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Archive for January, 2010|Monthly archive page

Please,

In by Michael on January 31, 2010 at 5:11 am

“Mr. Hughes, it was great to – “
“Mr. Hughes? That’s what they call my dad! Please, call me Martin.”

“Martin, it was great to meet you. You’re a great journalist and – “
“Journalist? That’s what they call my dad! Please, call me a blogger.”

“You’re a great blogger and an inspiring doctor, who – “
“Doctor? That’s what they call my dad! Please, call me a healer.”

“You’re an inspiring healer with a lot of drive and great ideas for – “
“Wait, wait. Please stop using adjectives and nouns. People would use those to describe my dad.”

“God you’re obnoxious! Never mind.”
“Obnoxious? Please – post-modern.”

Metaphors For Being Creative Under Time Constraints

In by Chris on January 28, 2010 at 7:36 pm

Squeezing toothpaste out of a tube that has already been curled and re-curled for a month.
Forcing yourself to pee before a long car ride.
Searching for a dime in the street to have a full bus fare before the last bus of the night arrives.
Playing darts while drunk.
Trying to cultivate a palm tree in the tundra of Northern Alaska.
Hoping the movie ends in the next five minutes, otherwise you’ll have to miss the end to beat your curfew.
Guessing the number of marshmallows in a jar in first grade when you can’t even count past twenty.

Alice The Aloof

In by Chris on January 28, 2010 at 6:04 am

Alice held her head high. So high she could see over the skyscrapers. So high that satellites were always getting in her way. So high she ran out of oxygen.
When she woke up in the hospital, she told the doctor to take his head out of his ass. She told him to let her go. She left.
Back on the street, she held her head high. But also ducked from time to time, so she could sip some oxygen. She survived a lot longer this time, until the lack of ozone did her in again.
At least for now.

Gifts

In by Chris on January 27, 2010 at 6:56 pm

After he wrote the last of his gifts, before he fell into a Christmas Eve slumber, it was still raining.

The next morning he arrived in the town square and began to distribute his gifts. He gave away everything. Every possession he owned, then talents, his interests, his ideas, his heart. Last of all, left a shell, he gave his memory to a stranger, a foreign woman who had no knowledge of Christmas.

And then he received; he was rebuilt by generosity. Like the rain that had somehow built into snow, the people reassembled themselves; each walked away a mosaic.

Notions I’d Like To Challenge

In by Chris on January 26, 2010 at 9:19 pm

That life ends in death.

That people are inherently anything.

That nothing can be written any more without the taint of irony.

That life passes in a blink of an eye.

That the present and the future are different things.

That the sounds of music are more beautiful than the meanings of words.

That a good life requires enough money to ensure stability.

That our faces tell all.

That there is no adjective for the noun integrity.

That war and poverty will always exist.

That the best way to eat cereal is to pour the cereal into the bowl first.

Crumpled Notes Found In Desks After Seventh Period Today

In by Chris on January 26, 2010 at 3:05 pm

Boy’s: Sketch of a mountain with two stick figures on top.

Girl’s: “are you trying to hint at something?”

Boy’s: “just drawing…”

Girl’s: Sketch of two fish in the sea.

Boy’s: “milkshake today? ruston market.”

Girl’s: Stick figure head with a disproportionately large grin.

Girl’s: “way to distract me.”

Boy’s: “not my fault you don’t know calculus.”

Boy’s: Sketch of an anti-derivative with fangs.

Girl’s: “stop it! ms. j’s onto us.”

Boy’s: Sketch of a dripping milkshake.

Girl’s: “way to go smartass.”

Boy’s: “she’s just jealous cuz she’s single.”

Girl’s: Sketch of milkshake crossed out.

Boy’s: “really?”

Boy’s: “hello?”

A Poem

In by Lara on January 26, 2010 at 7:14 am

Take my heart

Yes, please take it
It is not soft
Nor malleable
But it beats
And it beats well
It beats like rumbling
And rumbles like roaring
Take my heart
Yes, please take it
It is strong
And it will endure
Its rhythm stays constant
and its passion, too
and it can wait
It will wait, for soon
it will no longer be theirs
Take my heart
Yes, please take it
It is all I own
It is all I’ve known
It is the means of me
it is the means to see
Take my heart, please.
Take it.

Trapped on a metro car alone

In by Lara on January 26, 2010 at 7:13 am

She looks up from her book. There is no one around. Unnerving? A bit. Fascinating? Maybe. She glances at her wrist watch. Stopped working. Great. She stands up. How long has she actually been on this one car? She doesn’t know. Ten, maybe twenty minutes? She doesn’t know. Her eyes trace the familiar graffiti lines on the door in front of her. Possibly an hour. She looks through the hazy windows of the car. Black and grey passing, swooshing by. There hasn’t been a stop for awhile now. And now signs of slowing down. She goes back to her seat.

Birthday Post

In by Wyatt on January 26, 2010 at 3:44 am

You look into a cardboard box that feels warm. It has traveled a long way and so have you. You both share this in common: you are here now.

Inside the box it is dark, quiet. You share that in common too. You’re standing in a softly lit colourless space holding this box. Play along, now.

You raise the box to your head. It is not very hefty, so must be empty. There is a hole cute in one side just big enough for you to see in with both eyes at once. You place the box against your face.

How to Lose an Argument Over Whether or Not You are British

In by Michael on January 26, 2010 at 2:10 am

“You’re British, right?”

“Nope.”

“You’re British!”

“No I’m not.”

“What? Yes you are!”

“Do you hear me talking? I don’t sound British and I’m not British.”

“I thought you were British.”

“Look, listen, here’s me pretending to be Bri’ish: ‘ello, I’m ‘ere from Lon-don… There’s no way I can be British with an accent that bad.”

“But you told me earlier that you’re British.”

“We just met.”

“No we didn’t. You walked here with me.”

“Nope. We just met. What do you think my name is?”

“Brian!”

“No, Michael.”

“Quit fucking around!” she said, and threw her drink at me.