A stretch

First, vague gibberish about details.

Less is more. Don’t go crazy – you can’t handle it.

100 words. 100 details. 

Write a lot, then boil it down. Write 80, then fluff it up.

Assert that there’s no magic, then go abstract.

There’s no magic. It’s some space, something to fill a void. 

100 blanks, some letters.

A stab at making it personal,

It’s my space, 

that falls back to a universal claim.

but anyone could do it. 

and finish with something like a cliche.

Make some space for it. 

Write for 10 minutes, then get picky.

Like candy from a baby.


Songs about the local news

This time of night is for singing songs

just a little louder than the speakers

This is my time, this is my time to sing it the way i like

I don’t know what day it is, i’m not thinking about the words

This time is for picking out just the lines i like

A cafeteria sing-songer

Forget those parts that you don’t like or that make the song about a girl

Rationalize the mumbled bits into a story you like

Or that sounds deep, or maybe profound

Who cares if it makes sense or not?

Music is universal


Writing is reporting

Saturday, on the A train. He got on around Canal or Chambers, and said his name was John Hennessy. His teeth were askew and he looked more like a Cargo Jeffries, but he was quite well-spoken. He said he makes his living with his words and he’d appreciate anything we could give. 

I couldn’t hear over the noise of the car, but I saw the words hit the people. Slow at first, then some stirred. They looked around, like waking up. One raised her eyebrows, then their was a change in her eyes. After a time, her brain exploded.


Hunger Pains

We are at the beach: blue sky, light wind, perfect temperature. We can’t miss a single moment. But we are hungry, and there is no food, so we eat Alyssa. It was a difficult but satisfactory solution.

Later, we are hungry again. Alyssa’s bones are clean, but she has a brother. Under the guise of burying him in the sand, we trap and eat him too.

The lifeguards have fled. Cops and cameras watch from the boardwalk. The quiet beach finally gives us room to breath. We are satisfied and smug, until we hear a rumble.

We are hungry again.


In-between feelings

It was overcast and between seasons. The grey sky bled down into the leaves and trees, fading the red off the brick buildings.

I have trouble describing how I feel at these times, in those in-between moments, when I catch myself walking alone somewhere, finally with nothing else to think about except what is going to happen next, why am I here, what is life really about. That’s when it’s lonely, when I wonder if the people around me are thinking, or real, or just sleeping.

Where am I going? Is this the right way? Does it make a difference?


Manster or Hamtaur?

This is the story of an extreme girlfriend that wanted her boyfriend to look into scientific procedures for shrinking and merging his body with a hamster’s in order to carry him around in her pocket and call him Hamster Huey, and of the grotesque boyfriend that resulted thereof. These are some of the activities they did together afterwards:

  • Skiing
  • Couples-counseling for partial-human relationships
  • Snowboarding
  • Mountain biking
  • Couples-counseling for incompatible relationships
  • Skydiving
  • Couples-counseling for single-income relationships
  • Complicated and expensive legal-proceedings related to side-effects of experimental surgery
  • Couples-counseling for disproportionately-sized relationships
  • Regular physical therapy and ritual anti-inflammatory medicinal intake
  • General couples-counseling
  • Surfing.


Creative excuses

I’m asked to be creative everyday. This morning, it’s what to do about underwear, three days after what should have been laundry Sunday.

Sunglasses on the subway – twin shields, bold first lines of defense against the eye contact of the general public.

The second line is staring at your phone or shoes or that eww on the ground.

The third is headphones, even if they’re not on. They remove your senses from the context of the train, and you can excuse interaction as dancing or wandering-pseudo-music-video eyes.

The fourth? Reused underpants. No one is looking at me at all.


An interview with the cranes on top of the Freedom Tower, whose names are Mel and Gilgamesh

How did you get all the way up here?

Mel: I wanted to be a swan, but I was born here instead.

Gilgamesh: Elevator.

What’s your favorite part of the day?

Mel: Pretending to be a swan.

Gilgamesh: Sunset.

How does it feel to be working on the Freedom Tower?

Mel: I’d have been a prouder swan.

Gilgamesh: Ironic.

Play any music while you work?

Mel: Swan Lake.

Gilgamesh: No.

What are you going to do next?

Mel: Swan dive.

Gilgamesh: (shrugs) Taxi-driver?

Anything else?

Mel: Nope.

Gilgamesh: Advice for the weary: The opposite of love isn’t hate, it’s indifference.


The Stepford Whites

“I told you moving here was a bad idea. When it doesn’t stink, it tastes like paste.”

“Oh hush. You’re always aching.”

“And it’s creepy! Something feels… off. I’m not sure what.”

“Oh relax. What could be wrong?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t it weird we haven’t seen any babies in so long? It’s been years!”

“Well, there’s just no room, is there? Where would they go?”

“And, call me crazy, but something has happened to Betsy.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know… since I woke up from my nap this morning, she’s been… false.”

“Honey, I think you’ve gone completely dental.”


Guest post (Brock): It’s not a phase!

A new trend is emerging among middle to high schoolers: an offshoot of the “emo” fashion made popular several years ago by bands such as HIM and The Used, the new “retardo” culture reimagines emo’s themes of edgy loneliness. The big difference? Where “emo” focuses on themes of self-harm, depression, and even suicide, “retardos” see themselves as simply inept, falling short of the social standard – particularly regarding intellectual pursuits. Fashion-wise, children in the retardo “scene” wear helmets and stained sweatpants, cross their eyes, and maintain a slack-jawed expression. Some use permanent markers to draw strings of drool on their chins.


Guest post (Brock): Brain teaser

I have a challenge for you: imagine you’re eating a big bowl of rice, and suddenly you find a giant piece, about as big as a big toe! What do you do? Do you call the museum, or the police?

Now imagine you’re eating a big bowl of tonsils, and suddenly you realize they’re full of tonsil stones! What do you do?

Finally, let’s imagine you’re back at that big bowl of rice, eating and eating, when suddenly you find the big piece of rice! But this time, it’s not a big piece of rice.

It’s a big tonsil stone!


Guest post (Brock): Hitler

The Nazis won. Hitler’s men marched across Europe, crushing Stalin’s defenses in a grand, orchestrated sweep. Towers fell; all knew the taste of oppression, bitter German steel.

As the years went on, Hitler mellowed out a lot. He’d really just been going through a bad time in the 40s. Once the 60s rolled around, he was pretty approachable, not a bad guy to be around.

The Producers still got made, even though this is an alternate timeline. Hitler loved it, and invited Mel Brooks to his birthday party in the Eagle’s Nest. Their friendship lasted until Hitler's death in 1982.


You don’t wanna

That girl? You don’t wanna dance with that girl. She’s got leftover feet. Man feet. Clumsy, stinky ones.

That beer? You don’t wanna drink that beer. Gordo drinks that beer. They soak it in gym socks before they let the monkeys swim in it.

That seat? You don’t wanna sit in that seat. My grandfather died in that seat. And my grandmother. They looked just like you.

That burger? You don’t wanna eat that burger. Lemme take it off your hands.

Thab book? Iths predy goob acthually. (Gulp) Wait, did you say this one? You don’t wanna read this one.


The Waldy’s girl

Is there a rule about asking a girl out while she’s working? Romantic-comedies make me sick, so if there’s a rule, someone needs to tell me.

She’s pretty and nice, and the pizza here is really good. I asked.

She said no, she has a boyfriend. Which is fine. I’m terrified of commitment and pretty busy anyway and thanks for everything and see you around and oh crap I already paid for the pizza.

Now, Lovefool is blaring. I’m the only customer in the restaurant, and I just asked the girl at the register if I could buy her coffee.



Story idea: guy who can make people go away, just by writing about them.

Later, he learns the trick, and can do it by talking at or about them.

Still later, all he has to do is think, and they’ll drift onwards, elsewhere.

It’s a good story, and there are problems and conflicts. He has trouble controlling his thoughts. He thinks about whatever’s in sight, and soon, everyone he sees is a surprise person that he has never thought of before.

Not long after, they too are driven away.

I suppose he just dies alone. Or stops thinking so much.