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In 100, by Wyatt on November 3, 2021 at 10:20 am

“Do you have space?”

“I’m pretty full, but I want you to have a place to stay. Let me see what I can do.”
She went back into the motel’s office. He waited in the lobby. Rain smashed against the windows, headlights glided past. 

“I can squeeze you in with two Germans. They said they’d host you in their room in exchange for a free breakfast. I’ll roll out a trundle”

“Are you sure it’s not too much trouble? I can just set up my tent outside. 

She raised her eyebrows.

“Thank you. I didn’t know who else to call.”



In by Wyatt on November 3, 2021 at 10:12 am

If you’re thirsty, drink. 

If you’re tired, sleep. 

If you’re silent, sing. 

If you’re thirsty, notice it.

If you’re tired, see it.

If you’re silent, sit.

Pick up a rock and see the mountain it was once. Breathe in the morning and taste the primordial seaweed that made it. Feel your dissatisfaction and gobble up the billions of years that led to it. 

Which is not to say, do nothing. Rather, know that when you do something, that “something” is nothing. Call her. Put paprika on your apple. Stretch out the knot in your gut. You must.

Then keep dancing.

A Week of Spells

In 100, by Wyatt on November 3, 2021 at 9:59 am

“Oh my look who’s here.”

“Cutie patootie aren’t we having such a time!’

“Hi hello gorgeous pie”

“Goodness such a floofy featherbutt, well here we go!”

“Mmmm jooga jooga jooga.”

“It’s a noodle!” 

“Yes yes yes I know, my sweet.”

The first words uttered after waking up are an incantation. Subconscious, or preconscious. The most important words she speaks all day.

Because she comes into the world each morning forgetting the truth. Failing to remember the simplest fact. Amidst face licks and warbling growls, the enthusiasm and wisdom of a sweeter creature reminds her: they might never have woken up.

How to love

In 100, by Wyatt on December 4, 2019 at 3:42 pm

The first thing to do is

Let go

Of trying

To love

If we don’t feel love

That is okay

It may happen

It might not

But trying to manufacture it

To machinate it out of lead

Fails us before we’ve started

Because we must start

By loving


Right here

As we are

Right now

We are perfect

No change necessary

Look at us

How nice we are!

As is


Batteries included

That is understanding the self

That is love


Look what happened

By trying not to force anything

Something had space to grow

Which was


Made it, but to where

In 100, by Wyatt on December 1, 2019 at 12:15 am

Thirteen minutes left in november: Lying splayed on the ground of Denver international in a fur coat, belly full of hot cheetos and new-mexican pizole, beaten timberlands stained dark with beeswax, battered heart beating reliably and opening more with each passing moment, intentional imaginings of multidimensional narratives flitting vibrantly, cautious optimism for december bobbing gently on a turbulent sea, front teeth grinding softly, thumbs aching from tapping truisms on a tiny keyboard, a tired world sleeping outside frosty windows, every fiber of being wanting to rest to recharge to recoup to reinvent to reintegrate to restart to rebecome to be.

Patience is a sin

In 100, by Wyatt on November 28, 2019 at 4:12 am

I want to fall for you slowly

Little by little

Then all at once

Standing atop a diving board

Staring down at the water

Anticipating descent

Feeling cool air kiss skin

Feet singing on grip-taped concrete

A choice

And then gravity

Followed by contact

I seek the crisp bitter scent of pine

Longing for your look

Welcoming your wandering intrusions

Who let you in here?

I need you to find the key

Irreverently unlock the pantry door

And make a cup of tea in my chest

I want to hold you

But not yet

I need to need you


TSA Therapy

In 100, by Wyatt on November 24, 2019 at 11:26 am

Welcome to Astral Space Services, before you board your flight we’ll screen you. Do you consent to use of the Wand Investigating Personal Effects?

Is that a vibrator?

It’s a certified ASS WIPE.

Go ahead.

It seems you are carrying overweight emotional baggage.

I tried to leave my inner critic behind but it‘s been vocal recently.

Do you consent to removal?

Please. It’s in my shoulders.

You’ll feel a buzz.

I think you’ve got it!

It’s not letting go.


It is heavy, sir.


And, it’s extracted. Here’s your claim tag, pick it up after your flight.

Keep it.

Not all armor protects

In 100, by Wyatt on November 23, 2019 at 7:24 pm

It’s too easy not to ask the woman with two corgi pups if I can play with them. Too simple to hide behind reflective steampunk sunglasses and ignore inquisitive glances. Too safe to hold in a compliment, a question, an offer, and wonder what the response may have been.

But it’s too fun to pat their silly ears. Too joyful to smile and dance a little jig in this large fur coat for a stranger who pokes her cheeky tongue out. Too delightful to admire the existence of each new person by assuming old friendship and saying, “Where to now?”


In 100, by Wyatt on November 23, 2019 at 7:13 pm

Brightly colored puns gaff taped to the hallways; silly string mangling hipster chandeliers; tacky wallpaper repapered with shimmering emergency blankets: we sought out and co-created this funhouse of reckless human play but now that we’re breathing its air, what do we say? This Museum of Sleeves (established in a bedroom’s bathroom) celebrates Banksy’s and Houdini’s shirts, at least the arm covering portions, and we walk its absurd hallways with bemused expressions, trading glances. I don’t know how to flirt in a sleeve-filled toilet. If everything is a bit, are you? If we are both in a performance, who am I?

A funeral

In 100, by Wyatt on November 21, 2019 at 6:11 am

Stasis, perhaps. Or familiarity. It was unclear what they mourned, standing in their dining room huddled over an alter of beeswax candles and repotted grocery store basil. Their black skinny jeans and organic cotton henleys crinkled each time they shifted their weight.

Their eulogies were bursting with celebration, intensity, levity and mourning. What a time it had been. How to honor it, and move on? Each song on the meticulously curated playlist coaxed new emotions to unfurl.

They hugged, wept, smiled. They were scared. And excited.

“Each of us comes first.”

When it was over, they cooked okonomiyaki and danced.

Sweet bean

In by Wyatt on November 19, 2019 at 8:28 am

There must be many like you. How else could we have tumbled across each other on the scungy pine-green carpet twelve years ago, stealing glances over plates of spinach and daring each others’ clothes off? We are too good at math to believe that we are unique.

Each love is a bubble. Bouncing, refracting, overlapping with mine for an instant. Some resonate more than others. (Vulnerable candor will always beat defensive certainty.) Some captivate in ways you don’t. (Green grass is a sassy siren.)

But amongst all those rainbow spheres, only you and I overlap fully.

So far.

Thank you.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 18, 2019 at 8:22 am

My mind cannot fathom you.

You’re not your mischievous eyes.

You’re not your reckless laugh.

You’re not the crease between your butt and thigh.

You’re not your letters, meticulously stashed from meteors that shot into and out of your life, brief sparks of connective love.

You’re not your scent.

But I can’t hold all of you from here.

I can only hold your bits. One at a time.

I pick each up and treasure it.

Then I put it down before grasping another.

When I hold you in person, forgive me for collapsing under your magnitude.

Your wholeness is blinding.

Life is brutiful

In 100, by Wyatt on November 15, 2019 at 3:44 pm

“Life is brutiful,” she said. Her mouth tasted like his mouth, only someone else’s. It felt strange to make out with a friend.

She continued, “Sometimes it sucks so much I can’t breathe. Sometimes it’s so fun I never want it to end. What?”

She smiled tentatively. “I’m being cheesy, shit.”

“No, you’re good,” he said. “Brutal and beautiful. I feel that.”

“Then why the face?”


“You were about to laugh.”

“Promise you won’t hate me?” She nodded.

He whispered in her ear, “‘Sucks and can’t breathe, so fun you don’t want it to end’… that’s what she said.”

Drought breaks

In 100, by Wyatt on November 14, 2019 at 3:13 pm

“Are you awake?”

“Shhh what are you doing?” She asked.

Smirk. Was this what a smirk looked like. He hoped this was what a smirk looked like. “You tell me.”

This definitely wasn’t what a smirk looked like.

“You’re trying to make out with me,” she said.

Explosions. Maybe the smirk worked. He needed to say something. Now. Anything.


“So, kiss me,” she said.

He swallowed the Mediterranean Sea pooling by his gums. The taiko orchestra in his chest roared for blood of war. Every nerve in his lips had put its fork in the toaster. He leaned forward.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 13, 2019 at 4:50 pm

Steph was moving to France. She wasn’t happy about it. Her parents had found good jobs there, so she had no choice. It sucks to be the hot girl, viciously uprooted, suddenly alone.

They had been talking every night. First using text, then recording their voices in bubbly snippets of raw emotion. Maybe eventually they’d have a real-time phone call. It was impossible to fathom meeting in person. Nauseating. Electrifying.

“You won’t be alone,” he typed. “I’ll be here.”

“My friend Olive has a thing for you,” She replied. “Do you like her?”

“She’s great,” he tried. Not you, though.

Back on land

In 100, by Wyatt on November 13, 2019 at 4:45 pm

“Kary said you two were going out.” She looked down at him with her beautiful, confused eyes. “Are you really?”

Horror surged. “No! I mean, we chat. We’re friends. But no, we don’t… go out.”

Because I want to do that with you. He couldn’t say.

Her expression was dubious, quizzical. “Okay. Help me put this canoe back up.”

He reached down and they lifted the fiberglass frame onto the rack. Her tan, lanky body glistened in the fluorescent light. The sun had set, and it was getting chilly in the scout hall.

“See you next week?”

He nodded, destroyed.

True proof

In 100, by Wyatt on November 11, 2019 at 8:54 am

here are all the reasons why biscotti is a vegetable

  1. it is mostly butter
  2. butter isn’t meat, therefore it a vegetable
  3. there is flour in it too
  4. flour comes from trees, which are vegetable
  5. cranberries are in biscotti
  6. cranberries are a cousin of rubies, thus vegetable
  7. also pistachios
  8. pistachios come from nuts
  9. biscotti tastes good just like vegetable also does taste good
  10. it is okay to eat unlimited biscotti same as okay to eat unlimited vegetable
  11. too much vegetable makes you sick, just like when i eat the whole box of biscotti
  12. i’m proud of myself when i eat biscotti

How did you get here

In 100, by Wyatt on November 10, 2019 at 4:21 pm

Her body rocked with jagged sobs. This was an acute sadness, triggered by primal, ancient fears.

The forest can swallow you whole if you let it.

Behind each tree might lie clarity, or at least calm. Movement is progress when you’re under fire. But where were the hidden brooks, or a secluded glen, or the birds who would chirp the sun up? They were nowhere. All she felt was the cool damp darkness cloaking her in its heavy folds.

Brace for the journey, she told herself. Each step goes forward, each breath makes you stronger. Somewhere nearby an owl hooted nonchalantly.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 9, 2019 at 9:35 am

At 1 & 2’s House

3: “You put it up!”
1: “Hi you! What are you working on?”
2: “She’s painting a still life of her bedroom! Great light.”
3: “The shadows aren’t quite right yet. What’s new with you?”
1: “Oh, work, trivia nights, camping trips, you know, hanging up a painting that my ex just gave my roommate of her new hot boyfriend.”
3: “It’s been two years.”
1: “I know.”
3: “I thought you and I were good.”
1: “We are.”
3: “I’m sorry.”
1: “Look. It’s a damn fine painting. The subject matter’s just a little tone deaf.”
3: “I thought it was funny.”
2: “Tea? Anyone? I’m making tea.”



In 100, by Wyatt on November 9, 2019 at 9:18 am

2: “I love the colors.”
3: “I’m trying to capture the light’s softness before the days get shorter.”
2: “These shadows are so cold. And the sun on the bed, here, is so warm.”
3: “I’m not happy with it yet, but thanks.”
2: “Thank you for our painting, by the way! Such a lovely birthday present.”
3: “I’m pleased with how it turned out! His flesh is so… fleshy.”
2: “Such a juicy butt.”
3: “I was worried you’d think it was weird, but it’s the only painting I’ve finished.”
2: “It’s great!”
3: “I’m getting a beer, you want one?”
2: “Sure.” [Texts 1: “I can’t tell her! Can you??”]


In 100, by Wyatt on November 9, 2019 at 9:04 am

1: “It’s unbearable.”
2: “It’s not that bad”
1: “I can’t believe she did this.”
2: “It’s kind of funny.”
1: “What do we do now?”
2: “I think we have to keep it!”
1: “For how long?”
2: “It’s ours now.”
1: “Well. Do we have to put it there?”
2: “Where would you like to move it?”
1: “I don’t know. The basement.”
2: “No! She’ll come by and notice it’s not up!”
1: “I don’t want it here! This is my home!”
2: “Our home. And I think it kind of matches the furniture.”
1: “I can’t believe she gave us a painting of her naked boyfriend.”
2: “He has a good butt.”


In 100, by Wyatt on November 8, 2019 at 1:39 pm

Back home. Drenched in it.
Cultivating one reality costs another.
Both cannot be held simultaneously.
Pendulums swing one way first.
They pause. Then they return.

These words are already old.
Even as I write them.
Pen in hand. Sipping chamomile.
None of it is static.

Yesterday’s mind is already gone.
Perfect! A fresh mind today.
Continuity is a sweet adaptation.
A new day, never done.
The only one like it.
It will never happen again.

So glide, my pendulum. Venture.
The world vibrates. Dance along.
Gently sometimes. Sadly other times.
Hopefully, most often with joy.

Be a flash of lightning.

So long, so brief

In 100, by Wyatt on November 8, 2019 at 1:35 pm

You can’t expect enlightenment always.
Perhaps, don’t expect anything, ever.
How pretty this leaf is!
Even pain can be joyous.
It’s a reminder: still here.

Sunset’s reds will fade away.
Teacups will be sipped dry.
Geese will honk during silence.
Winter will descend. Then lift.

A phantom shinrei bell tolls.

Perhaps rocks contemplate their existence.
In any case, we do.
Let black holes lament loss.
Your task is more urgent.

Find a way to live.
It’s all there for you.
You must never stop looking.
Shooting stars travel so far.
To look pretty for you.
A streak of light; done.


How did that get in here

In 100, by Wyatt on November 8, 2019 at 1:26 pm

First there was only energy.
It was all the same.
Matter formed and spread out.
Some grouped itself into stars.
Some stars exploded into planets.

None of that needed anything.
It simply was. No reason.

Some chemicals formed into chains.
Light linked the chains together.
(Everything was still just energy.
Now dressed in fancy clothes.)
A grand dance of transformation.

Some chains grew into us.


I just rescued a moth.
A random, emergent matter chain.
Just like myself, only smaller.
It clung to my hands.
We want to continue dancing.

We call it being alive.
Energy calls it simply being.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 8, 2019 at 1:18 pm

Rocks don’t need an ego.
A rock doesn’t need anything.
Waves don’t need an ego.
A wave moves with wind.
No wind, no wave. Done.

Things that need, need egos.
Deer need grass, water, air.
Grass needs sun and soil.
Humans need other humans too.

All our bones are rock.
All our blood is water.
Stand next to a deer.
Each breath, you exchange bodies.
Your air becomes its air.
Its exhaled oxygen enters you.

Eat it, it becomes you.
Die, decompose: you become it.

You are not a deer.
But you’re not not one.

Remember, you both are chemicals.

Me/Not Me

In 100, by Wyatt on November 8, 2019 at 1:12 pm

I don’t blow through trees.
Only the wind does that.
My breath bears no resemblance.

Cedars groan against each other.
Our knees crackle as one.
Though we’re sitting, not standing.

The moon illuminates this paper.
I don’t shine at night.
Words may peer into hearts.
But I see no similarity.

Clouds cover the Milky Way.
A glimpse of dipper glimmers.
Lucidity eases in and out.
Instant of insight, then gone.

Perhaps I am the wind,
The trees, moon, and stars.
What else could I be?

We were all thoughts once.
Soon we will be again.
But now we are here.

First Day

In 100, by Wyatt on November 8, 2019 at 1:05 pm

I feel unsafe. Out deep.
Where are all my people?
My rocks, who harbor me?
Am I alone, my people?
Only one who cannot leave.

Tattered truck covered with spackle.
Under that paint, it’s crumbling.
Or perhaps, not yet built.
What is my paint/spackle?
My loved ones? My ego?

Now I strip myself bare.
Winter howls into my bones.
The past holds no answers.
The future is a delusion.
So right now, I shiver.

What identity must I lose?
Which answers lie in waiting?
Trust the process: just breathe.
Find joy in my fear.
Worrying means I’m still alive.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 8, 2019 at 1:01 pm

Listening to tiny waves lick the rough edges of rocks on the shore of the lake is as delightful as hearing children giggle. Each new ripple bumps into, cascades over, bursts forth across the tiny stones in a joyful plink of acoustic kisses. You stare out at the water and watch one ripple advance closer. But when it reaches you, it may sound like all the others, or may be silent. In the mean time, you sacrificed enjoyment of each wave that had already arrived. The sweetest tune is heard right now, attending to the ripples laughing at this moment.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 8, 2019 at 12:56 pm

There was a train, and it rolled along many beaches. Sandy, deep, ocean-facing, resort-riddled, you were there, with a collection of fancy friends all dressed non-ironically the same way as me, but I did so in jest: with a blue and white tutu and a big bow on my chest. You fixed my hair and cried when I told you something. It was lovely to look at you, exciting to be with you, and fulfilling to hold you. But ultimately I hopped back on that train to lie in the arms of the woman who knew how to hold me.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 1, 2019 at 1:20 pm

“I passed through so much nowhere to get to this part of nowhere,” she said, staring at the river.

“But every piece of nowhere is somewhere to someone,” answered the river. It cruised towards its next somewhere and also stayed exactly where it was. “This nowhere is where I am born.”

“When is a river born?” she asked. “When you’re a stream, you’re already a small river. But before that, when you’re a bunch of raindrops rolling downhill, which one of those is you? Where do you start? When do you end?”

“Exactly,” said the river. “And when do you?”


In 100, by Wyatt on June 19, 2019 at 9:58 am

The sixth sense wasn’t seeing dead people. It was seeing four dimensional space. Daria figured it out first, then she taught me. You just had to stare at something, like a chair, for long enough that when you closed your eyes you could still see it. Then with your eyes closed we could see into the chair, every level of wood grain, every puff of cotton in the cushion.

The seventh sense discovered was being able to “see” or “feel” the material/chemical properties of the stuff around us. We didn’t have words for it, so we called it “matting”.

New Planet Discovered

In by Wyatt on June 18, 2019 at 1:33 pm

Astronomers hunting for intelligent life scratched their heads when the first Earth-like planet was discovered by an eight-year-old, in her microscope.

Barely larger than a grain of sand, the planet roiled with oceans, teemed with animals, and sustained its own atmosphere.

Scientists invented nanoscopes to observe its intricate ecosystems. Supernose dogs were bred to analyze its microflowers. One DJ claimed his tracks sampled the tiny thunder, and a Michelin chef used flavonoids extracted from its miniscule herbs.

But each sensory experience just raised more questions than it answered.

Only the eight-year-old understood. Senses don’t show reality, they just interpret it.

Returning home

In 100, by Wyatt on February 5, 2019 at 7:00 am

A roiling melange of utterly peaceful, vibrantly social, and terrifyingly, familiarly lonesome. I am practicing being here. I drink my tea and eat my banana sitting amidst silent, empty walls after Lara leaves. And I plot my day. It will take sustained work to rewrite old patterns of worry and solitude. I know what I need to do, and have begun to do it. But it is not easy, or fun. The light at the anus at the end of these mental bowels I crawl through is self-respect and confidence in myself like I have never known. A worthwhile goal.


In 100, by Wyatt on December 6, 2018 at 2:59 pm

Goose pecked the frozen gravel. “Tasty,” she said.

Squirrel nodded. Yesterday he left tiny footprints in wet concrete and there was still grit between his toes.

“We’ll stop in Carolina, if we’re lazy. Cuba if we’re audacious,” offered Goose.

Squirrel nodded. He’d stayed in this park by the river for his whole life. Those names were just abstract concepts for ‘places beyond’. They might as well describe the other river bank.

“Doing okay, old friend?” Goose asked.

Squirrel nodded. He‘d stashed acorns aplenty.

“See you in Spring,” Goose said, honking at her entourage and taking to the sky.

Squirrel nodded.


In 100, by Wyatt on December 3, 2018 at 9:07 pm

“If you can’t write about everything, write about something smaller.”

“Smaller than the universe? What about Earth.”




“Massachusetts?” Pause. “Cambridge? This house?” Pause. “My bathroom? It’s white…”


“This towel.”


“This square centimeter of towel.”

“Start there.”

“It’s grey like warm slate. There are wispy cotton strands arranged in neat rows, but many have been pushed askew. Some strands end in fine points, stretched from years of use. Others are rounded. It feels like dry moss. It isn’t moving. It’s surrounded by fabric that looks just like it.”

“There’s a lot to say about a towel.”

Tide Pool

In 100, by Wyatt on December 2, 2018 at 3:15 pm

Fish teased Crab. Crab ran away. Crab’s Father couldn’t find Crab.

Father cut off Fish’s tail.

Fish couldn’t swim. Fish cried.

Shrimp heard Fish. Shrimp‘s siblings carried Fish. They found Father.

Fish apologized. Father apologized. Shrimp stitched Fish’s tail back on. Together they looked for Crab.

Crab had met Anemone. Anemone said “I love you, Crab.”

Father found Crab. “Come home,” he said.

“No,” said Crab. “Anemone loves me.”

Anemone met Eel. Now Anemone loved Eel. Crab cried.

Fish said to Crab, “I loved you all along.”

Crab kissed Fish.

Father thanked Shrimp.

Anemone dumped Eel.

Octopus ate them all.


In 100, by Wyatt on December 1, 2018 at 2:09 am

Halea knew how to surf. But she knew the limits of her skill. And today the beach was frothing.

“You’re too weak for this swell,” said Doubt. “The sets are too frequent. You’ll never paddle out.”

Doubt raised his voice. “These waves probably won’t kill you, but they might. Why do you want to do this?”

The ocean’s power was unmatchable but she had a secret of her own. She couldn’t hear Doubt.

When the horizon rose up in dark ripples, when the vertical face loomed, when others questioned whether to let this one go, she simply went for it.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 30, 2018 at 2:52 pm

Iaeou had an unpronounceable name, and this suited her. When she was two she bounced away from her mother and into the mouth of a lion. Then she wiggled out of its jaws and bounced right back home.

Her bounciness didn’t diminish with age. Some times were good— that day she invented the flamingo game and everyone joined. Some were hard— that night her hammock untied and she woke up falling. But she stayed bouncy, because people wouldn’t always play her games, and she could learn better knots. Each day would feel different from yesterday, and would change again tomorrow.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 30, 2018 at 5:04 am

Dello’s mother was the wind. Her father was the water. She was born atop waves between two unknown lands. She walked her first steps along wood planks floating upon the ocean.

When she turned ten she went ashore and met normal children. She knew they were normal because they told her. This is also how she discovered she wasn’t.

One day she demanded that her parents fix her.

They said she was perfect.

She said they were wrong.

That night her parents wept, and their anguish whipped up a hurricane. She ran to warn the normal children. They didn’t listen.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 30, 2018 at 4:53 am

Ander watched. She was good at watching. She liked to do things she was good at.

She watched two roosters fight in some bushes. One clearly wanted to be left to his own devices; the other wanted to prove himself. She wondered which she was.

She walked away, and noticed a coconut on the ground. She picked it up. She was curious about her strength, so she hurled it as far as she could. It landed with a thud, leaving an impression. She wondered if she were the coconut.

Behind her, someone yelled: “which stars will extinguish when I die?”


In 100, by Wyatt on November 30, 2018 at 4:41 am

Dulu lay on her back, fabric pressing against her eyelids, and listened to the drums.

She wondered why this medicine wasn’t helping. She wondered if she should do something about it. She wondered if everyone else felt like this. She realized these thoughts were worries. Then she worried that the worries wouldn’t stop.

She needed to leave. But her body was stuck. A moment of panic. Worries compounded like layers of a wave stacking before they broke upon shallow reef. Whitewash, then calm. She didn’t need to leave. She was here. She’d always been here. And she always would be.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 30, 2018 at 4:33 am

Zoruso ran away. She had nothing to run from, and nothing to run towards. But something told her to run, so she ran.

She came to a strange land. It was too hot to breathe, so she held her shirt in front of her face and coughed. She met someone who seemed friendly, but he was just being kind. She met others who reminded her of better people she had left behind. She started to work, but it wasn’t clear what for.

One night, as she battled her mind to let her sleep, she realized why she had run here.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 30, 2018 at 4:24 am

Corion didn’t realize she was walking in the real world. She thought she was moving in the other world.

In that world she was floating above a dark landscape.

In this world, she was walking away from her bedding towards the food storage. She opened a pot and ate leftover rations. Her bedmates heard the commotion but rolled over.

In the other world, Corion watched her body grow to absorb the whole land— forests and oceans and magma became her bones and guts and thoughts. A normal dream.

In the morning, Corion decided this nightwalker inside her needed a name.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 30, 2018 at 4:11 am

A group of eight coalesced around a common goal. But no one knew the goal. Each time one member raised an opinion, others would either acquiesce, decline, or amplify. Three options existed, not four: never did anyone begrudge. When rain came some got wet, while others cowered under shelter. When hunger struck some cooked, while others relaxed. When drowsiness loomed they shared beds, giving the sleepiest the softest pillow. In conversation they were quick and kind, in games they were competitive and strong, and in both the weakest felt held. The goal remained a loose mystery. And so they lived.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 28, 2018 at 3:55 pm

Log had always known Earth. She was born in it. As seed grew to sapling she sucked each of her branches from the soil.

In death, she learned water. She fell, tumbled downstream, and floated to this shore. Tides pushed her higher onto the beach until she dried. Then she was gathered.

This evening she felt fire. Set aflame by capable hands, she glowed with the quiet wisdom bestowed by her long and meandering existence.

Now she became air. As her solidity gave way to smoke, her sparks drifted up to join their twinkly sisters splashed across the night sky.

A few men and their moments

In 100, by Wyatt on November 28, 2018 at 3:41 pm

“Starfruit?” He nodded, biting into a section and showering the car with juice.

“SPOOOOOOOOOORTS” he yelled, hurling the squishy green ball across the beach to the other team, also men without shirts.

“What a time to be alive,” he sighed stepping into Costco to buy two pounds of frozen shrimp and a gallon of margarita mix.

“My fear is that I won’t be fully present this week,” he admitted through a mouthful of ribs and rice.

“Colon dash d is an emoji,” he laughed as two roughly hewn stick figures with arrows pointing to their colon and dick appeared onscreen.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 25, 2018 at 11:53 pm

“How’d you get so big?” asked Grass.

“I pushed,” answered Eucalyptus.

“I want to be as big as you,” said Grass.

“Why?” asked Eucalyptus.

“You’re regal.”

“You want to look impressive?” Eucalyptus asked, unimpressed.

“You provide shade.”

“But you provide softness.”

“You’re tall!”

“You’re plentiful.”

“You hold up the sky!”

“You keep in the earth.”

Birds nested in Eucalyptus. Grass caught the chicks when they fell.

One day a fire roared through their valley. Both burned to the ground.

In spring, two different green shoots sprouted through the blackened soil.

Eucalyptus said to Grass, “Now you’re as big as me!”


In 100, by Wyatt on November 24, 2018 at 11:00 pm

Tucking a tendril of hair behind her ear, she squints into the mirror. “I like this hat. But you look about as good in it as I do in your sunglasses,” she says to me with a giggle. “I went all-in on us pretty much straight away, darlin!” she says to Dad, recollecting her decision to marry this complicated, brooding yet joyful man after having only dated for a few months. Dad comments on some bodily function to which she replies, “oh brother.” Mum hasn’t checked her phone all day. We’ve been drinking wine since two. We’re best friends.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 24, 2018 at 1:15 am

Hey idiot—

—–Fuck off.

You fuck off!


You’re wonderful.


No, really!

—–Fuck off.

You are amazing, and I love you!

—–Stop being a tosser.

Come off it!

—–You’re teasing me.

I just called you an idiot to get your attention, I didn’t—

—look, cheers, not into it, or into you, have a good one.

But you have it…

—–…Have what?


—–Don’t be shit, have what?

That wordless stuff. Feels right.

—–Do I fucking know you?

Homie, we met aeons ago.

—–Fuck yourself right off.

…Done it.

—–How’d it go?


—–Fair enough.

What’s your name?

—–What’s yours.


In 100, by Wyatt on November 22, 2018 at 9:10 pm

A moment of stillness away from family. Eyes close. What are we watching, when we replay memories? What silver screen do those invisible yet tangible moments flit across? Faces. So many faces. Snippets of laughter, of your name said a hundred different ways. Feelings. Of validation, joy, longing, sorrow, angst, home, stoke, panic. Those were real feelings. But feelings aren’t real. A hundred plane flights. Some books, dozens of movies, trillions of ideas. Moments of self love swimming in a modest pool of affection from others. Projects, aspirations. To what end? Rejections, admissions, collaborations, solo journeys. Thanks, Life. Forge onwards.