Rocket - 80 Words
Aaron Dethrage
(10.)
When we are young, we exist formlessly, told to become
(9.)
anything we desire, encouraged even to become astronauts--bleached
(8.)
pockets of air stark against a starry, midnight
(7.)
sky. However, the world slowly intervenes, gnawing
(6.)
away our ambitions and childhood fantasizing,
(5.)
grounding us to one place,
(4.)
one job, one desk.
(3.)
Our feet--like
(2.)
roots--holding
(1.)
us
(liftoff.)
down.
We are reckless and wonderful creatures, something we must try never to forget.
Six Days At the Bottom of the Ocean - Explosions in the Sky
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
A Sweet Kind of Saltiness
Lantern - 486 words
Mary Ann Loo
Mary Ann Loo
“I knew you’d be here,” he said, stepping through the doorway into the chamber atop the old lighthouse.
“I knew you’d find me here,” she said, staring out into the black sea. “Turn off the flashlight, Jarrod. If you’re staying."
He complied, squinting in the sudden darkness and fumbling as he settled himself beside her. His arm leaned against hers, but she didn’t pull away like she usually did when he sat too close. She was probably too distracted to notice, or she welcomed his presence. Either way, he was pleased. They sat in silence, listening to the waves crash upon the rocky shore, the wind whispering in their ears as it ruffled their hair.
She said, “Thanks for coming to the funeral.”
“Anytime,” he replied, and hastily added, “Well, I don’t actually mean ‘anytime’…”
“It’s alright, Jarrod.” She drew in her knees and hugged them. “It’s strange. I always thought I’d be happy when he’s gone, but now that he is, I really don’t know what I feel.” She absently twirled her short straight blond hair.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She sighed, and even though he couldn’t quite see her, he knew she was subtly wiping tears away.
She cleared her throat. “My dad and I never got along. He was always angry, always complaining, always criticizing. I never wanted to be like him, but sometimes I see him in me, and I hate it.”
“You know I think you’re great, Sarah,” Jarrod said.
He felt the coolness of the night air against his arm as she shifted slightly away from him. He swallowed his disappointment, and said, “I’m sorry. Go on.”
Sarah continued, “My dad grew up in this very lighthouse. Coming here kinda reminds me that he’s human, you know; he was once a kid, he fell in love, he had dreams.” She sniffed, and her voice cracked even as she tried to keep it together. “But he always made me feel like I don’t deserve to be happy, like I’m not good enough.” She smeared the backs of her hands across her cheeks, trying in vain to stop the tears. “That’s why I can’t be with you, Jarrod. You’re perfect, and I don’t deserve you.”
Her confession startled him. He’d been in love with her three years now, but every time he tried to make a move, she’d back away, or she’d tell him she wasn’t interested. A year ago she started keeping her distance, so when she called him two days ago asking him to come to her father’s funeral, the question “Why?” had plagued him ever since.
She was sobbing now, and shrinking further from him. Despite his instinct to back off, conditioned from her numerous rejections, he reached out and gathered her into his arms. And then somehow – he didn’t know how – his lips found hers, and all he tasted was a sweet kind of saltiness.
Friday, May 21, 2010
The Hipster Hoagie
Sandwich - 168 Words
Ben Azevedo
I have a special treat for you. Today I am going to show you how to make the most pretentious sandwich ever.
I have a special treat for you. Today I am going to show you how to make the most pretentious sandwich ever.
First, the bread. Obviously for the most pretentious sandwich ever you have to have the most pretentious bread ever. This may sound like an easy task, but it is. Pretentious bread is made by using only the tallest wheat in the field. ONLY the tallest.
Second, the meat. Oh wait, this is a pretentious sandwich, which means it’s also a vegan sandwich. Yup, that’s right, no roast beef for you. Have fun chewin’ on that air.
Ok, now it’s time for the lettuce. You’ll want to make sure you’ve got completely, 100%, farmer guaranteed, eco friendly, chemical free lettuce. This can only be found in one place. You guessed it, the most pretentious farm in existence. Oh, they also make the pretentious bread. In fact, they have a trendy and fashionable café right NEXT to the pretentious farm, and they will make the sandwich for you.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Legend of the Great White Kite
Kite - 400 Words
Lindsey Thompson
Once upon a time, there was a glorious, massive kingdom full of mountains that shimmered gold against the sun, forests that rustled with life, and rivers that sang each morning and roared with waterfalls after the rain. All who lived within the kingdom were grateful to the sun each morning it rose, the clouds for each drop of rain, and thanked the souls of the animals and plants that fed them every day. For every living thing has a soul, the inhabitants believed, and in return for their respect the animals served as friends and companions.
But the animal that no man could keep but every man wished to see was the Great White Kite. With eyes bright amber burning in his snowy head, the Kite was the messenger to the sun, the tamer of the winds, and the one who summoned the storms. His vast wings would shimmer a powerful silver whenever bad fortune was near, so the people of the kingdom looked to him as the warning sign.
Whenever one beheld the Kite, he ran and told all of the nearby villagers what color the Kite’s wings were and any words he had said or been given. One year, a young boy beheld the Kite, shining a pure white and holding in a powerful talon one succulent strawberry. After one loud call, the Kite was back to the skies, but that was the year that strawberries grew in every field, and no child went without food, for the strawberries were both the tastiest and the healthiest mankind had ever seen. Yet another year, an old woman saw the Kite in mourning, head bowed and wings a dark grey as storm clouds formed overhead. He stood next to the body of a once lively and well-loved fox, taken by a virulent disease. Silent, he flew into the trees and watched the woman weep, turning to heaven as she walked slowly back to the village. For seven months, man, woman, child, and beast died, leaving the kingdom devastated.
After a few hundred years, the people began to hunt the Great White Kite, believing that with its death, the sun and winds and clouds would not know what was done in the kingdom. With bows made of the arms of unwilling trees and strings made of protesting animals' sinews, men shot at the heavens and swore that the earth was theirs.
Speed of Sound - Angry String Orchestra
Lindsey Thompson
Once upon a time, there was a glorious, massive kingdom full of mountains that shimmered gold against the sun, forests that rustled with life, and rivers that sang each morning and roared with waterfalls after the rain. All who lived within the kingdom were grateful to the sun each morning it rose, the clouds for each drop of rain, and thanked the souls of the animals and plants that fed them every day. For every living thing has a soul, the inhabitants believed, and in return for their respect the animals served as friends and companions.
But the animal that no man could keep but every man wished to see was the Great White Kite. With eyes bright amber burning in his snowy head, the Kite was the messenger to the sun, the tamer of the winds, and the one who summoned the storms. His vast wings would shimmer a powerful silver whenever bad fortune was near, so the people of the kingdom looked to him as the warning sign.
Whenever one beheld the Kite, he ran and told all of the nearby villagers what color the Kite’s wings were and any words he had said or been given. One year, a young boy beheld the Kite, shining a pure white and holding in a powerful talon one succulent strawberry. After one loud call, the Kite was back to the skies, but that was the year that strawberries grew in every field, and no child went without food, for the strawberries were both the tastiest and the healthiest mankind had ever seen. Yet another year, an old woman saw the Kite in mourning, head bowed and wings a dark grey as storm clouds formed overhead. He stood next to the body of a once lively and well-loved fox, taken by a virulent disease. Silent, he flew into the trees and watched the woman weep, turning to heaven as she walked slowly back to the village. For seven months, man, woman, child, and beast died, leaving the kingdom devastated.
After a few hundred years, the people began to hunt the Great White Kite, believing that with its death, the sun and winds and clouds would not know what was done in the kingdom. With bows made of the arms of unwilling trees and strings made of protesting animals' sinews, men shot at the heavens and swore that the earth was theirs.
Speed of Sound - Angry String Orchestra
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Double Post!
An apology before my post(s): I fled to the boonies after my schoolwork was finished and experienced a very pleasant week sans internet (except to play Civilization IV with some friends). I have since returned to Stacheville and chained myself back up to my computer. Barring some internet- or Kevin-destroying disaster, there should be no more lapses in posting this summer. Thanks for your imaginary patience.
Kevin Foster
Balloon – 135 words (5/19/10)
He knew he was approaching nine-hundred feet because the air was noticeably colder, thinner, though he could feel the heat of the burner lick at his face. If the sun hadn't gone down or he hovered over a city, he would have seen the fields turn into a checked board, but he was tired of lights which is one reason he liked to fly at night. His chest stung as he took in the darkness through his nose; he liked it, the curious feeling of the cool, dry air and the lingering warmth of the propane fire. He tried to recreate it in his car, flying down the highway in the winter with the windows rolled down while unleashing the fire of the engine on his feet, but it wasn't the same and backwards besides.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Prequel to Adulthood
306 words – Dress
Sarah Van Name
I never told you this, Eleanor, but I liked the way you wore your dress that day. Even though the girls made fun of you for being so pale, I thought the blue complemented your skin perfectly. It hugged your waist and flared out at your knees. You looked so…classy, I guess, and it fit the way you sat in the lawn chair and sipped lemonade.
I was surprised you came at all, given the drama. Ryan and Will had been tense at school, making stupid comments at each other between classes, something about Sam and our prom after-party. It was her house we were at, and she sat with those two on either side of her like the queen you were. She was tanned already, dark and supple and smiling. It had been such a hot spring, and we were all tired of each other. We just wanted to get to graduation and out of the South.
I was watching Sam’s little sister do a cartwheel in the grass when I heard the voices escalate, and then a shriek from Sam. When I turned around, Ryan and Will were throwing punches at each other, fighting with the awkward rage of two strong guys who have never fought anyone before. Sam was shouting at them to stop, and you sat there in your infinite calm, looking just past them with squinted eyes at an invisible horizon.
I heard a punch connect. A grunt, a curse. But I was looking at you, Eleanor.
A tooth splashed from a mouth and landed at your feet. With the serenity of an empty swimming pool, you rose and opened the gate just enough to let your thin hips slip through, leaving me with the beautiful ghost of your white body, blue dress, and the chaos in the hot May sun.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Reflex
Reflex- 275
Stephen N. Dethrage
Lover of my recent past,
I lost my job today. I was not treated unfairly, so don't fret. This morning was my fifth day in a row to come in late, and I'm merely surprised this didn't come earlier in the week. The alarm clock sounded on time, as it has every day I've been tardy, but I slapped the snooze button, and rested for another half hour. To call this ritual a habit does it a serious injustice. It's more than that. Reflex is really the only suitable word to describe it. I can control it no more than I can control the direction of the wind. My right hand, as it reaches to fumble over the buttons every morning, has lagged behind my mind, and is yet to grasp that you aren't there any longer to rise out of bed and shower after the alarm's first ring. Four years of doing the same thing every time that incessant beeping dragged me out of the stupor of sleep can probably never be reversed.
It isn't that I haven't accepted that you're gone, I promise. I know you're with a better man when you wake each morning, and that he'll do a better job of treating you like the goddess you are, but that doesn't change anything.
Don't misunderstand, this is not a plea for you to come back to me and make everything normal once more. It's just a notification. An update.
It's very hard without you.
I wish you'd tell me that it's hard for you, too, so I didn't feel so pathetic.
At any rate, I love you.
Expect another letter tomorrow.
Stephen N. Dethrage
Lover of my recent past,
I lost my job today. I was not treated unfairly, so don't fret. This morning was my fifth day in a row to come in late, and I'm merely surprised this didn't come earlier in the week. The alarm clock sounded on time, as it has every day I've been tardy, but I slapped the snooze button, and rested for another half hour. To call this ritual a habit does it a serious injustice. It's more than that. Reflex is really the only suitable word to describe it. I can control it no more than I can control the direction of the wind. My right hand, as it reaches to fumble over the buttons every morning, has lagged behind my mind, and is yet to grasp that you aren't there any longer to rise out of bed and shower after the alarm's first ring. Four years of doing the same thing every time that incessant beeping dragged me out of the stupor of sleep can probably never be reversed.
It isn't that I haven't accepted that you're gone, I promise. I know you're with a better man when you wake each morning, and that he'll do a better job of treating you like the goddess you are, but that doesn't change anything.
Don't misunderstand, this is not a plea for you to come back to me and make everything normal once more. It's just a notification. An update.
It's very hard without you.
I wish you'd tell me that it's hard for you, too, so I didn't feel so pathetic.
At any rate, I love you.
Expect another letter tomorrow.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Train-Tracked Lives.
Destiny - 23 Words
by: Aaron Dethrage
Old childhood joys–tenebrous train toys and towering marble mazes–all mirror our destinies. With increasing speed and terror-filled eyes, we fly.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Weapons
Meaning - 221 words
Mary Ann Loo
“Is your suitcase locked?” the TSA agent asks, taking it from me.
“No,” I answer.
She asks, “Does it contain any weapons?"
I know she’s referring to knives and guns and whips the like. But then when you really think about it, pretty much anything can be used as a weapon, even though they don’t necessarily possess the harmful characteristics stereotypically associated with what we label as “weapons”.
Dior Addict 2 can have the similar smarting-eye effects like pepper spray. A towel when completely drenched and twisted lengthwise immediately morphs into a whip, and according to Shanghai Noon is strong enough to bend bars. The tweezers in my toiletries bag can take someone’s eye out, or puncture their jugular artery, provided I know how to find it. A denim jacket, or any piece of clothing, can be used to smother someone. A leather waist belt can easily be pulled and tightened around someone’s neck. Steel-toed Dr. Martens can cause some real damage to a man’s baby-making instruments. Painkillers or sleeping pills in large quantities can ease one into eternal slumber, or at the very least you could develop an Advil addiction.
So yeah, I do have weapons in my suitcase. But I say, “No.” Don’t invite trouble; just catch your plane back to Nashville, and get some sleep that isn’t drug-induced.
Mary Ann Loo
“Is your suitcase locked?” the TSA agent asks, taking it from me.
“No,” I answer.
She asks, “Does it contain any weapons?"
I know she’s referring to knives and guns and whips the like. But then when you really think about it, pretty much anything can be used as a weapon, even though they don’t necessarily possess the harmful characteristics stereotypically associated with what we label as “weapons”.
Dior Addict 2 can have the similar smarting-eye effects like pepper spray. A towel when completely drenched and twisted lengthwise immediately morphs into a whip, and according to Shanghai Noon is strong enough to bend bars. The tweezers in my toiletries bag can take someone’s eye out, or puncture their jugular artery, provided I know how to find it. A denim jacket, or any piece of clothing, can be used to smother someone. A leather waist belt can easily be pulled and tightened around someone’s neck. Steel-toed Dr. Martens can cause some real damage to a man’s baby-making instruments. Painkillers or sleeping pills in large quantities can ease one into eternal slumber, or at the very least you could develop an Advil addiction.
So yeah, I do have weapons in my suitcase. But I say, “No.” Don’t invite trouble; just catch your plane back to Nashville, and get some sleep that isn’t drug-induced.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Bad Luck for the Boys of the Town
Crossed - 241
Ben Azevedo
Jack woke up exactly one minute before his alarm. He groaned and stared into the bright and painful LED screen until it went off. 5:00 AM.
The latch to the door rotated slowly and released its tenuous hold on the frame with a soft click. The boy stepped into the kitchen. Bathed in the soft glow of the microwave, he silently cursed. 1:45 AM. He would need to be awake in a few hours for school.
She had been up all night. She was nocturnal after all. And if the captors acquiesced to letting her out in the afternoon, she’d be damned if she let herself be caught before the next day. She licked her pink nose and tasted morning.
Shower. Clothes. Breakfast. Briefcase. And Jack was out the door, heading at a steady pace to the bus stop. Three streets to cross.
The boy wasn’t awake yet. What was wrong? Raised voices roused him and he remembered the night before. Shit. Had to get to class. The bus stop was one street over, right across from the city bus stop. 10 minutes.
The morning progressed. It had been a good night; she had left the spoils of her adventure for the captors to enjoy. Now she wandered the streets, drawn towards a cause she didn’t understand.
At one moment, they converged. The yellow school bus headed south, the white city bus north. And the black cat crossed their paths, west.
Black Cat - Mayday Parade
Ben Azevedo
Jack woke up exactly one minute before his alarm. He groaned and stared into the bright and painful LED screen until it went off. 5:00 AM.
The latch to the door rotated slowly and released its tenuous hold on the frame with a soft click. The boy stepped into the kitchen. Bathed in the soft glow of the microwave, he silently cursed. 1:45 AM. He would need to be awake in a few hours for school.
She had been up all night. She was nocturnal after all. And if the captors acquiesced to letting her out in the afternoon, she’d be damned if she let herself be caught before the next day. She licked her pink nose and tasted morning.
Shower. Clothes. Breakfast. Briefcase. And Jack was out the door, heading at a steady pace to the bus stop. Three streets to cross.
The boy wasn’t awake yet. What was wrong? Raised voices roused him and he remembered the night before. Shit. Had to get to class. The bus stop was one street over, right across from the city bus stop. 10 minutes.
The morning progressed. It had been a good night; she had left the spoils of her adventure for the captors to enjoy. Now she wandered the streets, drawn towards a cause she didn’t understand.
At one moment, they converged. The yellow school bus headed south, the white city bus north. And the black cat crossed their paths, west.
Black Cat - Mayday Parade
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Man Whose Name was Anonymous
Lack - 221 Words
Lindsey Thompson
He didn’t have much. He was a man of simple needs, so it mattered very little that his phone only had numbers and his source of music was the beat-up Diskman he had rescued from a trash compactor in a friend’s apartment. His only access to the internet was through a laptop he described as “older than Jesus,” but it ran just fine for word processing. If he needed more, he went to the library.
He would walk to his local bakery every morning to buy one sweet roll with a cup of coffee and then to stroll to the park. It was there that he sat and typed for hours, occasionally deleted his entire progress (sometimes from displeasure, other times from a dying battery). Once the battery died, he stopped typing and traversed the town to sit at his post as the translator for a major restaurant. His clothes hung in a locker—black slacks, shined shoes, a white collared shirt and black skinny tie—and were always clean and pressed.
After closing, he strolled home with the leftovers the cooks always sent with him. He crawled into bed, plugged in his laptop for another day’s writing, and would gaze at the ceiling until Morpheus took him.
He lacked nothing, he would think as he drifted sleepily, except, perhaps, a dog.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Double Post!
An apology before my post(s): I fled to the boonies after my schoolwork was finished and experienced a very pleasant week sans internet (except to play Civilization IV with some friends). I have since returned to Stacheville and chained myself back up to my computer. Barring some internet- or Kevin-destroying disaster, there should be no more lapses in posting this summer. Thanks for your imaginary patience.
Kevin Foster
Kevin Foster
He passed a wrinkled twenty dollar bill to the cashier and asked for two tickets. She thought that this was antiquated and stupid, as her parents supported her and he worked, but as always when she said, “Quit spending your money on me,” he squeezed her and said, “That's why I have it, kiddo,” and he wasn't lying.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Premonition
Stand - 15 words
Sarah Van Name
I stand in the carbonated sunlight – barefoot, softened by love – and you open the door.
Settler - Balmorhea
Monday, May 10, 2010
Until You're Ready, It's Mine.
Withheld- 134
Stephen N. Dethrage
I do not lie to you. If memory serves, I never have looked you in the eyes and lied to you, and today is not the time to start. Still, when you ask me if I think we'll make it through the dark times all around us and end up together on the other side, I don't tell the whole truth. I want to sing to you, reassure you, drop to one knee and thrust the ring that I've fiddled with for the past five months into your hands and make you see that the answer is yes, yes, eternally yes. Instead, I keep the truth deep inside, and wait for the day that you'll be ready for it. I shrug a bit, offer a small smile, and say that I certainly hope so.
Stephen N. Dethrage
I do not lie to you. If memory serves, I never have looked you in the eyes and lied to you, and today is not the time to start. Still, when you ask me if I think we'll make it through the dark times all around us and end up together on the other side, I don't tell the whole truth. I want to sing to you, reassure you, drop to one knee and thrust the ring that I've fiddled with for the past five months into your hands and make you see that the answer is yes, yes, eternally yes. Instead, I keep the truth deep inside, and wait for the day that you'll be ready for it. I shrug a bit, offer a small smile, and say that I certainly hope so.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Bingeing and Purring (The One Who Starts The Fire)
Stride - 360 Words
Aaron Dethrage.
"Of all God's creatures, there is only one that cannot be made slave of the lash.
That one is the cat. If man could be crossed with the cat it would improve
the man, but it would deteriorate the cat." - Mark Twain
A grey cat strode confidently across the sun-warmed, hardwood floors that lie in front of the big bay window in my den. Her head was cocked ever-so-slightly upward–as cats often do when they realize that the world they live in is theirs to control. Her white, mittened paws noiselessly joined and detached from the floor with each perfect pace. It was as if roots–ancient and sturdy–were jetting into the ground to insure her balance and grace, and then were effortlessly removed, leaving no trace of their assistance behind. A droplet of milk hung firmly to her longest right-side whisker, remnants of her previous indulgences, undoubtedly being preserved for later enjoyment with unquestionable intentionality.
However, the intentionality of my state or that of the house were much more debatable topics. There were ashes in the fireplace that had been there for weeks, scarring the granite stone chamber, which mirrored the stray hairs that spread like plague across my face and down my neck. Papers are strewn about the room and my desk like the toys of a toddler–important, loved, discarded, forgotten. One scrap lay crumpled and haphazardly isolated from the majority of the mess, so I sat my empty wine glass on the table and retrieved it, pressing out the creases with my hand. I fumbled my pockets for my glasses to help return my focus.
Bingeing and Purring
Walter J. Sawyer
November 12, 2009
We drink alone, the cat queen and I.
Her saucers of milk, my glasses of wine
That sing songs of crystal
As they poison my mind.
It matters not that the sun hangs high,
Lighting the lands that beneath her gaze lie.
Now that you're gone, your scent, your bones,
We answer to no one, the cat queen and I.
I poured my third or fourth drink of the day. There would be another fire that night.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Oblivious
Trial - 320 words
Mary Ann Loo
The darkness descended upon the Interstate without any warning, even as I watched the sun set in my rearview mirror, and the sky turn a deeper shade of blue. One minute I could still distinguish the silhouettes of trees against the darkened sky, and the next it was pitch black. Only the lines on the road were visible, lit by the headlights of my roommate Steven’s Lexus. The AC in my VW Jetta wasn’t working, which didn’t bother me, but Dad’s really fussy, so Steven and I had swapped rides for the day.
Shortsighted with severe astigmatism, I have somewhat of an issue with night-blindness. And it didn’t help that I grew up in teeny tiny Singapore where even the most deserted streets are sort of lit. This extreme lack of lighting on the I-40, between Memphis and Nashville, was honestly freaking me out.
“Just follow the lines, and you’ll be fine,” Mateo said from the front passenger seat. Glancing in the rearview, all I saw was black with yellow specks, the headlights of some vehicle far behind me. I couldn’t tell if Dad was still asleep like he’d been before night officially began, and the last thing I needed at this point was more unnecessary feedback on my apparently not-so-great driving.
“Oh my God, it is so freakin’ dark,” I said.
Mateo said, “You’re doing fine.”
Dad didn’t comment; even if he’d been awake, he wasn’t accustomed to offering words of encouragement or affirmation anyway.
I managed by some grace from above to get us back to Nashville, and as I pulled up in the hotel parking lot, Annabelle said, “Thanks for driving, sis.”
Dad silently exited the car and collected his bag from the trunk. As he passed my window, which I had rolled down to say bye, he simply said, “Don’t forget to thank Steven for the car.” And he disappeared with my sister into the building.
Mary Ann Loo
The darkness descended upon the Interstate without any warning, even as I watched the sun set in my rearview mirror, and the sky turn a deeper shade of blue. One minute I could still distinguish the silhouettes of trees against the darkened sky, and the next it was pitch black. Only the lines on the road were visible, lit by the headlights of my roommate Steven’s Lexus. The AC in my VW Jetta wasn’t working, which didn’t bother me, but Dad’s really fussy, so Steven and I had swapped rides for the day.
Shortsighted with severe astigmatism, I have somewhat of an issue with night-blindness. And it didn’t help that I grew up in teeny tiny Singapore where even the most deserted streets are sort of lit. This extreme lack of lighting on the I-40, between Memphis and Nashville, was honestly freaking me out.
“Just follow the lines, and you’ll be fine,” Mateo said from the front passenger seat. Glancing in the rearview, all I saw was black with yellow specks, the headlights of some vehicle far behind me. I couldn’t tell if Dad was still asleep like he’d been before night officially began, and the last thing I needed at this point was more unnecessary feedback on my apparently not-so-great driving.
“Oh my God, it is so freakin’ dark,” I said.
Mateo said, “You’re doing fine.”
Dad didn’t comment; even if he’d been awake, he wasn’t accustomed to offering words of encouragement or affirmation anyway.
I managed by some grace from above to get us back to Nashville, and as I pulled up in the hotel parking lot, Annabelle said, “Thanks for driving, sis.”
Dad silently exited the car and collected his bag from the trunk. As he passed my window, which I had rolled down to say bye, he simply said, “Don’t forget to thank Steven for the car.” And he disappeared with my sister into the building.
Friday, May 7, 2010
The Ship in Grim Silence bears the Wave's Lashes
Lashes - 409
Ben Azevedo
CRACK!
The man cried out as the salt-encrusted rope struck him. Mr. Farley, the first mate, squinted down at the man on the deck. The whip had raised a welt, but hadn’t broken the skin. People were so soft these days. Crying about nothing. The captain raised his arm again.
CRACK!
Another scream. Mr. Farley shook his head. His own back was covered in a map of scars from exactly the same treatment. Except in his day, the whip would have left cuts. Hell, a man would have been killed for doing what this blackguard had done.
CRACK!
None of that “walking the plank” bullshit either. Maybe in the glory days there was time for silly games like walking the plank, but those days were long gone. No, these days it was just a shot to the head, or a quick slash. Pirates didn’t have time for games.
CRACK!
There was no scream this time; the man appeared to have lost consciousness. The captain looked at Mr. Farley with disgust. Mr. Farley shrugged. The captain dropped the whip on the man’s raw back and stalked into his chamber. Mr. Farley looked around and shouted at the men to get back to work.
Inside the ship
Captain’s Log: May 1887
It’s been 47 days since we left port. I whipped a man today for speaking of mutiny. I was barely hitting him, but he passed out. I don’t remember where we picked him up. Mr. Farley is the only original crewmember left anyway. The rest were killed or were smart enough to get off this godforsaken boat. Can’t leave so I’m hoping for death.
The captain returns his pen to the inkwell and flips idly through his journal.
October 1875
We have survived our first raid! We are all rich! I have ordered the ship back to England so I may tell Amy of the news. Oh with this fortune I shall soon be able to buy us a house and retire to the country!
November 1875
We are leaving England. Amy has renounced me. I brought her a gold necklace from a French schooner, and she told me she never wanted to see my face again. As she turned her tear-stained face to leave the room, I watched a single lash drop from her beautiful eyes to the floor. I sealed it within the necklace and left.
The captain sighs heavily and absently traces the locket around his neck.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
New Life
Depth - 208 Words
Lindsey Thompson
Lindsey Thompson
He stared out of the porthole as he observed the schools rush by his window, analogous to his counterpart above the water. His well-oiled joints allowed his metallic fingers to drum methodically and swiftly upon the countertop of his only table. Being inorganic certainly had its advantages, such as low energy supplement requirements and minimal aesthetic furniture—though even androids had a sense of feng shui. His abode handled the water pressure of the ocean depth with perfect adequacy, and since very little air circulation was necessary for operation, the needs of the habitat were also very low.
On day 14,579 of his experimenting with colonization preparations deep under water, he began optimizing his space by eliminating waste from the previous inhabitant. Oh yes, there had been 3 predecessors to his leadership, all ending with melodramatic failures of historic proportions of which, for obvious reasons, the company funding experiments should remain ignorant. As he incinerated gratuitous data, he rediscovered a small, leather notebook belonging to Android 1, the contents of which he had unwittingly omitted from his previous purges. He swiftly opened the notebook to a random page:
How incomprehensible, the depth of life, that can dwarf this ocean floor into a tide pool at a child’s feet!
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
who erases with a foam paint roller?
Roller - 120 words
Kevin Foster
The family gathered to paint the son's room after he departed in January. With the sister's marriage looming the following summer, they would need the extra space for the fiancé's family to sleep. They were all embarrassed by the room's state. Its walls had been painted a deep blue, especially somber in the glow of a lamp, then covered in disillusioned phrases scribbled in silver sharpie. The family laughed less and less about the room, and the anger, and when he was gone they decided to paint it back to white. One coat in February, another in March, again and again they painted; the words could be covered, but the somber blue gave the new white walls a strange hue.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
How I've Never Had All of Myself in One Place
52 words - Chained
Sarah Van Name
I consider them not chains but ribbons, stretching between two pushpins on a map. Not even chains: phone records, text messages, Internet gobbledigook. Now I feel the people behind them coalescing here, pushpins pushing closer; if I were so lucky, I would wait years before I asked the stars for anything again.
When You Walk In the Room - Fyfe Dangerfield
Monday, May 3, 2010
Ignoring the Signs.
Regardless- 224
Stephen N. Dethrage
I know they're the kind of kids Mom always warned me about. The ones who didn't have a good family situation and never knew Jesus and allowed media's evil influence to irrevocably corrupt their hearts. Who else would reaching out to me now, needle in hand, daring me to try a hit and touch the sky? I imagine the hand that reaches out is not a hand at all, but the claws of some demon, wrapped sinisterly around that syringe, tempting and trapping me with promises of euphoric mayhem. I know all this, deep within me. I have an unprecedented awareness of the consequence of this one decision in all things to come.
"Damn it all," I think aloud.
I realize I haven't been breathing. I gulp air in, and release it, feigning calmness, and take the syringe. The prick that follows is in slow motion, and the plunger seems to take hours to finally depress and send the last of the drug coursing through me. It effects me in unbelievable ways, and the scales fall from my eyes, and the horns of the kids beside me are suddenly evident, along with his red skin, yellow eyes, bared fangs, fiery breath... His laugh is a cackle, and the others join him, and I tremble.
Mom was right about them all.
Sideways - Citizen Cope
Stephen N. Dethrage
I know they're the kind of kids Mom always warned me about. The ones who didn't have a good family situation and never knew Jesus and allowed media's evil influence to irrevocably corrupt their hearts. Who else would reaching out to me now, needle in hand, daring me to try a hit and touch the sky? I imagine the hand that reaches out is not a hand at all, but the claws of some demon, wrapped sinisterly around that syringe, tempting and trapping me with promises of euphoric mayhem. I know all this, deep within me. I have an unprecedented awareness of the consequence of this one decision in all things to come.
"Damn it all," I think aloud.
I realize I haven't been breathing. I gulp air in, and release it, feigning calmness, and take the syringe. The prick that follows is in slow motion, and the plunger seems to take hours to finally depress and send the last of the drug coursing through me. It effects me in unbelievable ways, and the scales fall from my eyes, and the horns of the kids beside me are suddenly evident, along with his red skin, yellow eyes, bared fangs, fiery breath... His laugh is a cackle, and the others join him, and I tremble.
Mom was right about them all.
Sideways - Citizen Cope
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Fuel for the Fire
President - 373 Words
by: Aaron Dethrage
Growing up, my father always dreamed of being the President of the United States.
He had it all mapped out. He would excel in school, rising to the top of his class. He would go to prestigious institution to obtain a law degree, exemplifying his diligence and aptitude. He would spend a decade becoming a revered and powerful attorney, building his reputation as a persuasive and intelligent speaker. Then, finally, he would begin his slow but progressive political climb–first as mayor, then governor, then congressman, then Chief.
A solid plan, noble and filled with good intentions and an idealized future for his children and theirs to flourish in.
However, this plan, like most plans–like all plans–dissolved into a distorted fairy-tale-of-a-life that could have been. An excellent scholastic record was replaced by wild friends, fast cars, and debauchery they create. His desire for a law degree was blurred by the seductions of wanderlust and the call of adventure. The decade of diligent progress towards his goal was a decade spent losing himself, finding himself, and losing himself again.
I’m not sure that even he is fully aware of why he ended up living in Anniston, working in real estate and buried in debt, but rather than a big, white house on Pennsylvania Avenue, he currently resides in a humble, beige one on Timuquana Lane.
Now, by all accounts he should be considered a failure. His political career culminated into nothing more than a single term as mayor in a city afraid of change. However, might it be possible that a man’s true accomplishments aren’t measured by how successful his plan was but rather by what he did with his failures?
Amidst the chaos that was his life–that is found in all of our lives–my father married and had three children, all smart, healthy and ambitious. To call such fortune “failure” seems ridiculous to me.
So here I sit, full of my own dreams and plans to achieve them, buried under the pressure of how I might do so. Still, I find peace in the realization that I am a child of failure and that I too will do great things, my failures fueling my success.
No Surprises (Radiohead Cover) - Marrisa Nadler (feat. Black Hole Infinity)
by: Aaron Dethrage
Growing up, my father always dreamed of being the President of the United States.
He had it all mapped out. He would excel in school, rising to the top of his class. He would go to prestigious institution to obtain a law degree, exemplifying his diligence and aptitude. He would spend a decade becoming a revered and powerful attorney, building his reputation as a persuasive and intelligent speaker. Then, finally, he would begin his slow but progressive political climb–first as mayor, then governor, then congressman, then Chief.
A solid plan, noble and filled with good intentions and an idealized future for his children and theirs to flourish in.
However, this plan, like most plans–like all plans–dissolved into a distorted fairy-tale-of-a-life that could have been. An excellent scholastic record was replaced by wild friends, fast cars, and debauchery they create. His desire for a law degree was blurred by the seductions of wanderlust and the call of adventure. The decade of diligent progress towards his goal was a decade spent losing himself, finding himself, and losing himself again.
I’m not sure that even he is fully aware of why he ended up living in Anniston, working in real estate and buried in debt, but rather than a big, white house on Pennsylvania Avenue, he currently resides in a humble, beige one on Timuquana Lane.
Now, by all accounts he should be considered a failure. His political career culminated into nothing more than a single term as mayor in a city afraid of change. However, might it be possible that a man’s true accomplishments aren’t measured by how successful his plan was but rather by what he did with his failures?
Amidst the chaos that was his life–that is found in all of our lives–my father married and had three children, all smart, healthy and ambitious. To call such fortune “failure” seems ridiculous to me.
So here I sit, full of my own dreams and plans to achieve them, buried under the pressure of how I might do so. Still, I find peace in the realization that I am a child of failure and that I too will do great things, my failures fueling my success.
No Surprises (Radiohead Cover) - Marrisa Nadler (feat. Black Hole Infinity)
Saturday, May 1, 2010
A whole lot of maybes.
Detour - 415 words
Mary Ann Loo
Twelve days ago, I turned 27. I look maybe 21, and age is really just a number, but part of me can’t help wondering if I’d settle the important things like career-path and marriage prospects by the time I turn 30. Sure, a lot can happen in three years, but we’re all aware of time’s ability to sneak by so quickly that some random event a year ago can feel like it happened only yesterday. I remember when I was 6, I wanted to be a visual artist; then Mom changed my mind to “doctor”. At 11 I wrote many stories. At 13 I adored Jim Carrey and wanted to be funny like him. At 14 I dreamt of being a Hollywood actress. 15 – a singer. 16 – songwriter. 18 and applying for college – a psychiatrist. 19 and a Psychology major – a psychologist. Pretty soon graduation was two semesters away, and I began an acting career, which I freelanced for a year, and was pretty good at it, until behind-the-scenes work started appealing to me. At 23 I was a props person for one project, then went into retail fulltime at 24, during which Mom asked if I’d like to go back to school. I’d be stupid to not say yes.
So now I’m at the end of Semester Four, pursuing songwriting, sitting in my third Nashville apartment, mulling over the detours in my haphazard life. A little over six months ago, I ended a two-and-a-half-year-long relationship with a great guy I’d presumed was The One. A little over one-and-a-half months ago, I visited a Honduran orphanage, and returned feeling like everything here was pointless. A little over a week ago, I picked up smoking again. I have no idea what I’m doing, no clue where my life is headed, not even sure if I’d ever really love some guy enough to spend the rest of my life with him.
I believe everyone has their own path, the route they’re supposed to take, but we all get sidetracked from time to time. Then again, what if these events aren’t detours at all, but part of the road itself? Would I be here if I’d be more consistent with my choices and more focused on certain goals? Would I still be who I am today? Maybe my life would’ve been better, maybe worse. Maybe I’d be married to The One, maybe some jerk.
Whatever. Right now I need to get off this detour and do some homework.
Mary Ann Loo
Twelve days ago, I turned 27. I look maybe 21, and age is really just a number, but part of me can’t help wondering if I’d settle the important things like career-path and marriage prospects by the time I turn 30. Sure, a lot can happen in three years, but we’re all aware of time’s ability to sneak by so quickly that some random event a year ago can feel like it happened only yesterday. I remember when I was 6, I wanted to be a visual artist; then Mom changed my mind to “doctor”. At 11 I wrote many stories. At 13 I adored Jim Carrey and wanted to be funny like him. At 14 I dreamt of being a Hollywood actress. 15 – a singer. 16 – songwriter. 18 and applying for college – a psychiatrist. 19 and a Psychology major – a psychologist. Pretty soon graduation was two semesters away, and I began an acting career, which I freelanced for a year, and was pretty good at it, until behind-the-scenes work started appealing to me. At 23 I was a props person for one project, then went into retail fulltime at 24, during which Mom asked if I’d like to go back to school. I’d be stupid to not say yes.
So now I’m at the end of Semester Four, pursuing songwriting, sitting in my third Nashville apartment, mulling over the detours in my haphazard life. A little over six months ago, I ended a two-and-a-half-year-long relationship with a great guy I’d presumed was The One. A little over one-and-a-half months ago, I visited a Honduran orphanage, and returned feeling like everything here was pointless. A little over a week ago, I picked up smoking again. I have no idea what I’m doing, no clue where my life is headed, not even sure if I’d ever really love some guy enough to spend the rest of my life with him.
I believe everyone has their own path, the route they’re supposed to take, but we all get sidetracked from time to time. Then again, what if these events aren’t detours at all, but part of the road itself? Would I be here if I’d be more consistent with my choices and more focused on certain goals? Would I still be who I am today? Maybe my life would’ve been better, maybe worse. Maybe I’d be married to The One, maybe some jerk.
Whatever. Right now I need to get off this detour and do some homework.
Friday, April 30, 2010
The Fire Master
Fireflies - 357
Ben Azevedo
The fire flew around and around, on the ends of two strings held by a man trapped in the center. He wasn’t really trapped though, because he was the one creating the cage of flame. He stepped, skipped, leapt, and danced over the sand in front of the crowd while weaving a never-ending pattern of fiery light around himself.
I had been living in Hawaii for two years now, and I never tired of the fire poi performers. I had even been bold enough to buy a practice pair from a local store. I was a terrible poi dancer though; I gave up after my first attempts led to bruises all over my body. I was just glad I hadn’t tried with actual fire…
The man performing now was a true master. I came out to watch him every week when he practiced on the beach near my house. His “practice” was so good it would draw a crowd of onlookers, usually dozens of people before he finished. Fundamentally, each week was the same, yet he always seemed to change his routine just enough to surprise the audience.
The crowd gasped as he pulled off one of his signature moves, spinning the poi so fast that they burned an afterimage of a butterfly onto the spectators’ retinas. By now, I was used to this trick, so I was mostly amused by the crowds response. But then he did something new, something I had never seen any performer do in my lengthy observation.
The poi seemed to cross and tangle, but somehow stayed in motion. For a split second it seemed he would lose control of the glowing fireballs at the end. Then, in one swift motion, he leaned forward and whirled the poi around his neck. Just as quickly he tilted backwards. The poi leapt up, down, up again, and whirled back into their arcs around his body, completely untangled. The crowd stood in silence for a moment, and then erupted with a cheer. In answer, the poi master sent his fireflies into an even faster dance over his back as he took a deep bow.
Fire Away - Sullivan
Ben Azevedo
The fire flew around and around, on the ends of two strings held by a man trapped in the center. He wasn’t really trapped though, because he was the one creating the cage of flame. He stepped, skipped, leapt, and danced over the sand in front of the crowd while weaving a never-ending pattern of fiery light around himself.
I had been living in Hawaii for two years now, and I never tired of the fire poi performers. I had even been bold enough to buy a practice pair from a local store. I was a terrible poi dancer though; I gave up after my first attempts led to bruises all over my body. I was just glad I hadn’t tried with actual fire…
The man performing now was a true master. I came out to watch him every week when he practiced on the beach near my house. His “practice” was so good it would draw a crowd of onlookers, usually dozens of people before he finished. Fundamentally, each week was the same, yet he always seemed to change his routine just enough to surprise the audience.
The crowd gasped as he pulled off one of his signature moves, spinning the poi so fast that they burned an afterimage of a butterfly onto the spectators’ retinas. By now, I was used to this trick, so I was mostly amused by the crowds response. But then he did something new, something I had never seen any performer do in my lengthy observation.
The poi seemed to cross and tangle, but somehow stayed in motion. For a split second it seemed he would lose control of the glowing fireballs at the end. Then, in one swift motion, he leaned forward and whirled the poi around his neck. Just as quickly he tilted backwards. The poi leapt up, down, up again, and whirled back into their arcs around his body, completely untangled. The crowd stood in silence for a moment, and then erupted with a cheer. In answer, the poi master sent his fireflies into an even faster dance over his back as he took a deep bow.
Fire Away - Sullivan
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Young Aladdin's Wish #2
Bubbles - 73 Words
Lindsey Thompson
I wish girls came with thought bubbles. they always say these simple sentences laced with hidden meaning. We guys, we say what we mean and don't bother to filter. Hey, life's short, and we're already in the 9th grade! But girls, they have these background emphases, codes that they alone understand.
If I could see what they mean, what they want, in a tiny white could above their heads...
Man, I'd totally get laid.
Mood Rings - Relient K
Lindsey Thompson
I wish girls came with thought bubbles. they always say these simple sentences laced with hidden meaning. We guys, we say what we mean and don't bother to filter. Hey, life's short, and we're already in the 9th grade! But girls, they have these background emphases, codes that they alone understand.
If I could see what they mean, what they want, in a tiny white could above their heads...
Man, I'd totally get laid.
Mood Rings - Relient K
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
the sun!
Industry - 17 words
Kevin Foster
There is no effort;
no toil, no steam,
can outdo the sun,
the might of a beam.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
The Plight of Yvonne and Mercury
Dolls – 95
Sarah Van Name
My seven-year-old sister is obsessed with natural disasters. One three-hour Discovery special on hurricanes, tsunamis, forest fires, earthquakes, and tornados on a muggy August afternoon, and it was done.
Her dolls, Yvonne and Mercury, are her favorite victims. While other girls play doctor or schoolteacher, my little sister pretends she is tectonic plates and shifts her weight in the bath. In the fall, piles of leaves become mountains, and she throws herself upon them until they collapse into rockslides. And her dolls are always there, drowning, falling, exalting in the neverending thrill of small-scale terror.
This Tornado Loves You - Neko Case
Monday, April 26, 2010
Two Years Time.
Blocks- 189
Stephen N. Dethrage
Just two years ago, our living room was occupied only by a couch and a television. Back then, your side of the bed was occupied by nothing but empty space and pillows. Most notably, your womb was occupied by nothing but distant dreams. You were a smoker, and I was drinking too much. We were cold, cynical people who hated nearly everyone, and we thought that suited us just fine.
As I stand in that same living room and watch my son build a tower of blocks, then smash it to pieces, letting its segments join his other toys on the carpet, those ideas are almost impossible to wrap my head around. How did I ever sleep in that bed without you there? How did I really enjoy a day without tripping over one of Simon's toys? Why did we need bitter thoughts and bitter chemicals to keep us from going mad? I smell you cooking breakfast in the kitchen, and watch our baby crawl on to bigger and better things, and it's beyond me how life before the two of you were mine made any sense at all.
You Are My Joy - The Reindeer Section
Stephen N. Dethrage
Just two years ago, our living room was occupied only by a couch and a television. Back then, your side of the bed was occupied by nothing but empty space and pillows. Most notably, your womb was occupied by nothing but distant dreams. You were a smoker, and I was drinking too much. We were cold, cynical people who hated nearly everyone, and we thought that suited us just fine.
As I stand in that same living room and watch my son build a tower of blocks, then smash it to pieces, letting its segments join his other toys on the carpet, those ideas are almost impossible to wrap my head around. How did I ever sleep in that bed without you there? How did I really enjoy a day without tripping over one of Simon's toys? Why did we need bitter thoughts and bitter chemicals to keep us from going mad? I smell you cooking breakfast in the kitchen, and watch our baby crawl on to bigger and better things, and it's beyond me how life before the two of you were mine made any sense at all.
You Are My Joy - The Reindeer Section
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Meeting on Monday (Because of The Things You Told Me, I Felt Free)
Trap - 83 Words
Aaron Dethrage
From: Mr. Donald Hays, Regional Manager <Donald.Hayes@mail.grm.com>
To: Mr. Jackson Gardner <Jackson.Gardner@mail.grm.com>
Date: Mon, Apr 26, 2010 at 12:45 AM
Subject: Meeting on Monday
Jack,
Sometime around 8:45 tomorrow morning you’ll be told that your boss wants to see you. When you walk in, myself and a bunch of other men with expensive suits and polished smiles will all be waiting to greet you and tell you about your wonderful, new promotion. Now, you know we are friends, so I need you to believe what I’m about to say. Run. Don’t waste your life here like I have. There is no joy to be found.
Don.
I Felt Free - Circa Survive
Aaron Dethrage
From: Mr. Donald Hays, Regional Manager <Donald.Hayes@mail.grm.com>
To: Mr. Jackson Gardner <Jackson.Gardner@mail.grm.com>
Date: Mon, Apr 26, 2010 at 12:45 AM
Subject: Meeting on Monday
Jack,
Sometime around 8:45 tomorrow morning you’ll be told that your boss wants to see you. When you walk in, myself and a bunch of other men with expensive suits and polished smiles will all be waiting to greet you and tell you about your wonderful, new promotion. Now, you know we are friends, so I need you to believe what I’m about to say. Run. Don’t waste your life here like I have. There is no joy to be found.
Don.
I Felt Free - Circa Survive
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Bad Luck
Bongos - 480 words
Mary Ann Loo
“Are we playing these?” our new singer asked as she rhythmically tapped on the animal skin of the bongos standing alone in the corner, blatantly ignoring the hand-written sign pasted above it: DO NOT TOUCH.
“Julie, did you not see the sign?” I asked, looking up from tuning my Fender.
She withdrew hastily. “Oh. I just thought it’d be cool to have some bongo sounds in the recording.”
“Yeah, Dan told us not to touch those. Supposedly it’s bad luck or something,” John the bassist said.
Julie’s eyes widened. “Bad luck?” She glanced at the lonely instrument, and turned to me. “Why?”
“It’s like cursed. Like Dan’s owned this place for maybe ten years now, and it’s always been there,” I replied. “Like it’s been moved a couple times before, but the next day it’s always back in that same spot.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, and something like the previous dude tried to get rid of it – gave it to goodwill or something – and the next day it was back,” John said, slapping his strings to check his headphone sound levels.
“It’s said that everyone who’s played on it before, like something bad happened to them after that,” I added, standing up with the Fender slung over my shoulder. “Not like Dan personally knows anyone who died from playing it. But he’s really superstitious, so we kinda just went along with it.”
Julie swallowed, her voice quivered as she asked, “So none of you have ever touched it?”
John and I exchanged looks with each other, and with the drummer, Jack. Jack sighed and nodded, and continued fiddling with the drum set.
“What is it?” Julie asked, now moving to where I was, as far from the mysterious bongos as possible.
John said, “Jack kinda touched it once.”
“And?”
“It was probably just coincidence,” I said quickly. “I mean, we were playing a show, and both his sticks broke at the same time. Like, what are the odds, you know?”
“Yeah, and for some reason he couldn’t find his entire bag of sticks, it disappeared into thin air or something,” John added. “But we just assumed someone stole them.”
A tense silence ensued, as Julie looked from John to me to Jack to me again. She laughed nervously. “You’re just messing with me. Right?”
“You guys ready?” Dan’s voice resounded in my headphone; he was back from his smoke break.
****
“I keep getting her voice mail,” I said, flipping my cell shut.
John shrugged. “We can just track ourselves or something first.”
“Yeah, but this isn’t like her. Like, she’s not a copout.”
Just as I said those words, my cell buzzed urgently, Julie’s number displayed on its screen.
“Julie, where are you?”
“Hello.” An unfamiliar guy’s voice. “Are you Grant?”
“Yeah.”
He sighed. “I’m really sorry, but the girl who owned this cell… she was just run over by a bus.”
Only Superstition - Coldplay
Mary Ann Loo
“Are we playing these?” our new singer asked as she rhythmically tapped on the animal skin of the bongos standing alone in the corner, blatantly ignoring the hand-written sign pasted above it: DO NOT TOUCH.
“Julie, did you not see the sign?” I asked, looking up from tuning my Fender.
She withdrew hastily. “Oh. I just thought it’d be cool to have some bongo sounds in the recording.”
“Yeah, Dan told us not to touch those. Supposedly it’s bad luck or something,” John the bassist said.
Julie’s eyes widened. “Bad luck?” She glanced at the lonely instrument, and turned to me. “Why?”
“It’s like cursed. Like Dan’s owned this place for maybe ten years now, and it’s always been there,” I replied. “Like it’s been moved a couple times before, but the next day it’s always back in that same spot.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, and something like the previous dude tried to get rid of it – gave it to goodwill or something – and the next day it was back,” John said, slapping his strings to check his headphone sound levels.
“It’s said that everyone who’s played on it before, like something bad happened to them after that,” I added, standing up with the Fender slung over my shoulder. “Not like Dan personally knows anyone who died from playing it. But he’s really superstitious, so we kinda just went along with it.”
Julie swallowed, her voice quivered as she asked, “So none of you have ever touched it?”
John and I exchanged looks with each other, and with the drummer, Jack. Jack sighed and nodded, and continued fiddling with the drum set.
“What is it?” Julie asked, now moving to where I was, as far from the mysterious bongos as possible.
John said, “Jack kinda touched it once.”
“And?”
“It was probably just coincidence,” I said quickly. “I mean, we were playing a show, and both his sticks broke at the same time. Like, what are the odds, you know?”
“Yeah, and for some reason he couldn’t find his entire bag of sticks, it disappeared into thin air or something,” John added. “But we just assumed someone stole them.”
A tense silence ensued, as Julie looked from John to me to Jack to me again. She laughed nervously. “You’re just messing with me. Right?”
“You guys ready?” Dan’s voice resounded in my headphone; he was back from his smoke break.
****
“I keep getting her voice mail,” I said, flipping my cell shut.
John shrugged. “We can just track ourselves or something first.”
“Yeah, but this isn’t like her. Like, she’s not a copout.”
Just as I said those words, my cell buzzed urgently, Julie’s number displayed on its screen.
“Julie, where are you?”
“Hello.” An unfamiliar guy’s voice. “Are you Grant?”
“Yeah.”
He sighed. “I’m really sorry, but the girl who owned this cell… she was just run over by a bus.”
Only Superstition - Coldplay
Friday, April 23, 2010
Pirates of the City Streets
Mineral – 179 words
Ben Azevedo
The rain swept all the minerals, dirt, and sediment into the overflowing street drain. It picked up bags and paper as the torrent increased. The drain could not handle the volume of aquatic refuse the storm offered, so it simply proceeded to siphon as much water out of the mixture as it could.
I observed all of this through my open window. I could have closed the window, as I was now certifiably damp from the wind blown moisture, but I preferred the more personal connection with the storm that could not be gleaned through the double pane of glass. I considered all the various types of minerals contained in rainwater, and pictured myself sifting for gold in the gutter of a Tennessee street. Then I saw the boat.
It was small, possibly a schooner, certainly not a steamboat. The tiny vessel seemed to be caught in the maelstrom the drain had created. Its crew, a small and drenched child in possession of the string that kept the boat from imminent demise, was thoroughly engaged in saving the ship.
Tiny Vessels - Death Cab for Cutie
Ben Azevedo
The rain swept all the minerals, dirt, and sediment into the overflowing street drain. It picked up bags and paper as the torrent increased. The drain could not handle the volume of aquatic refuse the storm offered, so it simply proceeded to siphon as much water out of the mixture as it could.
I observed all of this through my open window. I could have closed the window, as I was now certifiably damp from the wind blown moisture, but I preferred the more personal connection with the storm that could not be gleaned through the double pane of glass. I considered all the various types of minerals contained in rainwater, and pictured myself sifting for gold in the gutter of a Tennessee street. Then I saw the boat.
It was small, possibly a schooner, certainly not a steamboat. The tiny vessel seemed to be caught in the maelstrom the drain had created. Its crew, a small and drenched child in possession of the string that kept the boat from imminent demise, was thoroughly engaged in saving the ship.
Tiny Vessels - Death Cab for Cutie
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The Porch
Wicker - 175 words
Lindsey Thompson
She always rocked back and forth in the summertime, glass of tea in hand and book in her lap, unless one of her many dogs jealously nuzzled it out of the way of their love. The squeaking would resound down the hall through the screen door and into my study, traced around the edges by a scent of heat and the sound of wind chimes. Dog nails would tap on the wooden porch as she tiptoed barefoot into the house to put away the glass without waking me. I would wait in bed until I heard the screen door shut again, the dogs settling at her feet, safely out of range of the pinching rails that roll forward and back.
I would get out of bed, feeling the cold of the fan and conditioned air meeting my face and my feet. I would close the distance that separated us, hear the wicker creak as she turned to greet me. I’d gently kiss her forehead. She smelled of cut, wet clover and tasted like the sun.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Foam
Foam - 326 words
Kevin Foster
His father had been ill since before their long engagement began and he had been hospitalized in the interim between the ceremony and the day they left down the coast. She had wanted to stay, to be with her husband's father, a man she had only met a handful of times, to show her husband how devoted she would be, but he insisted that they leave. The call had come on the second day; his mother's voice was broken, but he did not react except to pull over onto a gravel rest area, stand for a moment, and walk toward the water. She followed him.
Seated on the stone ridge about seventy feet from him and ten feet further from edge of the sea, she gazed at his back; his body cut a strong, black shape into the fading light of the day, and he stood motionless. She could not see but his face was stolid and his eyes were dry. She began to cry. She had hoped that any space between them would disappear as they peeled away but kept their fingers grazing together and it would never return, immediately and magically erased, the spaces that she did not have an equivalent of and therefore did not understand, that all of the unknowns and the blackness would be illuminated and he would be bare before her, emotional privacy abolished and infinite intimacy established, but this is not what happened. The sun burned around him and the sea left its disappearing foam rhythmically at his feet, its tiny bubbles popping as the swelling masses seeped invisibly into the sand. She was aware she knew very little. There would always be pieces of him that no time or trust would not allow her. It was not time and it was not trust. It would be an hour before he returned to her and they would drive further down the coast and they would not speak of it.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Revisitation
Joyful
i felt your joy in the songs i taught you to sing and in your condemnation-turned-acceptance of thong underwear, i saw it in pictures (first appearance of snow), you rushed through all of us in two weeks like a strong August storm, you had a life outside of this, you shrank away in the distance until i no longer recognized your voice on the phone, i still have the voicemails and there i hear the joy skimming over the sorrow, a pale stone jumping over the surface of the deep water
i can no longer hold you in the arms of summer: your smirk from my wall, the Hawaii glass, you are psychoanalytically something more to me than a skinny little girl drenched in light – psychologically, you represent the mosquito nights and the crushes – your breath, i didn’t know you at all when you were almost seventeen and decided, i only knew you at thirteen, a skinny little girl –
Bloodbuzz Ohio - The National
182 words
Sarah Van Name
i felt your joy in the songs i taught you to sing and in your condemnation-turned-acceptance of thong underwear, i saw it in pictures (first appearance of snow), you rushed through all of us in two weeks like a strong August storm, you had a life outside of this, you shrank away in the distance until i no longer recognized your voice on the phone, i still have the voicemails and there i hear the joy skimming over the sorrow, a pale stone jumping over the surface of the deep water
i can no longer hold you in the arms of summer: your smirk from my wall, the Hawaii glass, you are psychoanalytically something more to me than a skinny little girl drenched in light – psychologically, you represent the mosquito nights and the crushes – your breath, i didn’t know you at all when you were almost seventeen and decided, i only knew you at thirteen, a skinny little girl –
“I still write about her,” my friend said to me as we walked in the dusk. “Still.”
“I know,” I said. “Me too.”
Bloodbuzz Ohio - The National
Monday, April 19, 2010
The one that got away.
Castaway- 478
Stephen N. Dethrage
The arthritic fingers, sightless eyes, and wrinkled skin of the man on the edge of the pier tell passersby that he is not the young man he once was, but this does not bother him. He is here for the fishing, not the passerbys. He revels in each cast, each careful selection of his most precious lures. Although vision left him more than a decade ago, the smells and sounds of the lake are more than enough to keep him smiling soft and humming low, casting out and reeling in.
Every time he comes back to this place, he can't resist letting the memories of youth caress him like some sadistic angel or devil who teases and tempts, but dances away from his grasp each time he gives in and reaches out, hoping to take hold and be young again.
Today, he remembers love-- young love, and true love, and the sort of utopian love that Shakespeare and Lennon wrote about. He recalls his well rehearsed lines and practiced charms, not too much unlike the lures in his tacklebox and on his line, and how, always a fisherman, he tossed them to any girl who would bite. The hardest part of it all was dealing with the girls that were fun to court and woo and flirt with, but simply weren't the trophies that he could be satisfied making a life with. It wasn't anything personal, he merely thought like a fisherman, and tossed back the girls who didn't quite make the cut.
And then there was Rebecca. On the pier, his smile fades, and his humming ceases, and he remembers her more clearly than any other part of his long and storied past.
She was, in a word, flawless, and by some means or another, he charmed her, and they married, and for a while, they had the enviable sort of life and love that happens in the movies and in the books, but almost never translates into reality.
And then, one day, his vision was gone. The doctors called it a rare case of Amaurosis fugax, and explained that an artery had clogged just enough to decrease blood supply to his eyes, and the result was a total blindness that occured without warning, and could not be reversed. And suddenly, to Rebecca, he was a burden. She left him, like he left so many girls in his youth, because, for once, he was the one that warranted being tossed back.
He feels a hit at his lure, and knows he needs to jerk the rod and set his hooks in deep, and bring the fish onto the pier and snap out of his reverie, but he does not move, and a tear streaks down his cheeks, and in the murky waters of the lake in front of him, the fish darts away.
Singing Softly To Me - Kings of Convenience
Stephen N. Dethrage
The arthritic fingers, sightless eyes, and wrinkled skin of the man on the edge of the pier tell passersby that he is not the young man he once was, but this does not bother him. He is here for the fishing, not the passerbys. He revels in each cast, each careful selection of his most precious lures. Although vision left him more than a decade ago, the smells and sounds of the lake are more than enough to keep him smiling soft and humming low, casting out and reeling in.
Every time he comes back to this place, he can't resist letting the memories of youth caress him like some sadistic angel or devil who teases and tempts, but dances away from his grasp each time he gives in and reaches out, hoping to take hold and be young again.
Today, he remembers love-- young love, and true love, and the sort of utopian love that Shakespeare and Lennon wrote about. He recalls his well rehearsed lines and practiced charms, not too much unlike the lures in his tacklebox and on his line, and how, always a fisherman, he tossed them to any girl who would bite. The hardest part of it all was dealing with the girls that were fun to court and woo and flirt with, but simply weren't the trophies that he could be satisfied making a life with. It wasn't anything personal, he merely thought like a fisherman, and tossed back the girls who didn't quite make the cut.
And then there was Rebecca. On the pier, his smile fades, and his humming ceases, and he remembers her more clearly than any other part of his long and storied past.
She was, in a word, flawless, and by some means or another, he charmed her, and they married, and for a while, they had the enviable sort of life and love that happens in the movies and in the books, but almost never translates into reality.
And then, one day, his vision was gone. The doctors called it a rare case of Amaurosis fugax, and explained that an artery had clogged just enough to decrease blood supply to his eyes, and the result was a total blindness that occured without warning, and could not be reversed. And suddenly, to Rebecca, he was a burden. She left him, like he left so many girls in his youth, because, for once, he was the one that warranted being tossed back.
He feels a hit at his lure, and knows he needs to jerk the rod and set his hooks in deep, and bring the fish onto the pier and snap out of his reverie, but he does not move, and a tear streaks down his cheeks, and in the murky waters of the lake in front of him, the fish darts away.
Singing Softly To Me - Kings of Convenience
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Letters. (Keep Your Eyes Ahead)
Propel - 359 Words
by Aaron Dethrage
Dear Mom,
My doctor has recommended that I start writing you letters daily. He says it’s therapeutic and is certain that it will help me come to grips with reality, with the fact that you’re gone. But since you won’t receive them and he doesn’t even want to read them, this just seems like psycho-babble bullshit to me.
I mean, I am perfectly aware that you are dead. I sustained the weight of your coffin atop my right shoulder on the long walk from the front of the church to the idling, black hearse in the parking lot and then again from the car to the grave. My shoulder was sore for the next two days, but I refused to take any pain relievers because those tense muscles were all that I had left of you.
Why am I telling you this...
Your Son.
Dear Mom,
The shrink interpreted my writing assignment negligence this past week as further proof that this is what I need to be doing.
I just don’t get it. Everyone seems to think that this is affecting me so much more than I believe it to be. It has already been a few months, and I’ve had constant, strict deadlines with my publishers. The world doesn’t stop for grieving, and you wouldn’t have wanted me to allow that anyway. “Keep your eyes ahead,” you always said.
I trust that you’re fine and that you’d want my life to keep propelling forward. These thoughts give me strength.
Your Son.
Dear Mom,
I’m sorry if you’ve missed these. After two uncooperative weeks, my doctor just dropped the idea. I stopped going shortly after I last wrote to you. This week has been... hard, but I just keep repeating, “keep your eyes ahead,” and believe that everything will eventually sort out...
I love you.
Your Son.
Mom,
I’m coming.
Please leave a light on; I’ve imagined the journey to be dark.
Aaron.
by Aaron Dethrage
“At times, our strengths propel us so far forward,
that we can no longer endure our weaknesses
and perish from them.”
Friedrich Nietzsche
****************
that we can no longer endure our weaknesses
and perish from them.”
Friedrich Nietzsche
****************
April 18, 2010
Dear Mom,
My doctor has recommended that I start writing you letters daily. He says it’s therapeutic and is certain that it will help me come to grips with reality, with the fact that you’re gone. But since you won’t receive them and he doesn’t even want to read them, this just seems like psycho-babble bullshit to me.
I mean, I am perfectly aware that you are dead. I sustained the weight of your coffin atop my right shoulder on the long walk from the front of the church to the idling, black hearse in the parking lot and then again from the car to the grave. My shoulder was sore for the next two days, but I refused to take any pain relievers because those tense muscles were all that I had left of you.
Why am I telling you this...
Your Son.
****************
April 26, 2010
Dear Mom,
The shrink interpreted my writing assignment negligence this past week as further proof that this is what I need to be doing.
I just don’t get it. Everyone seems to think that this is affecting me so much more than I believe it to be. It has already been a few months, and I’ve had constant, strict deadlines with my publishers. The world doesn’t stop for grieving, and you wouldn’t have wanted me to allow that anyway. “Keep your eyes ahead,” you always said.
I trust that you’re fine and that you’d want my life to keep propelling forward. These thoughts give me strength.
Your Son.
****************
May 26, 2010
Dear Mom,
I’m sorry if you’ve missed these. After two uncooperative weeks, my doctor just dropped the idea. I stopped going shortly after I last wrote to you. This week has been... hard, but I just keep repeating, “keep your eyes ahead,” and believe that everything will eventually sort out...
I love you.
Your Son.
****************
June 29, 2010
Mom,
I’m coming.
Please leave a light on; I’ve imagined the journey to be dark.
Aaron.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
You just can't be me.
Mary Ann Loo
Reflection - 32 words
Reflection - 32 words
Hello vacant eyes;
So familiar, yet you’re not
What you used to be.
Hello joyless face,
Once filled with eager wonder.
You just can’t be me.
What did you expect to see?
Silence - Jars of Clay
So familiar, yet you’re not
What you used to be.
Hello joyless face,
Once filled with eager wonder.
You just can’t be me.
What did you expect to see?
Silence - Jars of Clay
Friday, April 16, 2010
PotatOetry
Potato - 20 words
Ben Azevedo
If a ROUND brown Potato,
a SPUD! you might say,
was, in fact, a TOMATO,
I'd cry out, "FOUL PLAY!"
Potato's in the Paddy Wagon - The New Main Street Singers
Thursday, April 15, 2010
The Collector
Coaster - 144 words
Lindsey Thompson
My mother is a collector, which is her fancy word for “hoarder.” The world would halt on its axis, violently hurdling us into space, if she ever began to throw away things that she “might need in the future and shouldn’t have to buy.” Recently, this collection has crept into the world of coasters. Strewn about the house, she has approximately 17 different coasters, no 2 of which are identical, or even from the same store. With some bearing Biblical knowledge and others exalting in the British palace, the coasters continue to be fruitful and multiply as my mother commemorates exotic vacations with a piece of plastic. We all heave a collective sigh at her exuberant "collecting."
My father passed his coaster tastes down to me. Simple, elegant, glass cradles for a brandy or scotch glass, and always in tidy even numbers.
Candy's Room - Bruce Springsteen
Lindsey Thompson
My mother is a collector, which is her fancy word for “hoarder.” The world would halt on its axis, violently hurdling us into space, if she ever began to throw away things that she “might need in the future and shouldn’t have to buy.” Recently, this collection has crept into the world of coasters. Strewn about the house, she has approximately 17 different coasters, no 2 of which are identical, or even from the same store. With some bearing Biblical knowledge and others exalting in the British palace, the coasters continue to be fruitful and multiply as my mother commemorates exotic vacations with a piece of plastic. We all heave a collective sigh at her exuberant "collecting."
My father passed his coaster tastes down to me. Simple, elegant, glass cradles for a brandy or scotch glass, and always in tidy even numbers.
Candy's Room - Bruce Springsteen
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
unheld things
Subway – 204 words
Kevin Foster
There were now three kids on the subway; a boy and girl had just climbed through the portal after the train sputtered to a stop at the 63rd station, shuffling lazily away with the somberness of a fading buzz as the train sped off again. The remaining three, a second couple and another boy, were alone in the car; they sat cooped in their usual corner anyway. They were worn out but kinetic, their appetites sated but growling still; lightning resting in a subway car. They wait for the second-to-last stop on their colored line. When the train stopped thirteen blocks further south, they would head two blocks east toward the lake and separate, the couple to the north and final boy to the south, returning to their respective homes. They were afraid as they traveled home, but not because they wouldn't make it, nor would they be hurt by what they found there. They feared the Wentworth Street split-up, inevitable and lonesome, but not because their being together provided safety. They feared the future, but not for the things that it held. They feared for the things that would disappear and the things that were never there at all, imagined in dumb glory.
Untitled 4 - Sigur Ros
Untitled 4 - Sigur Ros
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Smoke
Deer - 450 words
Sarah Van Name
“I’m not going to hook up with anyone,” he told me as he pulled into the parking space and turned off the engine.
“I mean. I would hope not,” I replied, getting out. “It’s been like three weeks since she broke up with you. You’re supposed to still be a wreck.”
“I am skilled in the art of acting,” he said without looking at me as we walked towards the door. “I’m just saying you shouldn’t worry.”
The guy made the requisite x’s on our under-21 hands and we drifted in along the back wall. I bounced on my heels; I hadn’t been to this club in a while and I had missed it. But standing around waiting for a band when even the filler music is too loud…well, it isn’t that exciting in the end, even if the band is your favorite band and you have a good friend, a good heartbroken friend, beside you, because there’s still the forty-year-old on his second beer standing in the corner and there’s still the heat and the knowledge that you need to save your ears for later.
So I told my friend I had to get some air and I went out to the smoking patio. There was no one out there, but the smell of smoke still clung to the air like perfume. I kind of like that bitter aftertaste hanging in the atmosphere. I leaned against the wall, in the smoke and the cool of the summer night.
Behind the chain-link, there were some trees, and I saw a deer there suddenly, as if it had just coalesced from the darkness. It was small, as graceful and soft as ribbon, and alone. It lowered its head to sniff something on the ground; stepped delicately onto the concrete; hesitated by the side of the road; walked to the middle to nibble at a small piece of grass.
Of course I saw what was going to happen, what must happen. I heard the car coming, the too-loud rap music, saw the headlights rise like a rapid dawn and the baby poke up its head. Closer and closer, and –
– the truck swerved, I heard a curse, its tire hit the dirt on the other side but it continued on its way, the deer crossed over to the other side. I breathed. I heard drums, guitar, an appreciative roar, and a familiar verse.
When I went inside I saw him backed up against the wall like a scared animal while a hipster girl, small and cute with beautiful breasts, shouted something in his ear to make herself heard. He looked at the door, at not me but escape. I went to save him.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Reading the Story without the Words.
Curls: 89 words
Stephen N. Dethrage
The pages of my journal have turned up and curled at the edges. They are not ancient, but they grow older. Some are misshapen, wrinkled by falling tears, others nearly torn by the pen scribbling words of rage or jealousy. The sudden shift in shade from off-white to an nicotene yellow reveal that at some point, I picked up smoking. These sheets of paper, so much more than the words scribbled on them in dark black ink, tell my true story more masterfully than my own writing ever could.
Little Lion Man - Mumford and Sons
Stephen N. Dethrage
The pages of my journal have turned up and curled at the edges. They are not ancient, but they grow older. Some are misshapen, wrinkled by falling tears, others nearly torn by the pen scribbling words of rage or jealousy. The sudden shift in shade from off-white to an nicotene yellow reveal that at some point, I picked up smoking. These sheets of paper, so much more than the words scribbled on them in dark black ink, tell my true story more masterfully than my own writing ever could.
Little Lion Man - Mumford and Sons
Sunday, April 11, 2010
No Surprise
Wig - 144 Words
Aaron Dethrage
My grandmother wears a wig to hide her age from the world, and she is incredibly successful in her efforts. In fact, I can hardly remember noticing any significant shifts in her appearance throughout my entire twenty-one years of life. She may have sprouted a new wrinkle or two, and her voice may not sing quite as well as it once did; but every time I see her, there are never any real surprises. I like to pretend that her house is a safe haven from the otherwise inescapable wiles of Change. I’ve seen my sister become a woman, and I’ve seen good friends destroy their lives. I’ve seen old lovers go find husbands, and I’ve seen the cracks that span my mind. But joyous and radiant, adorned with her tightly-woven wig, my grandmother waits in that house–eternal, unchanging and wise.
Grandchildren - Mia Riddle
Aaron Dethrage
My grandmother wears a wig to hide her age from the world, and she is incredibly successful in her efforts. In fact, I can hardly remember noticing any significant shifts in her appearance throughout my entire twenty-one years of life. She may have sprouted a new wrinkle or two, and her voice may not sing quite as well as it once did; but every time I see her, there are never any real surprises. I like to pretend that her house is a safe haven from the otherwise inescapable wiles of Change. I’ve seen my sister become a woman, and I’ve seen good friends destroy their lives. I’ve seen old lovers go find husbands, and I’ve seen the cracks that span my mind. But joyous and radiant, adorned with her tightly-woven wig, my grandmother waits in that house–eternal, unchanging and wise.
Grandchildren - Mia Riddle
Saturday, April 10, 2010
untitled 2
Mary Ann Loo
Tape - 441 words“Is it rolling?”
“Yeah. Just… whenever you’re ready,” I say, stepping back from the camera perched on its tripod five feet above the parquet floor in Kristina’s room, at the foot of her twin-sized bed. Kristina slowly pushes herself up, leaning heavily against the pillows behind her. “I’ll be right outside, just yell when you’re done.” I immediately remember how it pains her to speak these recent weeks, and add, “Or um… text… or something…”
“It’s alright, Geoff,” she says, smiling. I nod, and step into the dark hallway, closing the door behind me. There’s a wooden folding chair just outside, but I somehow find the carpet more reassuring, and sit on it with my back against the door. I hear Kristina’s voice, muffled through the wood and the Lifehouse poster on the other side; I can’t make out her words, neither do I try. It’s what she calls her informal will, and she made me promise to only listen to it after she’s gone.
Gone. I can’t wrap my mind around it. My neighbor and best friend since we were ten – someone I’ve walked with to and from school almost everyday, someone I’ve seen grow out of baggy jeans and oversized tees to dresses and makeup, someone I’ve comforted every time her heart gets broken by jerks who never treasured what they had. As far back as I can remember, my life always has Kristina, and the thought of losing her simply won’t sink in. Our senior year in high school is almost over, but Harvard doesn’t yet know that one of its potential students may never make it there. Neither will it care.
I can’t imagine life without Kristina. Despite her popularity in school, she sits with my Science Club pals and me in the lunch cafeteria twice a week. She’d choose to walk home with me even when the jocks offered her rides. She’s beautiful with her long dark wavy locks that framed her rosy cheeks and green eyes, and she’s still beautiful now, even with her porcelain skin and her head under a blue scarf. I remember the first time I saw her like it was yesterday, in pigtails and overalls, hopping out of her dad’s car when they pulled up to the empty house next-door – joyful, eager, excited Kristina. And she always is. And I’ve always loved her in silence.
I want so much to tell her, but what will it matter now? Nothing will change, nothing will save her. I wish everyday that I’m sick instead of her, so I’ll have a reason to make a tape, to tell her the truth after I’m gone.
Cut - Plumb
Friday, April 9, 2010
Lost in the Jungle
Paperback - 347 words
Ben Azevedo
Ben Azevedo
I heaved a sigh as I twirled the dial on the shiny combination lock. My dirty fingers smudged the smooth metal as I scoured my memory for the digits that would grant me access to the small locker in the break room. The code given, the lock gave way with a healthy spring, and I retrieved the dusty, torn paperback from within.
I took another deep breath and let it spill from my lungs as I plopped into a vacant chair around the central table. I didn’t even hear the television advertising the latest popular diet as I opened the old book. I was more careful now to keep my dirt- and dust-stained fingers from the yellowing pages. I had gotten it used, and my rough transportation of it only served to add to its numerous tears and smudges. The binding was still good, though, and it opened easily to the page where I had left off. Eagerly, I began to read…
…and began to circle slowly. Martin watched them carefully from the safety of his fire. The hyenas stared back, their eyes reflecting the jumping flames. The sun had only set an hour ago and already they were here. Martin knew his fire wouldn’t last all night without more wood. He eyed the western horizon carefully. He had seen a stand of trees not far from his fire before the sun set that would serve as better shelter and provide firewood. The dust storm this morning had slowed him, though, forcing him to make his pathetic camp out in the open. He had hoped to pass the night without incident.
One of the hyenas let out a short bark, drawing his attention back to the matter at hand. Martin knew the creatures were too frightened to attack while he had the advantage of fire. He gathered his meager supplies together and strapped a tiny bundle of sticks over his back. Then he carefully selected the biggest stick in the fire and…
A buzzer sounded overhead. My break was over. I returned the paperback to my locker.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Deep Magic
Holy - 329 Words
Lindsey Thompson
You see her sitting gracefully upon a proper-posture chair, holding her gift like her breath underwater. She is without eminence, surrounded by others who seem to play as well as she. Her left hand twitches as she glances over the pages before her, then all is silent as she stands to give the tuning pitch. You are only here to relieve the in-house engineer during dress rehearsal; you notice but care not that the proper etiquette of orchestral concerts has been breached. The strides of the conductor conquer the stage, and you prepare to do your job.
The rehearsal goes without incident. Her face glows no more or less than her section-mates, she appears to miss no notes more than her neighbors, and her participation in the orchestra makes no noticeable mark. She blends, just as she should.
As you walk the halls, winding down the session and finishing up your requirements, you hear a stringed melody, as though pulled from the lips in one smooth sweep. Each legato swell, each note kissed with rubato grace, each sigh of heavenly glissandos seduces your ear and pulls your body around the corner.
There, she moves with her well-loved violin, radiating through her smile and her very being, swaying with bare feet as she blesses the air with her crafted song. You watch her breathe with each phrase, sigh with each sweep of the bow, and you listen to her existence poured out before you. This, you think, is what brought Lazarus back from the grave; this turned the hearts of Ninevah; this created the sky and sea, pulled the light from out of the dark. Captivated, you stand on holy ground.
Your consciousness is flooded with horns chasing her melody by thirds, with cellos rumbling in sultry counterpoint, with flutes flying in the skies above her deep magic. You feel a symphony for her pulse through each limb and torrent in each heartbeat, all keeping time with her steps.
Mirrorball - Peter Gabriel
Lindsey Thompson
You see her sitting gracefully upon a proper-posture chair, holding her gift like her breath underwater. She is without eminence, surrounded by others who seem to play as well as she. Her left hand twitches as she glances over the pages before her, then all is silent as she stands to give the tuning pitch. You are only here to relieve the in-house engineer during dress rehearsal; you notice but care not that the proper etiquette of orchestral concerts has been breached. The strides of the conductor conquer the stage, and you prepare to do your job.
The rehearsal goes without incident. Her face glows no more or less than her section-mates, she appears to miss no notes more than her neighbors, and her participation in the orchestra makes no noticeable mark. She blends, just as she should.
As you walk the halls, winding down the session and finishing up your requirements, you hear a stringed melody, as though pulled from the lips in one smooth sweep. Each legato swell, each note kissed with rubato grace, each sigh of heavenly glissandos seduces your ear and pulls your body around the corner.
There, she moves with her well-loved violin, radiating through her smile and her very being, swaying with bare feet as she blesses the air with her crafted song. You watch her breathe with each phrase, sigh with each sweep of the bow, and you listen to her existence poured out before you. This, you think, is what brought Lazarus back from the grave; this turned the hearts of Ninevah; this created the sky and sea, pulled the light from out of the dark. Captivated, you stand on holy ground.
Your consciousness is flooded with horns chasing her melody by thirds, with cellos rumbling in sultry counterpoint, with flutes flying in the skies above her deep magic. You feel a symphony for her pulse through each limb and torrent in each heartbeat, all keeping time with her steps.
Mirrorball - Peter Gabriel
fragment
Fragment - 109 Words
Kevin Foster
Perched on lawn chairs on his back porch, they waited for it to come. There was classical music gliding through the window – they opened the window to coax the sound out of the interior of the house – and they were sitting on the back porch, good friends, waiting for it to come. They had turned the lights off in preparation for it to come and to avoid offending the neighbors, as they sat, still, and waited for it to come. Out of a cigarette box, broken up, packed in a glass animal, they waited for it to come. They drank wine from bottles and waited. They waited.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Southern hospitality
Crow - 340 words
Sarah Van Name
She wasn’t deep South, for sure, but she was Southern. Her hair was short but styled, an impeccable dye job, and the crows feet starting to complicate the skin around her eyes were gracefully smoothed out. I could see her sending her kids to a private school, bringing apple bars for snack-time every Wednesday, chatting with the other moms, drinking sweet tea when they went out to brunch with the PTA…and then her kids got to college and she got a job on the board of directors, through a combination of wit and money and well-placed compliments.
But as much as I like drawing characters in my head, I didn’t care so much why she was on the plane except insofar as she gave me something to do with the nervous energy that was shooting spectacles of light through my every tendon.
“I’m going to visit my boyfriend in Nashville,” I told her with a true smile at the beginning of the flight, and after I gave her the requisite information – the long-distance, the age difference – I think somehow through the red reading glasses and the tan tweed of her jacket, she understood.
If she had been deep South, I would have been able to see the Spanish moss hanging along the ambling path of her voice. I might have seen a slow-moving river or the unimpeachable heat of August in the way she turned the pages of her mystery novel. Instead her voice was a little deep, soft but clipped like a lock of hair falling to the floor.
I could have exchanged greetings with her on the sidewalk of my high school as she carried back the remains of her potato salad from Teacher Appreciation Day, on the way to a book club meeting. Those women were always sweet to me, God knows why. So when the plane settled its roar and the lights flickered on, I was grateful but barely surprised when she let me out first, saying, “Go on, honey, you’ve got someone waitin’ for you.”
Strictly Game - Harlem Shakes
Cookie
Cookie- 84 words
Stephen N. Dethrage
They are warm and gooey. They smell literally irresistible. They are not for you. Someone died, you think, and the cookies are comfort food, but that only makes things better. When you steal one, it is not for the mouth-watering taste or the perfect soft texture. It is for nothing other than the rush, the incomparable thrill you'll get when your mother asks if you took it, or know who did, and you look her in the eyes and lie. You know nothing sweeter.
Rise and Shine - Guster
Sorry for the late post. I wrote this yesterday, but in the insanity of taking an Astronomy test in the morning and getting prepared for a Greek and Roman Mythology test this morning at eight, I apparently forgot to post. As students, I imagine you understand.
Stephen N. Dethrage
They are warm and gooey. They smell literally irresistible. They are not for you. Someone died, you think, and the cookies are comfort food, but that only makes things better. When you steal one, it is not for the mouth-watering taste or the perfect soft texture. It is for nothing other than the rush, the incomparable thrill you'll get when your mother asks if you took it, or know who did, and you look her in the eyes and lie. You know nothing sweeter.
Rise and Shine - Guster
Sorry for the late post. I wrote this yesterday, but in the insanity of taking an Astronomy test in the morning and getting prepared for a Greek and Roman Mythology test this morning at eight, I apparently forgot to post. As students, I imagine you understand.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Despite Our Hazardous Floors and These Late-Night Chores, My Love Always Remains
Cranky - 300 Words
Aaron Dethrage
It was 3:00 AM when she awoke, and while I don’t really feel like “cranky” or “testy” fully summarize the complexity of her emotions, they are the best that I’ve got. I guess I can understand why; at her age, most people have generally figured out–unalterably, mind you–what they do or don’t like.
For instance, she and I have two numbers in mind for our nighttime temperature preference, and they typically vary by ten or fifteen digits. So, while the house incubated at an unbearable 76 degrees on this pre-dawn, Alabama-in-July morning, I’m certain she was still chilly.
I stirred in my bed, pretending that I could ignore her and just return to my precious and fleeting sleep, but eventually I just conceded and arose–bleary-eyed and humorously off balance–preparing for the dangerous, late-night trek to the chamber of her incessant calling.
You see–even though she’d been living here for over a year now–her stuff was still far from settled, and in the dark of the night, our carpeted hallway became a minefield for potential stubbed-toes and rolled ankles.
I reached her door miraculously safe and let myself in unannounced, but she knew I would come if she kept at it, so I doubt she was alarmed. My exceedingly cautious journey had re-instilled some vitality into my murky mind, so I greeted her with a playful, “Cranky old gal, aren’t you?”
There, looking back at me with big, wonder-filled eyes that mirrored my own, was a beautiful, eighteen-month-old Chloe. Smiling, I shook my head and sighed as a victorious grin crept across her perfect, chubby cheeks. Side-by-side, we slept with perfectly-synced heartbeats and dreamed ambitious dreams, composing our ideal future together.
Father and Daughter - Paul Simon
***To ease the mind of my mother, I'll go ahead and publicly state that this is definitely fiction, haha. I have had the pleasure of seeing snapshots of a friend's life as she raised her daughter, Chloe, and I thought I'd write a piece of prose from my observations of the joy I see constantly in their relationship.***
Aaron Dethrage
It was 3:00 AM when she awoke, and while I don’t really feel like “cranky” or “testy” fully summarize the complexity of her emotions, they are the best that I’ve got. I guess I can understand why; at her age, most people have generally figured out–unalterably, mind you–what they do or don’t like.
For instance, she and I have two numbers in mind for our nighttime temperature preference, and they typically vary by ten or fifteen digits. So, while the house incubated at an unbearable 76 degrees on this pre-dawn, Alabama-in-July morning, I’m certain she was still chilly.
I stirred in my bed, pretending that I could ignore her and just return to my precious and fleeting sleep, but eventually I just conceded and arose–bleary-eyed and humorously off balance–preparing for the dangerous, late-night trek to the chamber of her incessant calling.
You see–even though she’d been living here for over a year now–her stuff was still far from settled, and in the dark of the night, our carpeted hallway became a minefield for potential stubbed-toes and rolled ankles.
I reached her door miraculously safe and let myself in unannounced, but she knew I would come if she kept at it, so I doubt she was alarmed. My exceedingly cautious journey had re-instilled some vitality into my murky mind, so I greeted her with a playful, “Cranky old gal, aren’t you?”
There, looking back at me with big, wonder-filled eyes that mirrored my own, was a beautiful, eighteen-month-old Chloe. Smiling, I shook my head and sighed as a victorious grin crept across her perfect, chubby cheeks. Side-by-side, we slept with perfectly-synced heartbeats and dreamed ambitious dreams, composing our ideal future together.
Father and Daughter - Paul Simon
***To ease the mind of my mother, I'll go ahead and publicly state that this is definitely fiction, haha. I have had the pleasure of seeing snapshots of a friend's life as she raised her daughter, Chloe, and I thought I'd write a piece of prose from my observations of the joy I see constantly in their relationship.***
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Clueless
Fashion - 102 words
Mary Ann Loo
Mary Ann Loo
I’ve never been a follower of fashion trends, and despite being an artist of sorts and appreciating most art forms, fashion is the one thing I simply can’t quite grasp. Sure I enjoy the drama and eyeing the pretty stuff and people on Project Runway and Top Model, but to be completely honest, I haven’t got the slightest clue why people would starve themselves (at least in Singapore they do) in order to afford the latest Louis Vutton and Chanel, why Marc Jacobs is a household name, and why some women cannot live without high-heeled shoes.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Please Don't Sleep and Drive
Condition - 457 words
Ben Azevedo
I wasn’t in any sort of condition to drive, and neither was the car. A handful of hours of sleep, followed by heavy physical labor, several hours of school, and now the open road. And the car? I glanced up at the oil sticker on the windshield: 165,458 was the next oil change, and she was right up to 165,400 with a little over 500 miles to drive today. Not good. She was a ’97, over ten years old now. I was fairly sure that half of what kept her running was my love for her.
I looked back down at the road as I passed a blue sedan. It was going to be a long drive. I hadn’t had enough time during the week to make a great mix to listen to, so I was stuck with what I had. Which wasn’t bad, of course. It just helps when you don’t know what song is coming next. Currently it was on an old playlist full of high-energy rock for the first few hours of the trip. I’ve always felt its better to keep the adrenaline rush of being on the road for as long as possible. Of course as a backup I had a box of 500 mg caffeine pills in the glove compartment.
At least the weather conditions were nice. I rolled down my windows and cranked the stereo until all I could hear was wind in my ears and the distorted sound of my music blasting through the old car’s speakers. It occurred to me that wind was very loud at 80 miles per hour. Interstate 40 never actually allows you to drive at 80 miles per hour, but no one ever seems to mind, and it gets me there much faster, so I do. Of course, I never tell my mom. She said I could only drive 80 on the condition that I never tell her, because if she doesn’t know she won’t be angry about it.
I settled into a new position in the chair and set my cruise control. The best way to deal with a trip like this is to break it up into chunks. The first part is the hardest. After about five hours of driving, the rest of it just feels the same. But for the first five hours, you haven’t relaxed into the rhythm yet. Once you get there, you’re pretty much conditioned for the ride and it’s not so bad.
The adrenaline playlist ended, so I rolled up the windows and cued up some new music. As I headed steadily towards the distant mountains, I watched the sun setting behind me. I would much rather have made the trip through those mountains during the day.
Wagon Wheel - Old Crow Medicine Show
Ben Azevedo
I wasn’t in any sort of condition to drive, and neither was the car. A handful of hours of sleep, followed by heavy physical labor, several hours of school, and now the open road. And the car? I glanced up at the oil sticker on the windshield: 165,458 was the next oil change, and she was right up to 165,400 with a little over 500 miles to drive today. Not good. She was a ’97, over ten years old now. I was fairly sure that half of what kept her running was my love for her.
I looked back down at the road as I passed a blue sedan. It was going to be a long drive. I hadn’t had enough time during the week to make a great mix to listen to, so I was stuck with what I had. Which wasn’t bad, of course. It just helps when you don’t know what song is coming next. Currently it was on an old playlist full of high-energy rock for the first few hours of the trip. I’ve always felt its better to keep the adrenaline rush of being on the road for as long as possible. Of course as a backup I had a box of 500 mg caffeine pills in the glove compartment.
At least the weather conditions were nice. I rolled down my windows and cranked the stereo until all I could hear was wind in my ears and the distorted sound of my music blasting through the old car’s speakers. It occurred to me that wind was very loud at 80 miles per hour. Interstate 40 never actually allows you to drive at 80 miles per hour, but no one ever seems to mind, and it gets me there much faster, so I do. Of course, I never tell my mom. She said I could only drive 80 on the condition that I never tell her, because if she doesn’t know she won’t be angry about it.
I settled into a new position in the chair and set my cruise control. The best way to deal with a trip like this is to break it up into chunks. The first part is the hardest. After about five hours of driving, the rest of it just feels the same. But for the first five hours, you haven’t relaxed into the rhythm yet. Once you get there, you’re pretty much conditioned for the ride and it’s not so bad.
The adrenaline playlist ended, so I rolled up the windows and cued up some new music. As I headed steadily towards the distant mountains, I watched the sun setting behind me. I would much rather have made the trip through those mountains during the day.
Wagon Wheel - Old Crow Medicine Show
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Communion
Humor - 167 words
Lindsey Thompson
They strolled around the back of the high school until they found the most grandfather-like oak tree, complete with carpet of clover, and sat beneath its protecting arms. The wind picked up and showered them with white petals from newly blossoming trees. The warmest day of the year so far, they lounged in the cool patches and stared upwards through the branches and leaves into the clear blue sky, noiseless in afternoon relaxation. While normal after school interactions were filled with intellectual conversation and snide stabs at one another, this day resonated with silence as they shared in wordless communion for the welcoming of spring.
With an awkward smile he leaned in and said, “I suddenly want to kiss you,” and chuckled with surprise.
“Then do it,” she replied, not a trace of humor. She laid a simple kiss on his cheek and said, “See? Not that hard.” With defiance, her gaze locked with his, prodding him to action.
She awoke from dreaming, in the hospital again.
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