In by Lara on June 29, 2009 at 8:06 pm
Sitting in his comfortable leather seat, cruising along a highway that leads to somewhere he doesn’t know. Tinted windows of course. No he can’t be bothered to look out into your world while feeling the very same heat you are in, sweating your sweat—no it just isn’t possible. His soundtrack at the moment is something dramatic and indie so he can sort of feel for a condition other than his. He imagines it to be just like in the movies. Where some spoiled rich boy gets out of his air-conditioned life and finds a reprieve from his ignorance. Maybe tomorrow.
In by Lara on June 28, 2009 at 6:52 pm
My glistening needles are not for decoration. They pierce insidiously without warning, and once inside, my barbs will hook onto your flesh like it was the cheek of an ignorant, juicy fish. If you are the least bit maladapted to my environment, I will cut you down. Negotiation is futile, as is laughter. I was not planted here for your pleasure, or theirs. Your territory is a thing of the past. You’d do best in a nice terracotta pot, or perhaps a large planter in the lobby of a fancy hotel and spa. But not here. Consider your soil mine.
In by Chris on June 28, 2009 at 5:19 pm
Leroy planted a packet of seeds in a neat row. Five months of careful watering later, he harvested a crop of fortune cookies from the yellowed vines. Inside each cookie was a slip of paper with a phone number. At first he was filled with awe, but soon it seemed perfectly natural that phone numbers might grow from a row of seeds. In September, when the last fortune cookie had been picked, he began to call the numbers. But to his horror, each voice that answered said the exact same thing: “Fortune cookies? You’re crazy, and fortunately, I’m not.” Click.
In by Chris on June 28, 2009 at 5:18 pm
– How’s your day going?
– Eating sushi. It is filled with eel. How was dancing last night?
– Ohh eel sounds slippery. Just like your mom last night.
– I had dinner with my mom last night jerk. Swallowing wasabi by itself is not that cool.
– You’re not cool. Last night was aight, busted a bunch of moves, you know.
– My self-esteem is in the gutter, thanks. Ever seen asparagus tempura? So good!
– Sounds hateful. Just doing what I can for your self-esteem aka massive ego. Remember Laura?
– Yeah, why? And you need to try this asparagus. And my ego barely exists now. And…
In by Chris on June 25, 2009 at 3:42 pm
If the world lives inside my mind, how can I walk through it every day?
I dreamt that all of my five senses deteriorated and died, and yet nothing changed. I could still see the grass without seeing the wind pushing it, so I thought that meant the physical universe was a hoax created by my disembodied mind.
But when I woke up I grew ill and I couldn’t think straight for head pains. Fits of coughing wracked me; with each painful burst my imagination floated further away. I tried to crawl after it, but my throat needed water first.
In by Lara on June 23, 2009 at 12:38 am
It’s like a couple strands of hair are plucked from your head. The anticipation of an unpleasant event is nerve wracking. At the actual moment of detachment, it is the most tender, and for a while you are left with a throbbing feeling of loss and pain. But then inevitably you will forget about it–perhaps unless you feel the urge to twirl that one piece in your fingers, but it’s no longer there. Or if the breeze blows a certain way and they don’t whisp past your face as they once did. But for the most part it’s unnoticeable.
In by Chris on June 21, 2009 at 10:01 pm
The doctor held the litmus strip up as if it were the daintiest teacup in England. His hair was swept to the sides in wings and his spectacles rested in a well-worn crease in the middle of his nose. His vest was stretched up over his pleated pants and his feet were the only part of him still slender and youthly. His other hand was now in his pocket, pushing his white lab jacket around to his posterior. That’s all, there was no bustling doctor’s office around him, no harried nurses or pale patients. Just he and the grey backdrop.
In by Chris on June 20, 2009 at 11:58 pm
The author stood fearlessly on the mountaintop, and even the wind and snow sticking in his beard could not deter his steely gaze. In the rest of the story leading up to this climax, he had been trapped in every imaginable trap and hindered by every imaginable hindrance. But in his eyes, on that lonely mountaintop, you could read the determination that got him there.
Yes, of course I am the author to which I refer. But is that scene real? The reader cannot know for certain. Wait though, neither can the author.
Because most times, the author is afraid.