And then the solitary moments collide, then subside, then all is blind.

Until morning, where mildewed awkwardness lingers and it is over.


In by Lara on April 8, 2009 at 4:39 pm

Lecture today was pretty interesting. It was about neurons and drugs and the effect of drugs on your neurons. Legal drugs and illegal drugs, and sort of legal drugs. Apparently the reason drugs are effective is because they mimic the structure of the naturally occurring neurochemicals that exist in your brain. But these neurochemicals exist in a fine balance, and drugs throw off that balance, which causes some of the kooky effects. In terms of what the effects actually are, I stopped paying attention because my professor hasn’t done these drugs, so he probably doesn’t know. I’ll ask my Dad.

Ten 10-Word Stories

In by Lara on April 8, 2009 at 4:30 pm

1. The dog sat on the porch, and that is life.

2. He was on the bus. I wasn’t. And I’m happy.

3. Coffee? I thought you’d never ask. Oh woops, wrong number.

4. Music blaring. An unheeded stop sign. No more girlscout cookies.

5. So frustrated with this chemical and that. Medicine? No, coke!

6. The bee flew around the room, stung someone, and died.

7. Kicked out of school. Now running successful business in Bahamas.

8. Walking by a maternity store with girlfriend. She pukes.

9. Serve lots of love. And laughter. And silliness. Seconds, please.

10. Third time’s the charm, right? Will you marry me? No.


In by Chris on April 8, 2009 at 1:01 am

            The seasons govern my love life like Earth’s poles point a compass. Fall is for falling in love. Maybe it’s the leaves or the breeze; long evenings with a beautiful girl. But winter comes and we break up after too many rainy days in a row. Spring I spend remembering what it’s like being single and having mad, out-of-my-league crushes, and during summer there are flings brief but beautiful as Saturn’s rings. And then fall, and the rest, again. Well, maybe that’s all about to change. It never rains in San Francisco in April, and it rained all morning today.

O Tech

In by Wyatt on April 8, 2009 at 1:01 am

I communicate this idea not with my voice, my handwriting, or even my paper; but with zeros and ones. These are not my zeros and ones, they are anyone’s. I flung them to the keyboard, that flung them to the internet (where?), that flung them to your eyes. I was entirely uninvolved, and have never touched or breathed any part of what you now are comprehending. Yet, without me, you would be staring at blankness. Technology removes the human but keeps the idea. Faster, cheaper, accessabler, efficienter.

I cannot seal this with a kiss. I’ll settle for an emoticon.


Cabo by Guest Author: Mary-Ann Ortiz-Luis

In by New Author on April 6, 2009 at 8:27 pm

“Summer Breeze” is blaring in my ears. Glorious salty sweat is trickling down my face, searing my eyes, grazing my lips, painting my shirt. I smell the fresh sea air enveloping me into its warm embrace. My mind is joyous over the unaccustomed lack of searching, digesting, analyzing. My body is in tune with the rhythm and crunch created by my limbs charging into the granular sand. Right, Left. Right. Left. The pelicans cautiously leave their three pronged prints diverging from mine. A flock of seagulls careen over to disrupt the perfect blue sky. I am rest. I am peace.

Self Portrait

In by Wyatt on April 6, 2009 at 7:58 pm

The following is a pragmatic/ theological endeavor to capture a lifetime’s intricate, transient moments in 100 words.

I’m from cool indigo nights around the barbie with kookaburras laughs and the crashes of distant waves washing over a happy family. I’m from hot Christmases that smell like sunscreen, salt and sand after the wrapping paper’s fallen to the floor. I’m from sticky bus seats in the morning and lazy walks back each arvo.

I’m from a sardonic, laid-back, “she’ll be right” culture, and I’m from Stanford’s eternal quest for the horizon and belief that it can be reached. I’m from both.

Volcanoes/MY MIND

In by Chris on April 6, 2009 at 12:51 am

Love and lightning storms fighting above our contorted forms and sorted norms like normality and formality are aborted abilities like tortured senility is simply the epitome of something within of me and nothing will limit the singer the trinity my fingers are finally rough from climbing the tough stinging walls of halls gruff from mimicking the timid trickles of mental matter or fickle pattering surrounding spatters of crowns and the various towns tarrying like clarity covered or constricted for spare trees hovering above conflicting crickets rarities found in thickets the sound of the thickest and the thickset drowns our kisses.

Sleeping On My Back

In by Chris on April 4, 2009 at 11:40 pm

World opens
Until it has curved away
The grass
The furry plants
The miniature blooms
The veined leaves
The ants
Have spikes
Like sea urchins or land mines
Stones sit on a delicate shoulder
Surrounded by erosion
And plants
And thrust into the nothing air
Where existence
Is sky and sea
The ground beneath
Birds can fly
On air that is not there
Because they do not see
The ocean or the sea
The land leans back
And back
And back
To cliffs
And the all-powerful waves
Like the bloodstream of the universe
Pumice moon

Some of these things happened, some didn’t

In by Lara on April 4, 2009 at 4:58 pm

One time I went to the beach with some friends, lay down on the beach, got all sandy, wiped it off, went to go play volleyball, came back and sat down, talked for a bit, laughed a lot, got more sand in my pants, didn’t bother to wipe it off, took some pictures, told some stories, looked at the water and joked about large bodies of water, read a little bit, ate some pita chips and hummus, and drank some tequila from the flask I wasn’t allowed to bring into the concert the night before. Overall it was pretty good.

4/3/09 Recipe for Nubcake

In by Lara on April 4, 2009 at 4:58 pm

2 cups of flour

½ cup rolled oats

1 cup of light brown sugar

½ cup of salt

1 tsp baking powder

3 tbsp Worcestershire sauce

5 cups nubs

Chooblets to garnish.

Preheat the oven to 300 degrees Fahrenheit.

Mix all in large bowl.

*Take care with the nubs. They can be delicate and easily insulted. It is recommended to wear safety goggles in the event of unpredictable violence.

Slop into shapes that vaguely resemble cakes onto a greased baking sheet.

Bake for 30– 60 minutes depending on size and nubcakiness desired.

Serve lukewarm or chuck at an unsuspecting passerby.

4/2/09 Perfect

In by Lara on April 4, 2009 at 4:49 pm

Perfect means never making a mistake. And if you never made a mistake, you’d never learn from mistakes, and we all know that that’s one of those life lessons that’s pretty damn important. You would also never learn how to apologise, and knowing how to apologise is pretty damn important, too. And if you were perfect, no one could ever empathise with you because no one else is perfect. And maybe you’d have friends, but not close ones, because close friends grow from conflicts, and perfect people don’t get into conflicts. So I think being perfect would kind of suck.