Monthly Archives: December 2012


Post-apocalypse –

what am I supposed to do

with all this jerky?

I’d Like To See A ‘Start of the World’ Party

Minutes, Hours, Days
Weeks, Months, Years

First beers
Conversations, Calendars
The end of one
The start of something new

Begin to picture
The freedom
Of the Mayan Calendar’s end

Merry Christmas and thanks for reading


“do you want the back half of my everything?”

i knew what i would be getting myself into when i finally left robert. but it had to be done and so here i was, sitting on my mother’s living room couch at 1:30am with a stack of worn-out sheets and blankets and a threadbare pillow from 1981 piled high as i watched late night tv in the dark.

the house was cold as usual and lonely as usual and it smelled like stale cigarette smoke as usual. i wasn’t looking at the tv. i was looking at my bulging suitcase tilted against the wall and wondering how i had even gotten it sufficiently closed. wondering how i had managed to lug it on the train from newton all the way back to malden when it must’ve weighed, my best guess, about a thousand pounds. i rolled my eyes and curled my feet under me. i fished through the faded glass ashtray on the coffee table for a salvageable cigarette butt. i found one but promptly remembered that i had quit smoking six years ago and tossed it back into the dish in disgust.

caught in the teeth of the suitcase’s front zipper was a stray pink bra strap. i cynically questioned whether it was even mine.

try as i might, i couldn’t remember exactly what robert had said. i played out the conversation over and over but i wasn’t putting everything into the proper sequence, i knew that. there had been shouting, more than a few filthy words, a hefty accusation or two. at one point i am positive he called me a cunt. if i had to put money on it then i’d have to assume that i had called him a faggot, not that i was proud of it. did i spit on him? i can’t possibly be that dramatic, minor in theatre studies be damned. what i do know is that i finally told him that i knew about chicago. it had been about four years and i felt dumb holding onto something like that for so long – and it was a completely moot point after he had admitted to his most recent fuck-around with the girl in brooklyn. but still. it had felt good to get it off my chest. righteous. grimly satisfying. superior.

late night tv is absolutely terrible so i shut it off and leaned back on the most comfortable pile of 30-year-old bedding known to man. i closed my eyes. i dozed. it was five hours ago. i was ringing my mother’s doorbell.

“ellie,” she was imploring, “what’s wrong?” and then she was understanding what a dumb question that was and she was opening the door and opening her arms. “i don’t have my keys, i’m sorry,” i was crying. her sweatshirt was getting damp. it was my fault.

i was asleep now. i was dreaming. it had happened, all of it. i was sitting dejectedly in the kitchen. wisps of smoke from her half-finished cigarette were wafting up to the stained ceiling. she was urging me to eat, an entirely expected and welcome response. she was shoving a plate towards me; a mostly-eaten bagel covered in sesame seeds and flecks of onion. “ellie, eat. get some food in your stomach.”

“here,” she was asking, hopeful and eager and as helpful as ever.

“do you want the back half of my everything?”

Jesus Christ Is Coming To Town

You better watch out!
You better not cry!
Better not pout,
I’m telling you why:
Jesus Christ is coming to town!

He’s making a list
And checking it twice;
Gonna find out Who’s naughty and nice:
Jesus Christ is coming to town!

He sees you when you’re sleeping,
He knows when you’re awake,
He knows if you’ve been bad or good,
So be good for goodness sake!

O! You better watch out!
You better not cry!
Better not pout,
I’m telling you why:
Jesus Christ is coming,
Jesus Christ is coming,
Jesus Christ is coming to town!

And once again, don’t forget that we’re still taking submissions for our open Sunday writer position! The deadline is Christmas Day, so make sure you get your writing to us! All relevant information can be found in this lovely haiku.

It’s A Metaphor, Fool

The metaphor slinked into the sentence, all piss and whiskey, dripping acid from its sultry grin. It sidled up between the words and the meaning like a renegade cowboy in an out-of-town saloon, looking to bring justice to a lawless place. It shows up unexpectedly — though certainly someone should have seen it coming, place like that — and blows through town, and once it’s gone it’s left an undeniable mark on its victims, as well as the rest of the community. They say that you should stay away from metaphors like that, leave them unmolested, unbothered. But sometimes when it shows up, it’s wearing that tight little skirt and you know that metaphor is asking for it.

The Regulars (part IV)

I was thinking about bringing up Nicole. I had decided that I shouldn’t let this rare opportunity pass. And since Jenny’s a girl, maybe she could give me some pointers on how best to approach a co-worker in a way that was charming and not harassing. Before I had the chance to say anything, the door flew open. As it closed, Mike straddled the seat next to our two person table.

“’Sup?” As he put his gloves and hat down, he sat up straight and tilted his head upwards to get the attention of one of the Wongs. When he did, he gave two quick pokes at the air with his chin. Mr. Wong nodded and gave a thumbs-up sign. Mike then looked at each of us in turn. “One super-power. And only one. What would you choose?”

“The Soviet Union,” I said, giving him a sideways glance.

“Ha ha. You know what I mean.”

I sighed and crinkled up my now-empty tinfoil into a little ball. Francis, the cat I’d had growing up, would have loved to bat it around. Shiny metal lumps always attracted him. “Haven’t we done this before?”

Mike seemed personally affronted. “What, like this isn’t a subject worthy of continued debate? Opinions can’t change? You only get one shot. One. You want to make sure you make the right choice. So what’s your super-power?”

I sighed. “It’s still flight.”

“That’s bullshit. Flight is an awful choice. I keep telling you: invisibility. You can sneak onto a plane if you’re invisible and fly anywhere you want. Free games at Shea, standing next to the guitars at shows, women’s showers. The possibilities are endless, brother.”

“I want to be able to fly. I think it would be a great release.”

“You’re an idiot. Jenny?”

She was looking down at her salad, picking out the jalapeños from the bottom with surgical precision and pushing them to the side of the plate. Without looking up from her operation, she answered immediately. “I want a tail.”

Mike and I looked at each other with brows furrowed, not entirely sure we had heard correctly. I leaned forward. “What? A tail?”

“Yeah, a tail.”

Mike looked around the restaurant as if something on the walls might explain this answer. “What the hell is that? What purpose would that serve?”

“It wouldn’t have a purpose.”

“Then why the hell would you waste your one chance at a paranormal ability on it if it doesn’t have a purpose?”

Jenny shook a pepper off her fork and looked over at him. “Do you know anyone who has a tail?”


“Well, that’s why I’d want one.”

War On Christmas

…to the tune of John Lennon’s “Happy Xmas (War Is Over)”

There’s a War On Christmas,
or didn’t you know?
The liberals hate cookies,
and Jesus and snow.
And so on this Christmas,
don’t ever let go
of our dearest traditions,
down to the last “ho.”

‘Cuz it’s “Merry Christmas,”
not “Happy Holidays.”
Show those who who won’t say it
the error of their ways.

For this War On Christmas
happens every year.
Launch the tinsel missiles,
and arm the reindeer.
It’s JUST “Merry Christmas!”
Don’t take into account
New Year’s and Hanukkah.
(Kwanzaa doesn’t count.)

So it’s “Merry Christmas,”
not “Happy Holidays.”
Show those who who won’t say it
the error of their ways.

War on Christmas
If you say so
War on Christmas