a Monkey

So the story goes, we all evolved from monkeys. I believe it, but still it seems practically impossible. While so many other species out there have evolved over just as long a period of time, and can’t even make a decision outside of instinct, how is it that people can question whether we came from monkeys? How is it that people can question anything at all? Dogs are pretty smart. They don’t question what they evolved from. Maybe they’re even smarter than we think and just decided to leave well enough alone…a concept that monkeys and people haven’t really been able to embrace. I think it’s a good thing though that we haven’t. We’d probably be living in a communist world with no real feeling of being free to chase our dreams. Here’s a good question: why are there still monkeys? Why, after millions of years, didn’t any of them evolve into any other more “intelligent” monkey-like creatures? Maybe it wasn’t a fluke…maybe something was tampered with…maybe monkeys are and always were just monkeys and we just came from something that just happened to fit the “monkey evolved” mold. Monkeys are cool.

- Written by Mr. T on May 29, 2012

Gargoyle

 

Gargoyle, written by Miss A on May 19, 2012

The sun is showering us with light uninterrupted by pesky or cumbersome clouds, and the mood of the city has lightened, as people stroll to work. Some chat on their phones, others grin and wave to familiar faces as they walk past, occasionally stopping to say hello to a friend or business partner decked in some fancy suit. As I breathe in the urban life, the metropolitan energy which glows on a warm, sunny morning, I start to appreciate this place where people surround themselves worth sky-high buildings and compete with bright yellow cars to get them to the next leg of their journey.

But then there is this guy.

I stop and peer at the angry face crouched atop the stairs of an old, marble structure – a library or legal firm, perhaps? Why must he look so angry, I wonder. I’ve seen his kind before – with stony faces warped in scowling expressions, with vicious, pointy teeth which look as though they might eat me whole. It’s obvious he is indifferent to a blustery, rainy afternoon or the rays of light which cast a fresh glow across the city on a spring morning.

I’ve heard he and his disgruntled friends were assigned to scare away the evil spirits that might try to break in and corrupt innocent souls. I glance at the signs beside the building’s door – Jackson and Morton Law Firm, Madison Hedge Fund, Tagel’s Brokerage Firm – and see these guards made no difference at all.

Well, Mr. Ugly Thing, I think to myself and hope he hears. I’m sorry you must serve such an unhappy fate, glowering at all the people who have a choice to lead happy lives. It must be a horrible eternity to spend crouched in stone and waiting to attack, with no relief from your position, no moment to sit back and crack a smile.

- Written by Miss A on May 19, 2012.

Nerves

The nerves take a beating every time fear or worry come slinking around, looking for trouble, for someone to shake up real bad. Poor nerves can barely stand it, trembling and hoping the scary times will pass by soon.

They get to fluttering the heart and making it pulse real hard. That heart nearly flies out of the chest, it’s pumping so fast and quickening the breaths of my body, which is itching to run. Sprint far away from the fear and worry that are knocking around town.

Knock, knock, knock. Anyone home? We need somewhere to stay, to spread our roots in this place.

And some minds let ‘em come in and take up residence for a while. But I’ve had those pesky house guests for long enough and I already know how they can make those nerves fray at the end. Threads coming loose all over the place. Me left picking up the pieces and pushing my nerves to move on ahead.

So no siree, I’m not answering the door or opening my window while double trouble is creeping all about, waiting for that perfect moment to strike and spook my nerves into thinking something isn’t right.

You gotta whole lotta nerve shutting us out!

Well, yes, yes I do, and that’s what gives me the strength and wisdom to know what you’re all about. Trying to make me shake in my boots and hide away from the unknown. I’ve seen the damages you can do, and that’s why you’re no longer welcome in my home.

- Written on May 15, 2012

Oasis

An oasis tricks your eye – builds cities out of sand, lakes from dust and glaring sun. There you stand at the center of desert, throat parched and mind heavy, thinking you behold something magnificent, only to stagger close and find nothing is actually there. An illusion of hope dissipating into the harsh reality that where you are is truly a hell from which you can’t escape. And endless walk toward signs of hope…but the oasis is a deceiving mirage.

Because a true oasis wouldn’t disappear into the sand. Rather it would stand as the haven for hope. Robust animals would hover over its glistening waters, sipping as they please. You would linger under the shade of palm trees, and sigh with the breeze.

- Written on May 10, 2012

Spider

Gossamer strands catch the light in their sticky web stretched between the limbs of a tree old and gnarled. Remnants of the morning dew cling for their lives, hoping desperately not to fall to an untimely SPLAT across the sidewalk floor.

But the spider is nowhere to be found. Having abandoned this bed long ago, a web which no one dares to destroy because it mirrors those intricate, silken dream weavers one will find in a New Age store. We leave to web to catch our hopes and dreams as we sleep-walk through the daily grind, marching numbly to work and school and grocery stores when the fridge has gobbled up the milk. We surely could not have drunk it all ourselves.

In light breezes, the sturdy web barely wavers, and each morning, I admire the craftsmanship which holds it intact for weeks now. Why another spider doesn’t claim this masterpiece for his own, I don’t know or pretend to understand. I can’t put my thoughts to that of a spider. It creeps along on eight legs, constructing webs and eating flies. Where is goes beyond that, I cannot fathom. Or make sense of the patterns it creates with the silk it shoots and dangles through the air, woven artistically in designs where we can only hope our dreams will stick and survive the fangs of a beady little spider who waits in the shadows to devour them whole.

- Written by Miss A on April 16, 2012

Telephone

Interviewer: What is a telephone? What do you use it for? How big is it? What shape is it? How much does it weigh? What type or class of person uses it? Where is it made? Can you eat it? What does it smell like? Is it rigid? How often do you use one? How important is it? Is it portable, and if so, are there any restrictions to its portability? Is it a living thing? Can it perform simple things you ask it to do?

Contestant A: A telephone is something you use to talk to someone far away. It’s mainly for important conversations that are extremely urgent and can’t wait for all involved to be present. It’s about as big as a boot box and roughly the same shape, although it has an earpiece that hangs off the side of it…the earpiece is about the size of a cannoli. Not sure how much it weighs, but it looks like maybe 20 pounds or so. It’s made of wood, so…wood-colored, I guess…brown?… Most all upper-class and even some middle class families have one. Ours was made in Indiana. No, you can’t eat it. I just told you, it’s made of wood. Right now it smells like lemon oil. Yes, it is rigid…wood, remember? I use it almost every week. Sometimes twice in a day, at most. It’s very important in case of an emergency. It’s not portable at all, but that sure would be nice. No, the wood is definitely dead. Well, you can ask the person on the other end of the conversation to do something, but not the telephone, although I suppose you’re technically “asking” it to make a call when you dial a number.

Contestant B: A phone is something you use to call people. Actually, you can use it for just about anything…is this a trick question? It’s like…5 inches by 2 inches, about. It’s rectangular…about 1/2 inch thick. Weighs less than a pound, I think. It’s black. Pretty much everyone has one, except some really old people, babies, and I guess some really poor people. I think they’re all made in China. No, you can’t eat it. Doesn’t smell like anything. Yes, it’s rigid. I use mine constantly. I couldn’t live without it. It’s portable. You just have to be within cell range to use it. It’s not living. You can ask it to do simple tasks, but it can’t, say, go to the store and get you some milk.

- Written by Mr. T on April 2, 2012

Spring

When I lived in Virginia, Spring was special and much desired after a long, bitterly frigid Winter. When the warmer temperatures crept into our daily lives like the expected encounters with old friends who we haven’t seen in a while, since they moved away to Florida or California or Arizona where sunny weather abounds all year long, we all welcomed them with open arms. I imagined peeling off my thick wool sweaters and shoving them back into the bottom dresser drawer, where they’d stay hidden for eight months or more. My dried-up fingers, crackling and splitting open into long red sores at the knuckles, would drink up the warm, humid moisture, which Spring delivered to our neck of the woods. Soon, sweet breezes would float through the budding trees and rustle the world alive again. Unlike that awful, seething wind from Winter, which whipped through the air, slapping and stinging everything in its path.

On the drive to school each morning, I peered at the long, ashy limbs of naked trees and searched for the first signs of green buds to dot their branches. Stumps of crocuses, tulips, irises, and daffodils poked through the red clay soil. Cherry blossoms stretched their pink and white faces into the warming sun, settling into motion my pollen allergies, which raged as the bees and flowers alike began to awaken. I didn’t care, not so long as the temperatures climbed from 30 or 40 to 65 and 70 degrees.

Spring was fresh. Renewing. Cleansing. We would open the windows of our house and let the fresh air push out the musty winter. The world would seem anew, happy to be alive and breathing in the fragrant aromas of flowering roses and sugary honeysuckle.

Living in California, I have discovered a different Spring. Here, the season is shy, often going unnoticed between the transition from Winter to Summer. Spring doesn’t bed for attention, as it does in Virginia or the Northeast. Instead, it creeps through late March and April, barely making a peep, unless it’s preceded by three months of wintry rains, which only happens every few years.

Spring is dry. The winter flowers continue to bloom until the desert summer evokes its own blooms and decorations. Cool winds may float through the city on a warm, sunny day, but fresh, spring rains are rare. And there is something sad about that, something amiss…as if Southern California isn’t given the opportunity to shower and rinse off the darker winter months like so much of the world that I once knew.

- Written by Miss A on April 10, 2012

Mansion

When I was eight years old, I liked sitting on a curb with my friends and mapping the layout of my future mansion on the graph paper my mother have left on the kitchen table. Armed with highlighter pens of all the neon colors popular int he 80s, I drew and colored my mansion’s blueprints, assigning bedrooms with neon pink beds to Child #1 and Child #2 and a blue bed to Child #3. Or maybe Child #2 had a fluorescent orange bed. But my bed with my future husband was neon green because green was my favorite color even then.

While other kids squealed and chased each other around the playground, us girls had our death down, attentive to the page as we furiously planned our lavish futures. I would have this house when I was 23 or 24, I decided. That seemed old enough. Maybe not old enough for all three kids, but that was okay. There was a little time for that. Just so long as I had all the kids by 26 or 27, so I would be a young mom, unlike my own. She was old when she had me. Thirty-six. That was ancient to an eight-year-old.

Attached to my large, squared bedroom, I drew the layout for my master bathroom, with a large jacuzzi tub and a separate shower stall. Every night of my adult life, I would plop myself in to the tub and soak my body in its bubbling waters.

I would cook magnificent dinners in the gigantic kitchen downstairs (there were two sheets of graph paper to represent these two levels), happily scrubbing all the vegetables I liked – potatoes and snow peas – at the massive kitchen sink while I sang along with the pop songs on the radio. In my house, I would be allowed to turn on the radio and sing along without my ancient mother shrieking at me to “turn off that bloody music! I can’t think with a straight head when that awful noise is squawking from that box!”

In my mansion, I wouldn’t have to make my bed or straighten up my room because I would have a maid to do that for me. My cats and rabbits could lounge on the sofa with me while we watched TV without anyone telling me that animals don’t belong on the furniture. No, my mansion would be awesome – void of rules and restrictions. We’d eat hamburgers and pizza every night. Play games all day. And live off our million dollars, which would magically appear when we bought the home.

At the end of recess, my friends would place their mansion grids on the sidewalk and compare our grand homes. These were the lives we envisioned for ourselves, the future lives we would certainly have twenty years from that point when we were naive, innocent, and dreaming eight years olds.

- Written by Miss A on April 1, 2012 (she is still holding out for that mansion and magic million dollars)

a Kiss

I think kissing is often underrated. Especially the first kiss between two people. It’s such a powerful event. I can remember most of my first kisses with incredible clarity. Especially my very first kiss. I think her name was Amy…yeah, haha…here I am talking about “incredible clarity” and I can’t even remember her name! Well, I remember that I met her that same night and my friend Matt introduced us. She was the type of girl that EVERY guy wanted. Carefree, fun attitude…friendly…tall but not too tall…beautiful, long, dark brown hair…cute laugh…well, ok, I don’t really remember her laugh, but I’ll assume it was cute because a bad laugh can be quite the turn off. She and Matt had been friends and Matt liked her, but they didn’t have any romantic history. Not that it would have been a deal breaker either way.

I was entranced from the moment we were introduced and if I had been able to pay an ounce of attention to anything else, I would have noticed that Matt was not happy that her attention was going more in my direction than in his. Not happy at all…but I wasn’t concerned with my friend’s feelings at that moment. I was 14 years old, walking through the July twilight on an old Hinsdale, Illinois sidewalk with this amazing girl that I just met. My friend could have been hit by a bus and I wouldn’t have noticed. The next hour or so is a blur. I know we walked into town…probably to get something to eat. Ice cream, maybe? Seems likely to me…sometime between then and the walk back, I remembered that my friend was there. Probably because on some primal level, I saw him as a threat. At some point on the walk back, she was a few steps ahead of us and we started talking about how nice her ass was… I made a finger frame (picture frame with your thumbs and index fingers) and was looking through it saying, “ooooh, look at that” and she caught me! I’m surprised that didn’t ruin my chances with her right there. I must have played things cool after that because a few minutes later she and I were talking and my friend Matt got ahead a few steps. It was dark outside and the street lamps cast a magical glow over the sidewalk. I wanted to kiss her and my heart was probably beating a million times a second as I tried to figure out the right moment and how to do it…and whether she would kiss me back or not. Something happened, like jumping off the high dive for the first time, and I just did it. I took a couple quick steps to get in front of her, and turned around to face her. She stopped and asked me what I was doing. I said to her, “I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” and leaned in toward her lips…and she leaned in toward mine…and it happened! With fireworks and marching bands, and crowds of people cheering, and streamers falling from the sky!

- Written by Mr. T on March 26, 2012

Bowling alley

Using the prompt to practice setting description…

Outside the night was still and quiet, all the cars parked neatly into rows, waiting patiently for their drivers to emerge from the cement gray building lit up by a flashing neon sign that called out “Senior Citizens play for 1/2 price every Monday!” Inside the cinderblock, the Norse gods roared, pounding hammers against the wooden floors. Weighted balls rolled mightily, boasting to nonchalant pins, “Heed my call!” as they ominously barreled toward the end of the road, aiming for the impact of a crash us mortals would try to avoid in our everyday lives. But not here. Not where we eagerly anticipated the smack of dense weight against innocent pins that catapulted into the air and fell stoically on their side when they struck the wooden earth. A medical arm reached down and swept them to the back lair, a dark cavernous space masked by black, where the gods and mortals alike did not bother to go because there was nothing behind the curtain that was important enough to see. Instead, patrons stood at the giant conveyor belts, waiting for colorful balls to pop out like Pez while small numbers popped onto computer screens. Maybe this one would be a strike. These bowlers were an interesting lot – balding men with paunchy or bulging bellies – depending on the number of beer pitchers perched at their tables, where slabs of greasy pizza and stone cold french fries were left until the second go-round; aging women who battled against their years, masking the deepening wrinkles under layers of oily foundation and bright blushes and red lips, their dyed hairs molded firmly into place with gels and sprays; middle-aged couples with glazed eyes and few words left to say to one another when they finally escaped the house of screaming kids for a night and ended up here, lulled by the heavy crashes that weren’t followed with whiny cries. A night at the movies would have put them to sleep, which is why they ended up here, slumped tiredly in the haze of neon light and trails of cigarette smoke that crept across the vast room, barely overpowering the pungent odors from sweaty feet and stale beers. Ah yes, this was a Friday night at the Bowling Alley – the place to come when you had nothing better to do – which happens a lot in a small town. And that’s what kept this place alive.

- Written on March 4, 2012