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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!

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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.

Country

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

Spliff-spliff-spliff-spliff-spliff-spliff-spliff-spliff-spliff-spliff-spliff-spliff

The little boat putters around the cozy harbour.

Bibble-bibble-bibble-bibble-bibble-bibble-bibble-bibble-bibble-bibble-bibble

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

Ftuff-ftuff-ftuff-ftuff-ftuff-ftuff-ftuff-ftuff-ftuff-ftuff-ftuff-ftuff-ftuff-ftuff-ftuff

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

Didder-didder-didder-didder-didder-didder-didder-didder-didder-didder-didder-didder

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

Chih-chih-chih-chih-chih-chih-chih-chih-chih-chih-chih-chih-chih-chih-chih-chih

The farmer’s daughter scuffles down her lonely hardwood hallway

Oob-dz-oob-dz-oob-dz-oob-dz-oob-dz-oob-dz-oob-dz-oob-dz-oob-dz-oob-dz

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

Hhhh-hhhhh-hhhhh-hhhhh-hhhhh-hhhhh-hhhhh-hhhhh-hhhhh-hhhhh-hhhhh-hhhhh

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.