Front Page

Archive for 2013|Yearly archive page

Visitor’s Badge

In by Michael on December 13, 2013 at 3:45 am

Hi, welcome to Tekko Corp.

My job here is to hate the company I work for.

Her job is to answer the phone and deflect questions.

His job is to tell other people what to do.

Her job is to order lunch and organize the holiday party.

His job is to take notes at meetings.

Her job is to come up with ideas and give them to her boss.

His job is to make spreadsheets.

Her job is to write the same email over and over.

His job is to hide things from the government.

Want to get a coffee?


The Good Art

In by Michael on December 4, 2013 at 1:36 pm

This is bullshit art.

It’s “look at me, pretending to be an artist” art.

It’s a tourist on a tour.

A halfhearted attempt to prove to yourself that a more normal path is what’s reasonable. Go get a fucking desk job.

Vulnerability. Show it to me. Show me what you got!

Don’t let the voices in your head get to you. The insecurities. They tell you to close doors. Be afraid. Someone might not like it.

Damn right, someone might not like it. Be proud.

What I want in an artist: “I’m not pretending to be anything. That’s the point.”

The Royal Game

In by Michael on December 3, 2013 at 4:11 pm

“You start. Rookies take white.”

He wasn’t aggressive, like the jail dudes in the movies. His eyes though, had this steady intensity to them – you could feel him watching, focused, sizing me up. Looking to see if I was going to be a pussy or a problem or what.

I moved my King’s pawn two spaces.

He brought his full attention to the game.

We didn’t play with a timer, but there was a real pressure to not take all day making a move. Taking all day means you’re a pussy.

He looked almost happy when I beat him.

Falling in

In Uncategorized on December 1, 2013 at 2:06 am

Wild, deep, and anguished. It was torment, yearning, with stones tied to the back of the throat.

The first miracle was that she had burst into existence, and the second was that her existence had crossed with his. All he needed was a third. His ribs wrung with the eons-old pang. His ears rang with it. It was not quite love, nor mere lust. Each time he fell for this new someone, he felt savagely alive and dying to be requited.

It wasn’t love.


It was grieving.

Grieving the loss of what hadn’t yet been, and might never be.

Lost Skies by Sierra Donahue

In Uncategorized on November 25, 2013 at 9:30 pm

Thinking of the colors. And rain. Banana bread. Demons. And your face.

If I was going crazy, would I know it?

Sneak up like lightening through soft purple clouds trying to hide the expanse of sky so you don’t trip falling up.

Yesterday, the sky was blue and deep. The day before, it was a red thing, hung low and close. Bloody bed sheets god forgot to bleach. I had to crouch, walking out the door.

I await the sky tonight. I pray it isn’t purple and that it finds you safe.

If she was lost, would you tell her?

Don’t Call Me Crazy

In by Bunc on November 21, 2013 at 6:20 pm

Said did I mind if he smoked.
Said he was headed for Glenwood Springs.
Said he didn’t know how to use a cellphone.
Said it was his first day outside of prison after seventeen years, nine days. Said he was forty years old.
Said his sister was raped and he killed the five guys that did it.
Said his daughter was turning eighteen in December. Said he was still her hero.
Said his nickname was “Crazy Peckerwood”. Said they don’t call him crazy anymore, said names and behaviours precede one another.
Said goodbye from the payphone stand across the terminal.

My Nicaragua by Sierra Donahue

In Uncategorized on November 20, 2013 at 10:43 pm

It’s like all at once and yet so slow.

Creeping, it races to drown and embrace. Stealing sight and sound as you sacrifice your heart.

My friend laughs in the distance as he is pulled under. Again and again. Always he rises to smile at the sun and wave to me just when I begin to worry from my safety, here, where the depths can only tease.

I return his salute. Envy commands me to dive deeper, farther. But my feet are growing roots in the sand.

Such is love, faith, and the blue tides of San Juan Del Sur.

Writing to Pretend to Forget by Sierra Donahue

In Uncategorized on November 20, 2013 at 10:42 pm

In hundreds of hundred word pictures she fell. Inevitably – How did she not know?

Outside, the world delighted in hot splendor. A commotion dressed for anyone to taste,

summer’s modesty abandoned.

Starry night intoxications leave scars for autumn. Burns where her hands remember his.

Perhaps words will purge what tears cannot, she prays and hopes and writes while wishing

away her heart. Turning days like pages she remembers to forget. Heartbreak can lead to laughter

too, if she remembers not to cry. If she remembers those eyes are no longer hers to hold.

How restless I grew, waiting for winter.

Death of Arachnida by Sierra Donahue

In Uncategorized on November 20, 2013 at 10:41 pm

She spins, dancing with the grace of twilight song. Starlight crests her dark and painted back.

The queen of night ascends –

And is at once cut down.

No more to seduce her wandering prey. No more to beckon hither with shimmering promises

wrought from shivering limbs.

But, oh! She spun so sweetly, a mystery none could tell. A mystery none could live to hear

without the taste of blood –

Their own.

She held secrets close and dark beneath that shell that was her skin –

That was her heart.

The tales she wove, renowned in strength,

Writhing wild with the wind.


In by Bunc on November 15, 2013 at 5:52 am

recidivist philanderer, convenient unforgetter of fraudulent schemas from highschool playbooks

awestruck prepubescent, demiurge of daydreamt universes through dusty passenger windows

barren mute, gaze deflected in transit, sheathing his uncomfortable affliction

bourgeois aggregator of secondhand intellect, little black rolodex of opinions

vengeful unwinger of dragonflies, silvertongued forger of whys and wherefores

serial altruist, infrequent imposer of narcissistic generosity upon the undesiring

nostalgic reactionary, tattooed in tribal silhouettes, acquiescer to privileged simplicities

vagrant troubadour, moonlit bard, decreasingly tragic aficionado of mind alteration

insatiable scientist, hunter of patterned quarry, unwitting patronizer of chaos

lowly stenographer of this unholy warfare between a thousand selves