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A Moment In My Life

In by Chris on August 31, 2009 at 6:53 pm

            Sitting on the toilet I briefly realized the beauty of owning a mind. I was reading a bit about Tolstoy’s life, how he broke with Church dogma and rewrote the Bible to exclude any reference to the miraculous nature of his conception and resurrection. Based on my background and the place I was raised, I should have an automatic reaction to reject this as heretical or even lunatic. But instead I wanted to know more. My mind felt like it was a sunny meadow where any ideas could come like bighorn sheep and chew the grass or spend the night.


In by Lara on August 28, 2009 at 10:19 pm

Bam chicka chicka BAM boom boom rat tat tat tat tat ch pa sh pa sh sh sh ch pa sh pa sh sh sh BAM chicka BAM BAM pffffffffffffffffffffffft kitcha kitcha kitchhhh boom boom bam zsssssst
“Well that was impressive.”
“Bam bam BAM. Bam.”
“Are you quite finished?”
Bam chicka chicka BAM boom boom rat tat tat tat tat ch pa sh pa sh sh sh ch pa sh pa sh sh sh BAM chicka BAM BAM pffffffffffffffffffffffft kitcha kitcha kitchhhh boom boom bam zsssssst
“Son, this is great and all, but I need to—“
“Shhhhhhhchicka chicka boom boom BAM.”


In by Chris on August 27, 2009 at 10:02 pm

For all your philosophizing, you’re just like a bat. When you venture out to fly, you touch nothing but air, and for all you think about things that might be incomprehensible or life-altering, you cannot see them. Your system of thought is nothing but echolocation; you sound out the objects looming around you but never alight on them to explore them with your delicate wings. When you tire of flapping blindly, you return to your cave and the roost you’ve been using your entire life. And the crazy thing is, despite my cynicism, I’m a bat too, just like you.

My favorite kinds of epiphanies are the kinds that aren’t epiphanies at all

In by Lara on August 26, 2009 at 9:23 am

My favorite kinds of epiphanies come at a time when you least expect them to, and when it happens they aren’t cathartic. But by definition, epiphanies can’t really be subtle, either. And they aren’t. They hit you like a splash of water on a hot day, the shock–an aftertaste. And it’s funny because you’d been searching to find some sort of light, any light. You’d even turned your back on it, hoping to stumble upon something grand. But it’s the moment after you think you’ve given up that the epiphany trots over to you, wagging it’s tail in welcome.

Guest Post: David Roxas

In by New Author on August 25, 2009 at 3:53 pm

Dear Monitor,

I have George Michaels’s “Careless Whisper” on my mind. Why? Lara wouldn’t stop singing lyrics from the song when I saw her. She would also dance to it, so now, there’s an additional image attached to the song. I say additional because two of my classmates from San Diego apparently love to have sex to this particular song, in which they decide to tell me about it due to the fact that I’m the only one, teacher included, whose ears haven’t started to bleed due to their tales of angry depressed, shoes-always-on sex to “Careless Whisper”.



Plum Perpetuation

In by Chris on August 23, 2009 at 9:21 am

            When the space aliens came, they were especially interested in plums. “So you’re telling me,” one said to me as he wiped purple juice off his mouth area and held up a pit, “that this has everything it needs to create a tree that will create hundreds more of these?”
            “Yes,” I replied.
            “It’s astounding and unbelievable! With such an exponential plum growth rate, the whole planet should be plum trees!”
            For hours I tried to explain reproduction.
            Though they still didn’t understand the concept of plum perpetuation when they left, planet earth now has a lively interstellar plum trade.

Red Sun

In by Lara on August 22, 2009 at 11:32 pm

There were no other words to describe it—that the sun was red. It was red and glowing and big. It stood, hanging by the horizon, waiting to engulf the world with everything in it. To swallow all earthly life in flare and flash. The world was scared, as it should have been, but it was not the apocalypse, nor was it salvation. It was just heat and life and death. And as they drove on into the burning amber sky, they thought, how wonderful it is to be with these people in this space in this moment. To just be.

Ode To Simplicity

In by Chris on August 22, 2009 at 10:37 pm

Simplicity, you are like a stone.
You exist, and that’s all.
Simplicity, you are the knowledge
That I am the world
And the world is me.
You don’t ask any questions.
You don’t answer any questions.
There are no questions.
Simplicity, you are my daydreams
When existence really means
Simply to exist.
I know the world,
With its systems and diversity and people,
Is really a simple place.
Simplicity, you know it too.
You’re never hiding,
Just floating like oxygen molecules,
Expectant and unchanging,
Leading me through each day.
Simplicity, you are like a stone.
You exist and that’s all.


In by Chris on August 22, 2009 at 10:36 pm

            I’m so surrounded by pure, simple beauty, why would I cloud my life with false beauty? People tell me with their actions that here is something worth chasing, but I’ve chased you and I’ve caught you and now I will release you. You distract me from the simple, ancestral ways of experiencing life. No more, I’m free! Today I can be content alone, walking down the sidewalk as morning sunrays warm the city around me. I need nothing more, for I am impervious to your labyrinthine ways. You may be sex, possessions, fame, power, or status. It does not matter.

On the run–an 800 (approximately) word preview of a short story I am writing

In by Lara on August 17, 2009 at 4:51 pm

Sorry I haven’t been posting 100 words. I’ve been writing a short story though, and here’s a bit of it:

Fiona Wiffenberg was the daughter of Elisabeth Wiffenberg, who was the daughter of Priscilla Wiffenberg, renowned haute couture designer of Wiff. For generations, the Wiffenbergs had lived in Los Angeles, California, for they disliked volatile weather conditions, especially wind. Wind was the worst element. Because of their fortune, Priscilla—and subsequently Elisabeth, had brought up their daughters in the most protected conditions. This was not to say they were sheltered, oh no. Fiona had traveled all over the United States by the time she was ten-years-old and to Paris, France and London, England where they had summer homes.

Currently, it was nine o’clock in the morning on the 25th of May. The weather was sunny and hot, a perfect 78 degrees Fahrenheit. Fiona was bleach blond this month, a ripe age of twenty-six-years-old, and freshly showered from her morning yoga class. She practiced yoga every morning at the same studio that Elle S., the famous popstar practiced at.

Elle S., born as Lisa Kristin Smith, was originally a mousy-looking girl with streaky hair from Lodi, California—one of the more hick places on the Western coast of the United States. Five years back, she had won a weeklong trip to Morocco on a radio show contest. When she came back, she died her hair a luscious chocolate brown, refused to wear anything but what she called “harem pants” or the traditional belly dancer garb. She started practicing yoga, having weekly appointments with an acupuncturist, and giving talks around the world about her new found mysticism. The fad caught on and she became the spirit and mystic of botox bimbettes and nouveau riche everywhere. Not to mention the giant deal she just landed with Stopper Records, owned by none other than Fiona Wiffenberg’s fiancé.

Fiona decided to stop at her apartment before going to work (she was busy making a new lingerie line for their dear family friend Coco Chanel), perhaps to have a wheatgrass shot with Eric—Eric Stopper, that is. They were due to be married in the three months. It was about time, too, thought Fiona, as “Moroccan Goddess” blared on her car stereo. They had been dating for two years already, and she couldn’t bear to think of still being single at thirty.

She loved him enough. He did things for her no other boyfriend had done, things that made her little diamond-encrusted, 24-karat gold heart melt a little. He would buy her something the instant after she expressed any interest for it and have it delivered to her office with roses, always yellow for forever. She also found that no other man had really been able to satisfy her sexual thirst. Fiona had been sexually realized from a very young age. Ever since she could remember actually.

She was quite surprised to see Elle S.’s periwinkle blue hummer in the driveway. Don’t worry though; it was the smaller, more “environment” model. Elle S. had recently made a public statement against cars that looked like boxes. Bad feng shui.

“Eric, honey, I’m home! Want a wheatgrass shot? I just thought I’d stop by before work,” Fiona shouted as she stepped into the very modern and very white foyer of their luxurious flat. Their two chow chows, Dolce and Gabby, swarmed around her feet, barking hysterically.

“Hello munchkins, please don’t step on mommy’s toes, they’re freshly pedicured.”

Hm. No answer. Maybe he was in the recording studio. She went downstairs to check, noting the picture frames by the stairs, perfectly portraying their love for each other. They had just had a black and white photo shoot the week before as an engagement present from Annie Leibovitz.

Before Fiona opened the door, she knew. Eric was in the recording studio indeed. As was Elle S. Both going at it like their perfectly groomed chow chows on the velvet covered floor. She had to admire how high the bitch could arch her back—must be the years of yoga and meditation, but oh god, is that was Eric looked like when he was screwing her? It was like watching a crippled dog miscalculating a piss on a tree. She almost chuckled at this, but was immediately brought back into the moment as the two loveshits (Fiona loved birds, but hated their byproducts) finally noticed an intruder into their steamy activity.

“Oh God. Fiona, it’s not what it looks–”

But unfortunately Fiona was also PMSing quite badly, so there wasn’t really enough time to even talk about what she thought he looked like. Instead, she took the closest blunt object (a lamp, in this case) and bashed her fiancé over the head. Eric got knocked unconscious, Elle S. screamed and ran upstairs.

Fiona was slightly aghast at what she had done. Would she go to jail for this? Surely her mother and the rest of the civil world would judge her for eternity. It was then she decided to flee. But to where?


In by Lara on August 17, 2009 at 4:50 pm

As I walk around the ancient marble with intricate carvings and the delicate paint on plaster, I have to wonder to myself, will the people 3000 years from now—if mankind still exists—be walking around in my ruins? Will they criticize the crude workmanship of our houses, wonder how we lived this way? Will they marvel at our traditions? Or will the memories of our time eclipse tangible objects, instead opting to highlight us as the digital era? Shall Blogs and Facebook become the fossils and stone tablets? Will digital archaeologists decipher html and code instead? Who knows, who knows.

Getting The Hint

In by Chris on August 16, 2009 at 11:45 pm

Welcome to the ghettos
A hundred and four square people
Cracking like donut boxes inside
Come along for the ride
Or maybe the concrete leaves figments
Like the steam from smokestacks
And leaves you hovering
Abandoned in a corn field
Wondering where the people and rooms
Have melted under the ground
Stand up! Look around!
Kids are scribbling their names
Until ink drips from the rusted gutters
The easels sing sad syncopated rhythms
To the top floors of buildings
Where windows wait wide open
Ready to crash to the ground
And swallow you like breath mints
You getting the hint?

Swing Set

In by Chris on August 15, 2009 at 9:12 am

            I remember the swing set where I fell and cut open both of my knees. Funny thing is, I don’t remember the pain, just a kind of fascination and terror at the dirty blood that seeped out. Same way I don’t really associate the emotion of happiness with my memories of you, but instead the little feelings that happened one time or another, like the time I got chills from the spray of a fountain though the day was hot. Of course I can recite the facts of what happened, but in my mind memories perpetuate themselves strangely and incompletely.


In by Chris on August 15, 2009 at 9:11 am

Lovely lovely lovely you look lovely
Intelligent intelligent intelligent you sound intelligent
Smoothly smoothly smoothly you walk smoothly
Sense sense sense you exude sense
You you yeah you, you you yeah you
Parties parties parties you ignite parties
Inspiration inspiration inspiration you are inspiration
Vivaciously vivaciously vivaciously you live vivaciously
Limits limits limits you exceed limits
You you yeah you, you you yeah you
Recklessly recklessly recklessly you cavort recklessly
Simply simply simply you smile simply
Brightly brightly brightly you work brightly
Spunk spunk spunk you evoke spunk
You you yeah you, you you yeah you
You! You! Yeah! You!

Unemployed And Homeless Someday

In by Chris on August 15, 2009 at 9:11 am

Oh what are you majoring in?

Critical studies of people like you. It’s very interesting.

Each summer she burned certain sets of notes and flipped through others, mostly for the doodles and ideas in the margins.

And, um, what would you plan on doing with that?

Looking at butterflies all day every day. AKA unemployed and homeless.

She often got restless. Undoubtedly she loved her life, but in the weeks when one season changed into the next, all kinds of yearnings and half-thought-out plans rose in her. She couldn’t resist it.

Well that sounds incredible. That’s great to hear.

Angry Outburst

In by Chris on August 14, 2009 at 5:20 pm

            After a vexing day, it was the last straw. She kicked off her sandals and immediately slammed her toe into the doorjamb. Screeching, she hopped into her bedroom in a whirl of anger, pain, and exhaustion.

            He looked up from his computer and, seeing such a wrathful visage, tried to catch her in his arms. Instead, she punched him in the chest and flopped onto the bed, berating him for things he couldn’t remember doing. Soon it got personal. His rage grew until he couldn’t contain it, but when he finally retorted, she had trailed off into tired, broken sobs.

Future Sporcle Quizzes

In by Chris on August 14, 2009 at 5:18 pm

Name the First Ladies’ middle names
Name the numbers used in binary
Name the top ten hot dog eating individuals in New York State (per year)
Name every ingredient in the Twinkie
Name the top-ten pickup lines of all time (as compiled by some random dude in some random bar)
Name the 6+ billion inhabitants of the world
Identify the minor Herman Melville characters
Complete the lyrics to “Lowrider”
Name the stars
Name the words that begin and end with ‘Q’
Name the major stars in our solar system
Name the more productive things you could be doing right now

Life As A Mushroom

In by Chris on August 14, 2009 at 5:18 pm

            Life is nice as a mushroom. The forest is peaceful all day and at night you can lean over onto a soft bed of fallen leaves. When it rains the branches high above you soften the fall of the drops. Yes, there is little to worry you when you are a mushroom in a forest. The animals may gaze on you as they walk by, and you can’t believe it when you learn that the massive trees are alive, just like you. The sight of a line of ants makes you happier than just about anything else you know exists.


In by Chris on August 12, 2009 at 7:54 pm

            The cobblestones were lifeless, impenetrable beneath the bench on which he sat. The city’s feeling of rising sounds and evening lights blended with his own small aura of longing. He knew he was small, and though he missed her, his longing would be solitary. For who would share it with him? A planet paved in cobblestones separated her from him, and in the endless atmosphere his longing dissipated. People walked by in pairs or alone, treading with foreign thoughts and movements. His head slowly sunk to his chest, no longer thinking of her, and he entered into a contented sleep.

The Evergreens

In by Chris on August 12, 2009 at 7:23 pm

            A tree had fallen in the forest and in the space it left a young maple was growing. Winter was approaching and like every year, it wished its leaves would not crinkle and fall. For each broad leaf that fell, a shiver ran through the smooth trunk and into the roots. The other trees noticed and tried to console the maple, but nothing they said helped. Throughout winter it got a hollow look and heaved long sighs; the songbirds avoided its lonely limbs. To be an evergreen. Finally spring came, the snow melted and the maple lifted its head again.

Baseball Gloves

In by Chris on August 12, 2009 at 3:19 pm

On a desk lie thirteen baseball gloves,
Each is leather and all are worn.
How many hands have been thrust into each?
How many questing hands?
What did the hands dream of inside the mitts?
Baseball in sun, baseball in rain.
Calloused hands with bones and dreams
That flew or broke in floating streams.
In each glove their memory might linger.
In each scuff, each fingerhole, were ideas.
Questing fingers and dreaming bones of calloused palms.
Sun or rain fingers different or the same.
Leather is skin that feels each break;
The worn gloves now give the desk their weight.


In by Chris on August 12, 2009 at 3:19 pm

I can tap the rhythm into our faces
Move our veins to all different places
Trace with the ink dripping out of my mind
Cookies and smiles and mirrors left behind
We’ll spin our spectacles
Into trash receptacles
Paddle our canoes
With empty shoes
The beaches are waiting with coconuts dropping
The mountains are waving without ever stopping
Though hard wooden floors need a good mopping
The fish in their scales come in the boat flopping
Though we look quite different
I must admit
You with your carpets
Me with my mints
Life’s not so boring without anything at all

Destroy The Seed?

In by Chris on August 12, 2009 at 3:18 pm

            Johnny sat and thought. It was a hot day; a breeze moved the clouds across the clear sky. He wanted to replay each word the reverend had said that morning so that he could agree or disagree in his mind with each facet of the sermon, but the rustling of the grass and the birds’ chirpings produced such a strong effect on his mind that none of his thoughts went very far. Finally he abandoned his attempts to make sense of what he had heard and embraced the air’s simple, caressing movements. Still, a seed-like guilt shaded his mind.

The Contest

In by Lara on August 9, 2009 at 11:39 am

He whinnied at her, rearing into the air with clenched fists for hooves. She cackled, a witch’s mean, mocking cackle. He whistled, sweet and low. She rat-tat-tatted like a bebe gun on the loose. He sighed, audibly and pitifully enough to turn even the cranky barista’s head. She giggled like a little girl divulging the latest gossip by the lockers. He scoffed at her with his nose turned so high up that she could see the bogies clinging to his brown nose hair. She snorted. He snorted back. She kissed his nose, twizzling and tickling. He laughed. She smiled. Touché.

Ode to the Fat Man

In by Lara on August 6, 2009 at 4:04 am

O Fat Man

I see you wiping perspiration from your gullet,

large as a frog’s and as bulbous, too.

Take a break, O Fat Man

For these marble steps are slippery and fierce

Waiting for a chance to bounce you on your cushy bottom

The sun’s beating down, O Fat Man

And your fat wife seems parched and famished

So stop awhile to gobble and glug

Chew, chew, O Fat Man

For swallowing chunks whole does no one good

And no one wants to see digestive pyrotechnics

Now drown that grease down with some caloric beverage

And go, go again

I love you this much

In by Lara on August 4, 2009 at 12:28 am

I love you like a fat man loves his dollar value meals.

I love you as much as a menopausal woman sticks her head in the fridge every day.

I love you like a CEO loves his blackberry.

I love you as much as fish remember after two seconds.

I love you like a person with OCD loves that 56th handwashing.

I love you as much as Easy Mac needs paprika.

I love you like a preppy white chick loves her Uggs.

I love you like emo kids love bangs.

I love you as much as a crackwhore loves crack…and sex.