You are browsing the archive for 2011 February.

Transit

February 27, 2011 in T

By Tim Redmond


LAX. The world’s most ironic acronym. LAX.  Los Angeles International Airport. In transit. Twelve hours in, eighteen to go. I gotta disembark and re-check.

Fuck.

I’ve never been to Baghdad, but if I had, it’d still be number two on my shit-holes of the earth list.  LAX is a jam of screaming brake-pads and men in vests who bark and point. Uniforms and hands on holsters and the endless migration of idiocy bumping into things.

The security check-point is the natural nexus. The lagoon.

Security. These big black guys in their big blue uniforms with their faces carved from status. They look impressive. They’re big and black and blue, and coiled. Everyday they deal with pointy heads with Bismarck carry-ons and forgot-to-remove-lap-tops and oh-my-shoes-too? They’ve spent their time in the queue doing pointy-head-things. Quietly nudging. Look-at-that. Look-at-him. Faces beaming with suburban cruelty. When they arrive at the belt, it is a shock. What? Me too?

Yup.

Big-black-blue meats pointy-shock-syndrome.

Twelve thousand times a day.

LAX.

Trying to get to gate thirty-five.

The queue is long.

The guy in front of me has Mini Mouse on his T-shirt.

Fuck.

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Clarity

February 26, 2011 in C

By Jason Geary


Chemicals rush through my blood stream. I’m walking like a king amongst men. Without equal in a world only I am privy to. I look down upon the common folk. These straight-laced servants of ‘The Man’ and I sneer. I climb onto a bench at the bus stop to speak the truth to the common man.

‘Listen people! While I see the humanity inside you I see it repressed. By a system you’re happy to be a part of. Don’t settle for this ordinary life. You are exceptional. Like me. Know it and you shall know freedom!’

I yell the last line for emphasis and hear it bounce back at me of the building across the street. My eyes are closed. I’m waiting for the slow applause to start but it doesn’t come.

I open my eyes and find myself in a stark moment if clarity.

People are staring. Some offer pity with their looks, others disdain. I hop off the bench, and gather by bag.

I take a deep breath and the drugs kick in again, weaker this time but enough to help me ignore the ogling masses. As I walk away I feel my stride becoming more confident. I stare at a businessman who’s shaking his head at me.

‘Get a job.” He says rolling his eyes as I walk by.

“Go find yourself” I offer back. I nod at him. Wink. And look for another upon which I can bestow my next blessing.

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Cough

February 24, 2011 in C

By Andy Zito


It’s ‘nothing to worry about’, but I do.

A colleague, conspicuously absent on Monday, arrives in the office Tuesday, coughing. A hacking, phlegmatic bark that says ‘get out of me, gunk’ and actively helps by way of the glottal stops that stop and stop, words not forming, just ‘huck’ and ‘huck’ and ‘cough’ and ‘cough.’

11 desks lined up, 5 on one side of the room, 6 on the other. Mine directly opposite, we sit back to back separated by only a small conference table, maybe a metre between us, probably less.

She comments to a colleague that she was sick enough to stay home yesterday, but will ‘get through’ today. My skin crawls. The psychosomatic tingles fill my glands as my throat begins to dry. Just a mild bout of hypochondria, I reason.

The office has no windows. Well, it does, but they don’t open. The air conditioner brings in fresh air, but it’s cooler today, so the unconditioned air hangs in a cloud, propelled over by tussis-fuelled aspiration, over my head.

She comments to a colleague that she was probably sick enough to stay home today but will ‘get through’. My skin crawls and my throat tingles. No, no, just the hypochondria again.

It’s nothing to worry about, but I really do.

I couldn’t get up this morning, the hypochondria was running riot. I thought about ‘getting through’ but decided to go to the doctor instead. He told me not to go to work.

“You wouldn’t want your colleagues to catch it, would you? How inconsiderate.”

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Contact

February 23, 2011 in C

By David Stewart


The comedian walked off stage and made straight for the storage cupboard that the club called a dressing room. His set had gone down well. The tried and trusted material got laughs but more importantly the new bit about modern technology had shown some real promise. He’d been thinking for a while about the immediacy of new technology, how in the old days if someone had a complaint they had to actually find a pen and paper and an envelope and a stamp in order to articulate their grievance and then subject it to a postal service and the whims of a newspaper’s letter-page editor. But thanks to modern technology an irate person could make their incandescent rage known instantly and often vent it directly at the subject of their outrage. Onstage he’d called it “The devaluing of offence” and come up with an equation involving “level of outrage” subtracted by “effort required to express.” He’d proved that in the past the net result was usually negative which meant nothing was done. But in the future the “effort required to express” figure had decreases so dramatically the end result was (ironically) positive and then took the form of an email, a tweet or a forum post.

He was fine-tuning the routine in his head when he decided to check his twitter feed. The audience had responded already and the tweets poured across his screen – one person worked at an electronics store he had slagged-off briefly and took issue with his passing comments. Umbrage was also taken by six iPad owners who felt he was dismissive of their technology choice. A girl claimed most of his points were taken from an article she had written for a website he’d never heard of. Several others felt his routine had been simplistic and a sign that he was losing touch with his audience. There were more but he couldn’t bring himself to read them.

He’d been considering a drink in the bar and a chance to mix with the punters but he suddenly felt more inclined to hide in the room until the club closed. In order to pass the time he took a pad and a pen and sat down to write something. His first thought had been a new routine but he surprised himself by penning an angry letter to a newspaper about declining standards in comedy club audiences.

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Lighthouse

February 21, 2011 in L

By Jason Geary


The Lighthouse Keeper locked the door behind him. The sound of the steel bolt latching into place echoed around the chamber. In the centre sat an elaborate array, housing the domed lens and a mounted chair to one side. The glass windows that surrounded the chamber were thick with salt spray dried by the sunset. He walked to the glass and took in the dying light beyond the horizon. He let out a sigh, heavy enough to fog the glass of the window in front him. Fogging of the glass was a good sign, it meant his light would be needed tonight, if frost had settled with the dusk, midnight would bring fog.

He took his place in the chair, reclining back as far as he could. He inspected the domed lens next to him running his hands over the ripples, ‘I’ll dream well my lady, all you have to do is shine.’ He said it with a laugh, that caught his breath and sent him into a coughing fit that caused a deep trolling of phlegm from the bottom of his lungs. He felt his mouth fill, then spat. No blood. The coughing wasn’t hard enough this time. This time.

Audibly straining, he reached up above his head and lowered the helmet. It fit perfectly. Wires shot off of it in every direction linking the helmet to the dome, it looked like a 21st century crown of thorns.

The Lighthouse Keeper took a deep breath, deliberately drawing the breath slowly to avoid another coughing fit. He whispered towards the horizon, “Happy anniversary Edith.” He closed his eyes and regulated his breath.

Within minutes he was asleep, succumbing to his dream cycle.

There was his wife, as beautiful as the day he’d meet her, waiting for him in an open field. The wind was stealing her words, though he’d knew what she was saying, after all he had dreamed this dream every night for 14 years and counting.

“I’m waiting for you.” She said.

In the dream and in the chamber the Lighthouse Keeper smiled, and as he did so the array began to rotate gently clockwise, illuminating the dome next to him.

He took her hand and kissed her gently.

The light beamed out, stretched to the horizon.

Tonight, noted the townsfolk, it was brighter.

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Air

February 20, 2011 in A

By Alex Totten


Feeling the breeze on my skin, the air revitalizes me. I can’t remember the last time I was able to sit down and think, letting the zephyrs and gales take over my body. I can’t remember much, honestly. The haze is rolling in, the tide of consciousness, unconsciousness. I think the lack of sleep is causing it. Days go in and out, but I can’t see the difference. It’s all a blur, a whorl of visions that I can’t seem to control. At least I have the breeze to keep me awake.

“You look terrible,” an interesting development.

“How did you know I was going to be out here?”

“You always are when you can’t sleep,” how did she know I wasn’t sleeping?

“How did you know I’m not sleeping?”

“I can just tell by looking at you. Do you think I didn’t know about your insomnia when we were together? I could always feel you tossing and turning, getting up and coming back to bed. I never bothered to ask, but I always knew it was about me. I knew you couldn’t sleep because I was there. I thought it was a simple comfort thing, but that isn’t the case, is it?”

“You never believed me before,” this is simple, all too simple. She knows too much and she’s agreeing with me.

I woke up in my bed. I hadn’t even realized I feel asleep. It had been such a long time since I had slept. This dream was different, it was cool and real; it felt so real. I’m surprised; I haven’t had a dream like that in such a long time. The color was vivid; my senses were sharp and defined. It was unreal and real; it was deceptively familiar, but it wasn’t. I should have been able to tell that it wasn’t real, but I couldn’t until the end. Once she spoke, I knew. I could feel my mind quiver with her words.

I’m glad I got out of it, and now I’m back in reality. It’s five a.m., a couple more hours until I need to wake up. I’ll see if I can fall back asleep.

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Lesson

February 17, 2011 in L

By David Stewart


She stood on the corner of the city block with a hand-drawn sign saying “Free Hugs” in an attempt to restore her faith in humanity. She learnt at lot.

At first she learnt that there is a fine line between being given a hug and having your bottom groped. She later realised that in fact the line wasn’t fine it was quite large and was actually called “The entire of her lower back.” She learnt a lot of people had no trouble crossing this line.

She discovered just how many people believe that anyone doing anything even vaguely out of the ordinary must be making a hidden-camera television show.

She was alarmed to realise just how many older people felt the need to tell young people how disappointed they were in them. Somehow holding a sign saying “Free Hugs” meant teenagers had no respect or self-discipline.

It took her about half an hour before she could easily identify the sort of person who would read her sign and sneer while making a loud comment about: “That Free Hugs thing being so old.”

She had to explain herself to several people who didn’t understand the concept. Every time she did her explanation became more concise but her voice less convincing.

Every so often, once a while, in amongst the doubters, the sceptics, the mockers, the accusers and the gropers, someone would fling their arms wide and embrace her in a massive bear hug. They would grin at her, she would grin back, and they would walk away with her faith in humanity restored.

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Sunrise

February 16, 2011 in S

By Alex Totten


I haven’t been able to sleep in days. The futility of my never ending quest has started to take a toll on me. I can’t see. I can’t think. I’m filled with the terror of the approaching day every night. It’s been days since I reclaimed my dreams, but what was it worth? Without sleep, without the night, I cannot experience them. Was it worth it? I can’t tell what worth is anymore. My restless nights have filled me only with grief. I gave up so much to get my dreams back, but now I can’t have either. Am I destined to wander? Am I destined to feel incomplete?

I don’t know why I can’t sleep anymore. I thought getting rid of her would solve all of my problems, and for a while it did. I was able to sleep and feel all the layers of my dreams, of my unending conscious, of my imagination, of my true life. I should have seen it coming. The dreams I experienced were, lacking, for lack of a better word. Lacking for lack, an interesting concept. I can’t even think anymore, I’m repeating myself, looking for the right words that never seem to come. I was so deluded, so skewed by feelings; just having my dreams back was more than enough. I know now that it isn’t.

My newest friend returns to me, the sunrise. Filling my house with a faint golden glow, it tries to soothe me, but it’s all for not. The sunrise brings more terror with it than comfort. I can’t hold still, my legs want to run from it, but I can’t. I know, I know that it will be the death of me. The sunrise brings the hope of the new day, the burn of burden; of things I’m afraid to say, of steps I should take, but, for fear of falling, I don’t. I’m starting to lose my senses, my rationality. What’s the next step? What should I do now?

Should I, no I shouldn’t. I’m not willing to give so much. I can’t, not yet. I’m not willing to compromise.

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Fellowship

February 15, 2011 in F

By David Stewart


“Good Afternoon Ladies! It’s lovely to see you all here again. My this is a marvelous turn-out. I think this is the most people we’ve had so far this year. Lets give ourselves a big clap. And let’s have another big clap for Gladys who agreed to play host for us tonight and open up her home. She told me the place would be a mess after her Grandkids came to visit but we all knew that by the time we showed up her sitting room would be as immaculate as always. And thanks to everyone who bought scones, cakes and flans. I eat so well at our monthly get-togethers I go away feeling like I could never eat another thing ever again! I must get the recipe for these cheese scones, they’re lovely. Anyway we must get down to it. I’d like to introduce you to Arthur who is going to be our virgin sacrifice for the evening. Say hello Arthur.”

“Hello”.

“Now Arthur assures me he’s a virgin but then you can basically tell just by looking at him can’t you? He’s got that fresh virginy look. The Star Trek t-shirt is another give away, you’ve never had to fling that particular garment aside in the throes of mad animal passion have you Arthur?”

“No”.

“No of course not. Now Arthur dear sit quietly here and have a piece of passion-fruit sponge. We have to do some boring housekeeping talk for a bit and then we’ll light the candles, strip you off and get to work with the ceremonial blade. You’ll love it dear there’s lots of dancing and some incantations, Enid does a lovely incantation, and then we’ll remove your heart and revel in your blood while we praise the dark lord. Perhaps someone might decide to wear your untarnished and never-utilised genitalia as a kind of hat, we’re very open minded once the bloodlust hits. Comfy?”

“Yes”.

“Super. Right ladies, other business first: it’s fundraising time again so we need to sort out who’s going to back what for the cake drive…”

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Porch

February 14, 2011 in P

By Jason Geary


Robert had a suspicion that this would happen.  He walked into the room and knew instantly that he didn’t belong.  It was his first time within this tightly knit social group, he thought about not coming but he couldn’t have turned down the invitation because Kitty had offered it. Five months of working her periphery would have gone to waste if he had of turned her down.

He hovered by the wall for a time and swept by the finger food table when he could nodding friendly nods at people he had seen around the university. They looked back with quizzical faces. Before long he began to wonder what everybody else in the room was wondering, ‘What the he’ll are you doing here.” He struck up awkward conversations regarding the university sporting teams, about which he had no real knowledge. A fact that was quickly exposed as the conversations progressed and people systematically excused themselves.

After circling the party for 40 minutes he’d been spent the last hour alone on the back porch watching couples stream out into the backyard for the privacy of garden shadows. Something he wished he had more of in his current position.

Suddenly he sat upright, he smelled her perfume coming from the doorway. He heard her laughter coming towards him.  Kitty WAS here. He stood up as the door burst open. Kitty crashed out onto the porch with a guy trailing behind her. She was stunned to see Robert.

“Robert you’re here”

“Yeah, I’ve been hanging out here. Back porch is where it’s at.”

She laughed, he couldn’t tell if it was with him or at him.

The guy piped up, “Yeah, where it’s at for losers!”

They both laughed, now she was laughing at him.

“I better go.” Robert said.

“No stay,” Kitty said, “I won’t be long, then we’ll hang. K?”

Robert nodded.

She dragged the guy by the the arm and led him to the shadows. Robert cursed himself for nodding and sat back down and waited.

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Rose

February 11, 2011 in R

By Alex Totten


Preserved, a single rose.

“It won’t be enough this time.”

“I’m not asking for it to be enough. I’m sorry, don’t you get that?” Things sound so eloquent in thought, in practice, there’s a different story, “I’m sorry, that came out wrong.”

“You’re always saying the wrong things.”

“Yeah, I know.” All these thoughts seem to be so appropriate when I’m rehearsing them. She always had a way of making me wrong. I hand her the rose, hoping for resolution.

“I don’t even know why you’re doing all of this. You know how crazy you sound? You need to talk to a doctor.”

“I, I’m not crazy,” I’m not, there are certain things that are important to me, and some things will always fall under that line. She doesn’t understand. I’m not crazy.

“You’re telling me that you’re being serious?” Of course I’m serious, “that you would go through with this for that?”

“You never understood what was important to me, did you? I slave for the change of salvation; I toil for the chance for one more escape.”

“Escape, that’s all you’ve ever wanted,” I don’t… that’s not true. She just doesn’t understand, “Fine, if that’s what you want, I’ll let you have it.”

“At least take the rose.”

“I don’t want the rose, Michael.”

“That’s fine, that’s fine, really,” she never understood me, “If that’s how you feel. If you think I’m crazy, then we’re done. I’ll take the greater of two.”

“I don’t… I don’t know what to say. Whatever. You were crazy anyway. I’ll be better off without you.”

I’m not crazy.

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Waterfall

February 10, 2011 in W

By Brent Caldwell


If I was a cliff,

blue sky, ragged clouds & a waterfall

would be nothing but a mirror

washing over me,

the rush of water nothing

but a celebration.

I’m an artist & its not that easy.

Paintings are like rocks –

they only tell me what I am. I need

the sky, the clouds & the waterfall.

So tell me I’m a beautiful woman

coz the beautiful people got it easy.

Once I made you blush –

My breasts were fuller then;

I had Justine. Your mother thinks

I’m trying to seduce you now.

But I like you standing

on the edge of the waterfall

gazing to my soul through your feet.

Dance & feel like old lovers.

Tell you my mother was strong

So I needed to feel I was weak.

Now Justine is a beautiful woman

but she like my mother is strong.

You tell me your mother is proud

& you needed to feel you were making mistakes.

Still you haven’t told me I’m a beautiful woman.

But I like you standing

on the edge of the waterfall

kissing me with your feet.

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Smug

February 9, 2011 in S

By David Stewart


You smug people of today have no idea how easy life is. Back when I was smug I had to work for my self-righteous feeling of superiority. Back then finding a band nobody had heard of took hard work. You had to go to obscure clubs, you had to hang around the cool record shops. We had to search for our street credibility. The only place to buy a band’s T-shirt was at a gig and if you wanted to get your hands on an obscure B-side or demo tape you had to know someone and prove to them that you were smug enough to deserve it. I remember back in the eighties when I was proving everyone I knew was beneath me, I had to really work for it. When I sneered derisively at a guy who listened to something you could hear on commercial radio I earned that sneer through months of hunting around for the music and fan cred that earned me the right to be smug. But today, today you can jump on the internet and within half an hour you can download a band’s entire catalogue including B-sides and live bootlegs. You can order T-shirts from their website and get your smugness delivered straight to your door. Hipsters of today have no idea what being truly smug is all about. You think you’re the cutting edge of smug but let me tell you I was smug back when smug was only available on vinyl.

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Admission

February 8, 2011 in A

By Jason Geary


I know it’s not right, but I feel like have to tell someone.

I move her keys.  Around half an hour after she gets home. I move them into the fridge or sometimes the sugar bowl. Odd spots but not so odd that she clicks that somebody else has moved them.  It drives her crazy, she gets so very frustrated with herself.

It’s the reason I do it.

She looks so beautiful when she’s frustrated. Her face develops a pinkish hue. It provides stark contrast to the freckles across her nose. She has electricity when she’s like this, a raw energy that’s dangerous. Her eyes dance from spot to spot. She’s so alive. Beautiful.

When she’s about to break I begin to look with her. Within minutes I find the keys. She breaks like a wave, usually into my arms. I can feel her heartbeat against my chest. She looks into my eyes and asks “What would I do without you?”

I answer. “Never get anywhere.”

Yeah, yeah. I know it’s not right.

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Fever

February 7, 2011 in F

By Alex Totten


I used to dream in color. I used to see the vividness of the lights, the stark contrast of the shapes and the people moving through my sub consciousness; the setting used to breathe with me. It was life exaggerated. It was life emphasized. It was an escape from the mundane. When I was dreaming, I could be anywhere, I could do anything. That’s not the case anymore. I’m plagued with listlessness now; a shell of my former dreams stands in my mind, mocking me. The scenes are monotone now, the people are faceless, the feeling is lacking.

I searched for an answer, spending hours poring over my routine, my life, but nothing changed. I’m the very same since the color faded. Working an average job, living an average life, being myself and nothing special, it was simple. It was me, it was who I am. I searched, spent sleepless nights wondering what happened and then I realized the factor, the problem at the core. She started sharing a bed with me.

She moved in; we share a bed; there is the difference. She’s so warm at night I can’t fall asleep, her body contaminates me like a plague. Fever enwraps my body; she insists on sleeping so close to me. I understand now. She’s far too warm to sleep with, and my dreams have responded. They can feel this intruder in my bed, in my life. They know that I’m uncomfortable with her warmth. They know I can’t cope with her in my bed, and they are spurring me to change.

They want her out; my dreams want her to leave. I can tell; I can hear them plotting, holding my color ransom. I don’t know why they want me to choose between the two of them, but they know; they know the color is precious to me. I need the color. I need the escape. I need to break away from the constraint. They know how much it means to me.

They know I will break up with her to have it back.

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