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Archive for November, 2018|Monthly archive page

If you see it, leave it be

In 100, by Montana on November 14, 2018 at 1:18 am

A dot at the center of a circle drawn in jet black ink

An igloo persisting a whiteout in the middle of the Arctic tundra

An owl cooing softly in a forest of a hundred thousand trees

A carin enduring righteously on a jagged and windy peak

A bear bundling deeply into a cavern carved from stone

A sapling sprouting bravely in the shadow of its fallen elder

A droplet descending slowly to reach its original oneness

A fawn standing still in the soothing silence of new dawn

A phone left quietly to rest at the bottom of a pond


In Flames

In by Cait on November 13, 2018 at 11:16 pm

California is literally burning…

Feels like the apocalypse or Armageddon. The sky is hazy, full of ash and there is no fresh air in sight. Thousands of people have lost everything and have nowhere they can call home.

50 precious lives have been lost to the flames and and many more are missing or lost amongst the rubble and remnants of dilapidated structures.

How much longer with the blazing fires continue? Where will the hundreds of thousands of evacuees go to find safety and refuge as they mourn the loss and terror of such great destruction?

How do we heal?

Between Broadway and Flushing

In 100, by Briene on November 13, 2018 at 9:36 pm

“But it’s not along here, it’s where the muscle meets the bone”, as she ran a firm finger down the side of his thigh and across his knee, running into the perpendicular subway seat. 

“Like a pinched nerve?” 

“Kind of, but not quite. It was odd because up along here was where it was tight,” and her hand again ran the length of his thigh, this time pulsing gently at junctures to his knee. 

And though he watched her lips move, and felt the passion of her conjecture, he got lost in her being, and hoped the train never stopped. 

Neighborhood Jimmy

In 100, by Amy on November 13, 2018 at 9:23 pm

Jimmy was on a mission.

“Please sir. This letter needs to arrive by noon. My legs are broken. Take it! Take it!”

He felt terrible leaving the poor cyclist on the sidewalk, but it was 11:38am and Divan St. where the letter needed to be was at least 19 mins away– by brisk walking standards.

This was his moment — to serve the public. To test his navigation skills. To do the things only highly skilled professionals can do.

He didn’t know the content of the letter or the urgency. But, he knew how to walk like a motherfuckin’ postman.

Disfunction with your pie?

In 100, by Amy on November 13, 2018 at 9:06 pm

Mission Pie feels like grandma’s house — yellow wallpaper and warm wooden tables; today’s fresh pies chalked on the wall.

Emily dug into tart rhubarb pie. He sat across the table and shuffled uncomfortably.

“I’m getting married in 2 weeks.
I was worried you’d find out on Facebook if your aunt posts about it, so I’m telling you.”

…Her arch-enemy?

…The mistress who stole dad away, all those years ago?

Emily thought about throwing the glass of milk in his face!

She held back. Age.

“Thanks for telling me. I would have been mad if I found out on Facebook.”

Skin smells 3

In 100, by Nora on November 13, 2018 at 5:37 pm

Mennie was so light and cool, baby powder and lemon (sweet pliant Meyer) and Diet Coke. An old, but insistently clean, grey sweatshirt, a flannel pajama set, slippers, fully arrayed as she sang to me lullabies of her native Carolinas, the repetitive, onomatopoeic ones in which someone always forgot they had a wife and children and never returned. The longest, silkiest hair thicket in a soft white armpit, the with the married-in milk whiteness as opposed to our bloodline olive. The tips of her fingers tapered and bent backwards just slightly, illustrating her words: “just a knuckle in a huckbucket.”

the only acceptable way to use the word chick in 2018 is for a young bird

In 100, by Lara on November 13, 2018 at 1:52 pm

Man 1: Hey man, how are you?
Man 2: I’m good. You know, pretty busy.
Man 1: [sighs] Same. Recruiting?
Man 2: You know it.
Man 1 and Man 2: It’s exhausting.
Man 1: [chuckles] Tell me about it. Last week, I went to a consulting interview and this chick shows up—
Man 2: Wait, wait, what? An actual chick?
Man 1: Yeah. It was super weird. Feathers and everything. Really threw me off.
Man 2: I mean, yeah of course it would. That’s bizarre. Since when are chicks allowed to do business?
Man 1: [shrugs] I guess it’s 2018.


In 100, by Chris on November 13, 2018 at 10:35 am

As we speak an Argo float drifts. It is a thousand meters deep in the Southern Ocean, quiescent. For nine days it drifts, whim to currents. Then it pumps oil from a bladder and sinks farther, to two thousand meters depth, before reinjecting the oil and rising, over the course of six hours, to the ocean’s ice-strewn surface. Along the way it measures pressure, temperature, salinity, pH, oxygen, nitrate, and more. It sends this towering profile to satellites and public databases beyond before sinking again.

As we speak, there are 3,970 such Argos in every corner of every ocean.

Fresh Pond

In 100, by Wyatt on November 13, 2018 at 8:06 am

“Hello!” She said, running past her teacher. He waved back with a friendly, “You’ve got quite a pace, I don’t want to slow you down. See you tomorrow.”

Red leaves adorned black branches against a fierce blue sky. Did it used to look this vivid?

She ran around the lake where she’d grown up. There were people everywhere. Out of curiosity she let the full user hoard enter her model, and millions of bodies popped in, overlapping each other. She dialed it back until just a few remained. Fall At Fresh Pond was a popular app this time of year.


In by Chris, 100 on November 13, 2018 at 12:46 am

Thousands of boreholes perforate the world’s seafloors. Beneath miles of sea they are miles deep, the width of your forearm, kept open by metal piping that’s capped when they aren’t being used. 

Imagine them down there.

A few select drilling vessels create these holes for scientists to lower specially designed instruments to learn about subseafloor water flow, the cycling of elements in subduction zones, the amount of silica released by earthquakes, and so on.

Imagine being on a boat on the ocean’s limitless roil, probably sick, without point of reference—except, precisely fixed, these boreholes a two-hour walk below.