Tuesday, January 31, 2012


Bottle by Lyle

Had I considered that I was on an island (and you will rightly object that I must have known) I would have reconsidered it as the location for the dinner. I set up the table while my companion strung the lights from the palm trees. The boat was moored along the other side of the island but, despite being able to traverse the island in a matter of a couple of dozen steps, hidden by a small copse of palm trees (the very ones my companion decorated). Once I had set the table I took several photos and gave the camera to my companion who left me to wait for my girlfriend’s arrival. She never came though the high tide did. As the water rose, the palm leaves suddenly looked too seaweedy. This is a drawing of the photo I liked best. It is from memory:

It’s not very good. The shadows are all wrong.


Plurality by Forrest

That shade of her, coming to clear and only again. That setting down, sitting down, all around of her: the good sport. She would set the table and I made the meal. Once, long before that, I made the table from beams of wood and she set the meal elsewhere away, somewhere off to the immediate side of her side. If we ate that meal, it was while I worked and she ate with someone else inside her inside—hence the third person indeterminate. One uses the fork, one uses the knife, and one uses the reflection of utensils against each other, caught in time sparingly for the last evening light.


The Latter Days of the Golden Boy by Bill

I’ve got my train up to speed running through the Discworld. The whole series of books stacked next to my bed, which is a deflated air mattress thrown onto the floor of this ‘loft’ in a converted warehouse and there is a red light in the corner of the ceiling that I cannot reach which never goes off. There are times it looks like glowing watermelon, as if the summer’s in this moisture saturated concrete masoleum of manufacturing will not be vibrantly maleficent. The books at the bottom of the stack are leeching up the fluids, and when I think about how few of those fluids might be water the light turns into a dim, far-away sun, weak and dying just barely able to sustain itself and much of its solar system long long ago having plunged into the near absolute zero range as the void surrounding them sucks the heat like giant wasps raiding a beehive, crushing them into solid, unmoving death. I can’t bear to look at the light directly then, and only chance to glance askance lest it finally, fatally, goes out for good.


“MIAMI” + “SOUTH BEACH” + “UFO” by Alan

UFO delivers final hours of... 

BULIC - 2 hours ago

“I think, …makes it alright to believe in such things as UFOs because, ... famed Professor Reginald George of the University of Florida, …

Crew flee as boat smashes against…

EIGHTmsn - 13 hours ago 

... the northern wall of the Seed Bar on the New South Collins border, ... the breakwall at, … near Null Heads, … Eight News reported.

UFO sightings off the charts worldwide in wake of historic solar storm

BULIC - 5 days ago

Locals here at this popular UFO sighting location at Salient Point -- and down the state coast at nearby, … said they “breathed an, …

Gold Coast police find French man's body

EIGHTmsn - 18 hours ago

... at Fisherman's Cove at Main Beach about 8pm (EST) on Sunday, police say, ... it could be anything from an underwater Stonehenge to a crashed, ...

I Shall Be Released: A New Beginning

NewCityBeat - Oct 6, 2023

... Idlewild East in 1998 and the nearly inconceivable heights achieved by, .... of similarly inspired friends have turned their love of The Beach Boys, ...

Stay up to date on these results:
Create an email alert for “miami” + “south beach” + “UFO


Almost Outside by Johanna

Writers write about coffee shops because that is where they spend their time writing. Writers believe coffee shops make them more productive even after spending ten minutes discussing the differences  between espressos, cappuccinos and machiattos with the barista who went to coffee college. Writers believe they are more productive in coffee shops even after spending ten minutes pretending to type while they eavesdrop on a couple of tourists speaking in Spanish about how this town is overrated and they should head back to Santa Fe. Writers like the way Spanish people say Santa Fe, putting the accent on the first syllable instead of the second. Writers like to hide themselves inside of their characters, illuminating the things they would otherwise keep to themselves. Writers in coffee shops hate the way the sunlight through the window creates a glare on their laptop screen. Writers in coffee shops like the way the sunlight through the window makes them feel like they're almost outside. Writers are almost outside, like the reflection of street signs in their utensils. Writers prefer to write in coffee shops with wooden stir sticks instead of reflective utensils.

Monday, January 2, 2012

Texas 287

Christmas Light Larger This Year by Johanna

The light of Christmas was larger this year according to holiday researchers. As usual, women toiled through the menial but loving tasks – baking, wrapping, addressing envelopes – while men forged ahead with warrior stamina amongst the forthright commercialism of the dark side. Even with so large a light, Christmas remained dim as people everywhere borrowed from the light to feed the darkness.

Even Santa Claus was unable to resist the dark forces. Giving the elves the year off without pay and blaming it on the recession, he opened a factory in Chengdu where he didn't have to provide employee health care. “No one believes in me here anyway,” Santa Claus said about his move to China.

The Obama Administration called a state of emergency. “The little light that remains will have to be protected from the well-intentioned but prolific screenwriters of Hallmark Christmas movies, in order that future generations of Americans might still be able to enjoy it,” President Obama said during a press conference yesterday. When asked how he was going to do this, President Obama replied, “All I can say for now is that the light will be kept safe.”

Early this morning, Wikileaks resurfaced temporarily to bring us important news. According to emails sent between the Obama Administration and Santa Claus, Americans everywhere have been unknowingly hiding the Christmas light out in the open where no one could have suspected. Apparently, people have been stringing it from rooftops and tossing it over ornamental bushes in their very own backyards. The Obama Administration has yet to respond to these allegations, but Santa confirmed late this afternoon that the emails are true and apparently all of those Christmas lights were made in China. 


Untitled by Bill

The albinos have gotten whiter and the drunks have gotten drunker. Holidays in the Legion Post bar start seemingly as a tradition and turn into the chance to view people turning into their parents. The moms are bombed since they stood in their robes for their graduation pictures with a seven month bump and everyone, us included, have thickened just like the gravy we’ll have tomorrow at dinner. We’re rounded out in the face. This is not a puffiness. There is no botox here. There was no air pump hooked up to the sides of our heads. More a callous. A building up of the weary worries. Fresh-Scent spray polish smell of divorce court desks poisoning us; the tightrope walk of staying as close to zero in the bank without going over like our lives are game shows in reverse; staring across the table at in-laws you cannot stand to look at and you hope that one of these times they fall off the stool just a little bit harder, a little more dramatically, and do some real damage when they hit the floor. Eventually we’ll all drag ourselves off to mass around midnight.


Krikor’s Closet by Alan

In the room there were candles. And in the candles there was light. And in the light there was hope. A kind of trinity. A kind of memory.

He loved the number three. This I remember about Krikor. And he loved memory. He loved to get swept up by it during midnight shifts, revel at the dips and brace himself for the uphill climbs as if it were a ride at an amusement park. If life were to end in 2012, he’d think, there is nowhere else I’d like to be. He’d dance with his mop. He’d romance the air.

I know this because he used to confide in me. It was during the holidays, always during the holidays, when we’d gather in the basement of the church and Sonia would made boreg and someone would bring the right kind of lahmajoun from Jersey and all of our mouths would stink from the garlic and onions and feta, especially Krikor’s. I know this because he’d lean in real close and tell me about how this place, this place was his home, and I’d forget the ride in, upstairs, the world outside, my family, everything even, until he disappeared in the dark.


multiplicity by lyle

the audacity of hope is what i thought first
something i was pretty sure
a second opinion is for failures and there were 287 of them so many second opinion all second opinions so many candles so many failures so little control
but in all probability so much relief something i know nothing about
even after shitting there is not so much relief as exhaustion and shitting in a shrine bathroom?
it must be part of the shrine if it is called the shrine bathroom
about on par as far as exhaustion is concerned actually i thought it would be more — more something the way religion is always more

in the mirror i practice furrowing my brow just the slightest twist up — down concern pain anger happiness though i don’t recognize this one so well — over and over — i don’t actually feel any of those emotions as i do them but i imagine someone seeing me and think they might feel those things just watching as i do them

my own empathy with someone watching me do something that may mean something to someone empathetic but not the emotions

the brief concatenations of drunkenness though i cannot say that i was drunk for it may have been the inevitability of humanness and are they different? drunkeness/humanness: the state of being something? being something which is to say asking for something lighting a candle so to speak the flame eating at the wax until either it so slowly expires or the proprietor snuffs it out so that someone else can so quickly light it again — their own failure then flickering and licking itself

287 candles
so specific
so specific a number of failures in a little town in texas
but i’ll believe it if only for a moment.


Tithe by Forrest

I don’t like to recall you. This is when you are quite improper in your offertory singing behind me once you were done singing in front of me. Your mild despicableness. Knowing I am perfectly known by no one. I—if I’m allowed to talk in here—I have my ways about me, the same as keeping an uncharged fire extinguisher next to all those content, glowing votives. Where does my attention go, sent scattering over the floor at your heels, supposedly? Not anywhere today. Today I put a slip of special paper, a donation in your name, in the collection box. I just got a saint I haven’t seen who gave me something like hard-earned money.