Untitled

by Rachael Harrington

blaster, blubber, horseplay, injury, exact, nightfall

Rose had never played. Not really. As a child she pushed her pristine china doll on a swing hung from a thick branch of the oak tree in front of her house, but even that was done more out of boredom than anything else. Her parents had brought her to a doctor once, fearing something to be wrong with their child, but the doctor told them it was melancholy and to make sure she got plenty of fresh air. This was before Prozac.

So Rose sat day after day on a rickety old rocking chair on the front porch. When other children ran by she would watch them with her dark eyes and say nothing. She sat with her hands folded in front of her and just went back and forth, back and forth.

As Rose lowered herself into her rocker one fine spring morning, she noted that she had been placing herself in this spot for 78 years now. She had seen a lot happen in that time from this spot. Neighbors moving in and out, babies being born and growing up, people aging and withering away. She had watched it all, never partaking. Just observing. Tucking it all away in the files in her brain.

So, this one fine spring day as Rose thought this all over she noticed way off down the street what looked like a small brown bear galloping towards her with what appeared to be a tree hanging from its mouth. Every few loping paces the bear would thrash its head from side to side, breaking off small chunks of branches and sending them flying like grenades through the air. She could hear the snapping and thumping and panting before she could even clearly make out the face of the approaching beast. She calmly braced herself, telling herself that this is how it ends.

But as the monster approached her gate she released the grip on the wooden arms. She realized it was a dog and not a mythical creature sent from the underworld to take her away. It was actually a charming, dopey dog who entered her front yard and dropped it’s ginormous stick in front of itself and perked its ears. The drooling, four legged animal had a tongue that seemed to be two feet too long for its mouth and it stared expectantly at Rose.

Rose wasn’t sure what to do. No one had ever looked at her so directly before. Her whole life, presumably due to her perceived lack of imagination people either averted their eyes or ignored her completely. Even her parents had given up on her and had eventually gone about their lives almost as if she wasn’t there.

And so here they were, a wrinkled old lady on a porch and a young pup now pawing the ground in front of the stick. Rose kept herself seated. She hadn’t moved for anybody her whole life and she wasn’t about to give up that habit.

The dog barked. Just once at first, and then it got more vocal and more vocal until the barks were almost overlapping themselves. Rose still remained seated. The dog went on and on and nudged the stick closer and closer to Rose until it was flopping around the ground in front of the bottom step to the porch. Annoyed and confused, Rose finally stood up, picked up the rocker, went in the front door and parked the rocker in front of the window, which cut down on the racket less than she hoped it would.

A note to our contributors, to ease your anxiety!

Over the last couple of weeks, I've received apologies from many of you that you haven't been able to contribute anything, along with some kind of self-flagellating comment like "I've been so lazy" or "I've been so busy, sorry I suck."

I'd like to address these concerns, if I may. No apologies are ever necessary! The project was conceived as an invitation to play. There's no obligation or expectation on my end. But I think when we are tempted to apologize for not having been creative, it's really ourselves we're apologizing to. We all have this part of our brain that tells us we "should" be creating, we "should" be doing more with our time, and we feel guilty and beat ourselves up when that doesn't happen.

I submit that this little voice of "should" and "should not" in our head actually paralyzes the creative process or, at the very least, sucks all joy out of it. It would be exciting to see what would happen if we let ourselves off the hook a little bit and foster an environment where we create not because we "should" but because it's fun and we want to!

The six words are like a pilot light, always here and always on, ready to ignite your spark when and if it comes. If you don't submit for one week, or two, or many, you have not failed and you don't need to apologize to anybody (least of all yourself). You haven't fallen behind. There's no such thing.

Please remember that you have this miraculous potential to make something out of nothing at any given moment. That potential isn't going anywhere. Each set of words is a new opportunity, a fresh start, just as each and every moment of every day is a new chance to live creatively. If we live in the past, thinking about what we haven't done yet and branding ourselves a failure for it, instead of opening ourselves up to each new moment as it comes, not only will we never get anything done, but we won't be very happy.

At least that's what I think!

Supreme Executive Power

by Matthew Haws

monarchy, riddle, two, dilemma, cranberry, eliminate

Yeah, I remember where I was when Obama proclaimed himself King of America. I was in some dinky convenience store trying to find just the right kind of cranberry juice (organic all-natural unsweetened blah blah blah), my punishment from my irate girlfriend like it was my fault she got a UTI. Well, maybe it was? I don’t really know how these things work. The guy behind the counter had this little TV on and there was the former President explaining how we were now a monarchy. It seemed like a great April Fool’s Day joke, and I even laughed as I half-listened to it, except it was July.

There was another man at the counter buying cigarettes. “That seems like a bad idea,” he said, looking at the television.

“You think?” said the guy behind the counter, with a roll of his eyes.

“Well, that makes Malia next in line, but suppose Sasha challenged her for it? Could be civil war.”

The whole thing was baffling, and I was quite upset. I mean, is “unsweetened” the same thing as “no sugar added?” My instinct told me it was, but my instinct had been wrong on more than one occasion when given a task like this, the sort of task often referred to by you-know-who as quote-unquote “something so simple even you can’t fuck it up” -- which, naturally, I almost always managed to do anyway. I could just see her, staring at the bottle of cranberry juice with a look of incredulity. “Did I say no sugar added? I said unsweetened! I thought you understood basic English! How does an adult male living in 2014 not know the difference between no sugar added and unsweetened for God’s sake?” I stared at the list of ingredients on the back but I had no more possibility of deciphering their meaning than I would an ancient riddle on a recently discovered fragment of Sanskrit text.

“Are you crazy?” said the counter guy, “How’s Sasha gonna claim the throne? She’s definitely younger. Malia is the clear heir. She wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.”

“I’d support her,” said cigarette dude, “I dunno. That Malia always seemed sketchy to me.”

“You’re crazy, pal. Plain crazy.”

I had a real dilemma. I'd narrowed it down to two different types of juice, but neither one seemed exactly right. I thought maybe I'd hedge my bet and just get both. I'd show up with two bottles of cranberry juice and say, "I got twice as much as you asked for because I love you!" Naw, when I thought about it a second time, I knew she'd see right through that. "You didn't know which one to get, did you?" Forget it. I decided just to get one of the two and pretend not to care if she didn't like it. I'd slam the bottle down and say, "If you don't like it, then go yourself, woman! I won't play these games!" It felt good to think that way. I put down the second bottle of juice, then took the first to the register. Then I stopped, hesitated, and went back switched them. Then I just took them both to the counter.

"What do you think?" the cashier asked me.

"Would you side with Sasha or Malia in the civil war?" added the cigarette guy.

"Oh I don't know. I don't really pay attention to politics."

"Enough with the civil war talk," complained counter guy, "We're talking about a king here, a ruler, a monarch. Supreme Executive Power." He looked me straight in the eye. "You really OK with turning over all power over your life to another person?"

"Oh fuck." I said. I'd forgotten to get tampons. I practically ran to go get them.

Bloody Knuckles

by Ryan Krause

flap, knuckles, martyr, capsule, chalk, wreck

This was not the game Joey should have been playing against Frank. They should have flipped a coin or raced from point A to point B. Frank was taller and fatter. His hands were 15 pound weights. This was not the game Joey should have agreed to. But he wasn't going to give up now regardless of the color his knuckles. They had become gray marbly slabs of beef. The thought zipped into his head, was he going to be able to even hold the playstation controller had he won? He didn't care. He was in too deep to deny himself now. And Frank ALWAYS hogged the playstation. Joey was going to make a name for himself once and for all. A martyr for all youngest brothers around the world. THWAP! Frank gave Joey a good one, and smiled afterward. He knew it hurt. Even his knuckles did after that one. He didn't feel guilty though. He was paving Joey's path to manhood. He was giving him lessons in strength. Doing his baby brother a favor. It was Joey's turn again. Pausing for a second he looked Frank dead in the eye, breathed in (thinking how raw the tops of his battered hands felt. He knew if he would go on much longer, his bones would mash into cornmeal causing his hands to be little wingflaps for him to fly away to a home that didn't have an abusive older dickhead brother.) Breathing out, he felt his feet melt firmly into the floor. Cinderblocks. The floor a pool of tar. SHWONK!! This was it. Frank retracted his elbows into his sides at 16 miles per hour, and shrieked like a horror movie. Joey couldn't help himself from apologizing, "Oh my god I'm so sorry!" Frank cussed him out, and told him he hit a nerve ending. Good excuse Frank, goooood excuse. Frank called him one more name and rubbed the nerve ending spot over and over, then whimpered into his bedroom. Chalk one up for younger brothers everywhere!

A New Skyscraper

by Sam Kinsman

fanatical, financial, frightening, glittery, mystery, sugar

Maybe it had been there all along? I’m not the most observant. Head down as I walk, watching out for leaves (can’t crunch them) or stray insects that may need protecting. 

I noticed on Tuesday. Monday I was too busy but I’m sure you knew that already. Bag heavy with freshly graded exams covered in red ink LOTS OF RED THIS WEEK. They didn’t study.

Monday I couldn’t see very well.

Tuesday was crisp and clear. Not unlike the inside of a car wash you know smells faintly of soap, but hopeful. Something good could happen. Cocked my head to the right because I thought I saw a frog that needed help and I saw a glinty glinty sparkle.

High rise. Chrome with big windows. Odd for Portland but maybe the hipsters want to make some money. Won’t their suits smell like desperation?

Couldn’t walk in – no NO I hadn’t met the minimum requirements yet. Just looked. No doorman, revolving door gold trim five six eight above door.

Nameplate? No. Couldn’t ask for entrance by name. Checked watch. Fifteen minutes to spare. Thrill of exploration through my spine. Whispered code, mayIpleasefollowyourrulesandbegoodallIwanttoknowiswhetheryouhaveaplaceformebeca

usetherestofthisfallenworldmakesnosensetomeI’vebeenlookingforsolongIjustneedtobreath

eforasecondsoopenyourbeautifularmstome NOW

When I opened my eyes I was in the lobby. Spotless. Computers humming at the empty desk. No receptionist. They must know I’m here already. Found the elevators really easily because I’m good at finding things and went up to the eighth floor.

Ding Ding Ding Ding Ding Ding Ding

Laughed the whole way up because how can anyone take elevators seriously? They’re so tiny. So self-important! You dumb box your whole purpose is to make my life easier you have no business judging me I’ve got enough of that. I’ve sent too much time trying to impress machines like you and not enough time preparing my heart and soul for Future Wife.

Time Out. Intermission.

A List of Requirements:

1) Perfect Hygiene

2) Caring soul (must be visible)

3) Sweet voice but not loud singer

4) Excellent baker mostly brownies

5) Wants to kiss me

6) Understands why I protect important things

The eighth floor was just how I expected it’d be. They were setting up for the Christmas party and left for some reason so I finished the job as well as I could. The tinsel took a long time. My arms really hurt.

I would say I did about 65% Good Job with the office. Sometimes the cats show up and tell me I’m lowballing and it’s at least 72% but I feel that the gingerbread was shoddy. Not enough frosting. Don’t tell them but I ate a little hehehe!

I kissed the new skyscraper as I left. It’s hard to do your job but when you do it right life feels a lot better. Back to business, as they say!

monday was heavy

tuesday I did my job

Maybe Wednesday she’ll be there