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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?