One of These Days...
Emily Riesenberg
Peter woke up at 11:17 a.m. to the sound of Silverstein's "Here Today, Gone Tomorrow" blowing up his cell phone. "SHIT!" he yells. Jumping out of bed frantically, Peter throws on the same destroyed jeans he wore yesterday and grabs a shirt out of the pile of clothes covering the hardwood floor.
He checks his appearance in the mirror as he quickly brushes his teeth. His shaggy brown hair is matted to his head, his eyes barely visible through his bangs. He spits in the sink and turns back to the mirror. Peter runs his fingers through his hair, shrugs his shoulders in approval and drops a flat billed hat on his head. He checks his cell phone for the time and runs out the door, grabbing his skateboard on the way out.
Racing down the stairs in Stratford Heights, Peter stops at the market to grab a small breakfast, settling for a Mountain Dew. He takes a sip as he walks out the door, hops on his skateboard and is finally on his way to practice.
Cruising down the street, Peter begin's to think about the day's events. First order of business, band practice, if he makes it in time. It was scheduled to start at 11:30, which was rapidly approaching. Next up, homework (yay college!), and if he was lucky, he would get to see Carrie, his newest crush. Before he could get too carried away with his obsession, Peter arrived at a little brick ranch house with blue shutters.
Inside the basement awaited his three best friends and fellow bandmates; Landon, the Italian and ruggedly good looking lead singer, Ryan, the smart-yet-lacking-common-sense guitarist, and Chris, the sloppy and insanely original yet hilarious drummer.
"Way to show up on time, slick!" Chris yells as Peter walks in the door.
"Yeah, whatever, man! I'm two minutes late." says Peter, half heartedly defending himself.
"Well pass the tardy sauce," Chris taunts.
"Shut up, let's play!" Landon chimes in.
The four hopefuls pick up their instruments and start to play their newest single. A song entitled "Write Out Loud," written by Peter about a secret love.
"One of these days," Peter thought, "one of these days..."
Friday, November 7, 2008
Lupon draws a comic
By: Cole Emoff
Lupon is reading a newspaper.
"Hey Trumpernaught, pass me the fuckin' newspaper!"
"But Lupon, you already have it."
"I know that you fuckin' dickweed."
"Lupon, check out the comic on the bottom of the page."
Lupon's weird bird type animal face glances down to the bottom of the newspaper. He sees a comic strip and reads it aloud.
" 'I failed the fucking test.' 'Well I passed it Lupon.' (next frame) 'But I fucking copied off you!' (next frame) 'Yo Teach, you failed me on the test! Me and Trumpernaught had the same answers. What gives?' (next frame) 'Well let me take a look at the test... Well for instance on number 23 Trumpernaught put I don't know and you put Me niether!' "
"What the fuck? These prickle dicks used us for their fucking comic! I'm gonna go teach 'em who's boss."
"I don't think that's such a good idea, Lupon."
"Get the fuck outta my way." Lupon says as he throws a glass vase that shatters over Trumpernaughts head.
Lupon is somehow inside of the President's office who runs the newspaper.
"Hey buttcandy, you made a comic strip out of me and my friend without asking us!"
Moving his head in awkward motions, tilting it from side to side, the man says, "Umm, I'm not the one who draws the comics here, I'm just the guy in charge."
"Well, you're gonna learn a lesson when you learn how to put your butt up your asshole and blow horse radish out of your nose, you fucking asshole!"
Lupon picks up the half man, half chicken and throws him out of the ten story window. The chicken/man falls to his death.
"Now I just gotta find the fucker who drew the comic strip."
"Uh oh Lupon." Trumpernaught says "Look who drew the comic strip."
Lupon takes a closer look at the comic strip and sees that it says "Author: Lupon"
"What the fuck!?" Lupon says as he closes his eyes and sees himself at a table in an office wearing a button up shirt and glasses while painting a comic strip.
Lupon picks up the dead chicken/man/newspaper company president and starts pouring out tears.
"What have I done, Trumpernaught?! What... have... I... Done..."
Lupon falls to his knees ever so slowly and looks up to the sky as he continues to cry.
Just another day
Pushing the button on the silver coffee maker, Jasmine scratched her forehead before looking around the kitchen. Her small brown eyes darted to the black clock on the wall. It read 6:45.
Am I forgetting to do something?, she asked herself biting her bottom lip. Biting her lips was something she did whenever she was nervous or concentrating. When she was younger her mother had tried everything to get her to stop. Her lips once rosy and soft, were now filled with small black spots from years of biting. After staring into space, Jasmine bent at her waist to lift a rack of tall water glasses. Carefully placing the glasses next to the pop machine, Jasmine wiped the water that had sipped leaked from the faucet.
The kitchen door suddenly swung open and out strutted a stocky young man with cropped hair. Adjusting his black and gray stripped tie, the man ran his hand over the front of his suit jacket.
"Do you have your game face on today?", he asked glancing in Jasmine's direction.
"Why are we going to be busy today?," she asked. The corners of her mouth slowly began to rise. I can finally put a dent in my debt, she thought to herself.
"You should always be ready, the restaurant could be busy at any time," he said.
Rolling her eyes and letting out a huge sigh, Jasmine began to frown. I don't know why I get my hopes up, she thought to herself.
7:00 Jasmine murmured to herself . I guess I will just have to deal with another slow day, she thought. She pulled her wavy brown hair into a ponytail that hung loosely at the base of her neck. She grabbed her blue apron and tightly secured it around her waist. She took one final look at her reflection and forced a huge smile on her face. She began humming to herself as she walked out of the kitchen and into the dining room.
Am I forgetting to do something?, she asked herself biting her bottom lip. Biting her lips was something she did whenever she was nervous or concentrating. When she was younger her mother had tried everything to get her to stop. Her lips once rosy and soft, were now filled with small black spots from years of biting. After staring into space, Jasmine bent at her waist to lift a rack of tall water glasses. Carefully placing the glasses next to the pop machine, Jasmine wiped the water that had sipped leaked from the faucet.
The kitchen door suddenly swung open and out strutted a stocky young man with cropped hair. Adjusting his black and gray stripped tie, the man ran his hand over the front of his suit jacket.
"Do you have your game face on today?", he asked glancing in Jasmine's direction.
"Why are we going to be busy today?," she asked. The corners of her mouth slowly began to rise. I can finally put a dent in my debt, she thought to herself.
"You should always be ready, the restaurant could be busy at any time," he said.
Rolling her eyes and letting out a huge sigh, Jasmine began to frown. I don't know why I get my hopes up, she thought to herself.
7:00 Jasmine murmured to herself . I guess I will just have to deal with another slow day, she thought. She pulled her wavy brown hair into a ponytail that hung loosely at the base of her neck. She grabbed her blue apron and tightly secured it around her waist. She took one final look at her reflection and forced a huge smile on her face. She began humming to herself as she walked out of the kitchen and into the dining room.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Wine and Crayons by: sarah rovito
As soon as Michael and I walked into the supermarket I could feel myself needing a drink. There were certain things I needed and there were certain things Michael needed.I needed milk and toilet paper and ground beef, Midol for the pains and red wine for the other pains. Onions and garlic and tomato sauce. Perhaps some fancy shaped pasta just in case Henry ever decides to come for dinner again. Michael needed diapers, Play-Doh, applesauce, and crayons. He pulls me hard with one of his large, fleshy, sticky hands towards the cake display.
“Mom, can I? Can I? Can I?”
“Michael! Stop shouting!” I explode.
He presses his innocent, sticky face on the glass window of the case and eyes the colorful graduation, birthday, and congratulation cakes with lust. I remember for his birthday last year I got him a store bought cake with a clown on it holding a bunch of colored balloons on which were written, “Happy 17th Birthday, Michael.” He cried when I scolded him for eating it with his hands.
I take him by the arm and we move onward. There are more things I need. I need makeup and pantyhose for the job interviews, a fresh pack of ballpoint pens, envelopes, and whiteout. Michael needs handiwipes and Kool-Aid mix and Band-aids with dinosaurs on them. As I watch him systematically fondle himself, pick his nose, and suspiciously eye the lobster tank all at once, I realize there are things we both need that are not on my list. I need hope and support and sanity. I need comfort and strength. Michael needs friends who are like him, acceptance, and a complete brain.
“Michael!” I bark, as I swat his hands, “18-year-old boys do not do that in public.” And I take his arm and we go to get more red wine.
“Mom, can I? Can I? Can I?”
“Michael! Stop shouting!” I explode.
He presses his innocent, sticky face on the glass window of the case and eyes the colorful graduation, birthday, and congratulation cakes with lust. I remember for his birthday last year I got him a store bought cake with a clown on it holding a bunch of colored balloons on which were written, “Happy 17th Birthday, Michael.” He cried when I scolded him for eating it with his hands.
I take him by the arm and we move onward. There are more things I need. I need makeup and pantyhose for the job interviews, a fresh pack of ballpoint pens, envelopes, and whiteout. Michael needs handiwipes and Kool-Aid mix and Band-aids with dinosaurs on them. As I watch him systematically fondle himself, pick his nose, and suspiciously eye the lobster tank all at once, I realize there are things we both need that are not on my list. I need hope and support and sanity. I need comfort and strength. Michael needs friends who are like him, acceptance, and a complete brain.
“Michael!” I bark, as I swat his hands, “18-year-old boys do not do that in public.” And I take his arm and we go to get more red wine.
Drill Baby, Drill by Michael Vernon
Deeper and deeper the drill went, vibrating the whole platform. John’s knees were shaking almost as much as the floor he was standing on. He knows he shouldn’t be this nervous, that he’s been on hundreds of oil drills before, but this one seemed different. First of all, they have never drilled this deep before. Secondly, something seemed to be trying to stop the crew form drilling here. The derrick took three times as long to build than what’s normal. Freak accidents, such as trucks getting lost, random dust storms, and even a meteorite hitting the tower, are what caused such delays. John never gave much thought to superstition, but this project can’t help but send shivers down his spine.
Steve, looking at the dials that showed how deep the drill was, yelled to John.
“Five-thousand, two-hundred, sixty feet, sir. Just twenty more to go.”
Great, thought John. Soon this will be over, and I can tell my nerves to stop break dancing in my stomach.
The oil company’s new oil-imaging computer is the reason why the crew is digging in this Godforsaken part of the Texas plains. The land was flat, barren, and nothing green and growing as far as the eye could see. It was technically not dry enough to be considered a desert, but that made the lifelessness even more frightening. Wasteland was the only word for it, but the computers found something of value down in the depths beneath the cracked ground, something so valuable that it caused the oil company to invest so much money on this outrageous endeavor. A huge area of blackness, a mile under the surface and extending farther than the sensors could, was viewed by the money-hungry executives and caused their mouths to leak. No one could believe that such a vast expanse of oil was possible, but when the computer showed black, that meant black gold. John was called in.
“John, you’re the best drill manager we have. We don’t want anyone else on a project this important, and this profitable."
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll get right on it.”
Now, nine months later, John wishes he would have said no, even if it would have cost him his job. He couldn’t explain it, but this sight just felt…evil.
“Ten more feet, John.”
Great, he thought, it’s like some demented New Year’s countdown…
“Nine”
Yep, his stomach is really going now.
“Eight”
Is the sky getting darker?
“Seven”
Thank you, Dick Clark…
“Oi, it just jumped a couple of feet! We’re at four now.”
Ok, more like Regis that one time he did it.
“Three”
Wait, oil should have started bubbling by now…
“Two”
Like a silent gunshot, the drill shaft suddenly got sucked through the hole. John looked wide-eyed at the pit oil should be gushing out of.
“What the hell?” Steve yelled.
Quietly, a small noise began. It started as a slight screeching, barely audible amongst the shouting of the derrick-workers. John heard it, though, and it grew louder. Different sounds started to mingle with the screech, deathly bellows, blood curdling screams, the cries of things unimaginable. As the noises grew louder, the workers stopped their yelling and listened, horrified. John, though, had heard from the beginning, and had time to gather his wits. He grabbed the P.A. from the control room wall.
“Everyone off the tower!”
It was not soon enough, though. As the sound reached a deafening pitch, a blast of fire shot out of the hole in the ground, climbing up the tower and melting everything in its path. John looked on in horror as his whole crew, save Steve and a few technicians, died in a baleful blaze. Dropping the microphone, he noticed a fiery figure shoot through the inferno, then another, and another. Dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of the demonic figures rose up though the flames, circling the sky like hellspawn vultures. John’s mouth said the words, “My God, what have we done?” His mind was too busy trying to get his feet disconnected from the floor.
Steve, looking at the dials that showed how deep the drill was, yelled to John.
“Five-thousand, two-hundred, sixty feet, sir. Just twenty more to go.”
Great, thought John. Soon this will be over, and I can tell my nerves to stop break dancing in my stomach.
The oil company’s new oil-imaging computer is the reason why the crew is digging in this Godforsaken part of the Texas plains. The land was flat, barren, and nothing green and growing as far as the eye could see. It was technically not dry enough to be considered a desert, but that made the lifelessness even more frightening. Wasteland was the only word for it, but the computers found something of value down in the depths beneath the cracked ground, something so valuable that it caused the oil company to invest so much money on this outrageous endeavor. A huge area of blackness, a mile under the surface and extending farther than the sensors could, was viewed by the money-hungry executives and caused their mouths to leak. No one could believe that such a vast expanse of oil was possible, but when the computer showed black, that meant black gold. John was called in.
“John, you’re the best drill manager we have. We don’t want anyone else on a project this important, and this profitable."
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll get right on it.”
Now, nine months later, John wishes he would have said no, even if it would have cost him his job. He couldn’t explain it, but this sight just felt…evil.
“Ten more feet, John.”
Great, he thought, it’s like some demented New Year’s countdown…
“Nine”
Yep, his stomach is really going now.
“Eight”
Is the sky getting darker?
“Seven”
Thank you, Dick Clark…
“Oi, it just jumped a couple of feet! We’re at four now.”
Ok, more like Regis that one time he did it.
“Three”
Wait, oil should have started bubbling by now…
“Two”
Like a silent gunshot, the drill shaft suddenly got sucked through the hole. John looked wide-eyed at the pit oil should be gushing out of.
“What the hell?” Steve yelled.
Quietly, a small noise began. It started as a slight screeching, barely audible amongst the shouting of the derrick-workers. John heard it, though, and it grew louder. Different sounds started to mingle with the screech, deathly bellows, blood curdling screams, the cries of things unimaginable. As the noises grew louder, the workers stopped their yelling and listened, horrified. John, though, had heard from the beginning, and had time to gather his wits. He grabbed the P.A. from the control room wall.
“Everyone off the tower!”
It was not soon enough, though. As the sound reached a deafening pitch, a blast of fire shot out of the hole in the ground, climbing up the tower and melting everything in its path. John looked on in horror as his whole crew, save Steve and a few technicians, died in a baleful blaze. Dropping the microphone, he noticed a fiery figure shoot through the inferno, then another, and another. Dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of the demonic figures rose up though the flames, circling the sky like hellspawn vultures. John’s mouth said the words, “My God, what have we done?” His mind was too busy trying to get his feet disconnected from the floor.
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