by Owen Myers
The little boy darts down-field. Kicks the soccer ball with each furious stride. His mother and father cheer from the bleachers. The pitter-patter of five-year-old feet at his back. His foot strikes. The goalie leans against the goal as if he knows it’s useless to try and stop this divine kick. The ball plunges into the net and the little boy leaps into the air. He’s done it. He’s scored his only goal of the season.
But no one is cheering.
Coach comes up to the little boy.
“What’s wrong?” the little boy asks.
“You scored for the other team.”
Owen Myers is a human being.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
The Novice Writer
by Eddie Lane
A man by the name of Timson was elated when he heard from an old colleague of his that he was going to be featured in a compendium of works with a series of great and known writers. Though mesmerized by the knowledge of his potential gains and his chance at a new life, he was worried that he was selected as an author when he had hardly written anything at all, and such mysterious good fortune had irked him. Disregarding these notions he ran home to tell his grandfather of the wondrous news only to find him rape murdered.
Eddie Lane is a novice writer.
A man by the name of Timson was elated when he heard from an old colleague of his that he was going to be featured in a compendium of works with a series of great and known writers. Though mesmerized by the knowledge of his potential gains and his chance at a new life, he was worried that he was selected as an author when he had hardly written anything at all, and such mysterious good fortune had irked him. Disregarding these notions he ran home to tell his grandfather of the wondrous news only to find him rape murdered.
Eddie Lane is a novice writer.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Mathlete
by Kevin Schwoer
As Ian lay there naked, he thought back to how this all happened. With three hours left to the last party of high school, Ian had finally liquored himself up enough to tell Lacey how he felt. Well miss innocent, top of her class, mathlete wasn’t so innocent after all. Two sloppy kisses and a few clanked teeth later they had landed on some random bed. What happened there was primal, visceral, and frankly, downright sick. Basically, it was the greatest night of Ian’s life. All the years of waiting had been worth every bit of it. Even the herpes.
Kevin Schwoer is a struggling screenwriter who did not base this story off his real life.
As Ian lay there naked, he thought back to how this all happened. With three hours left to the last party of high school, Ian had finally liquored himself up enough to tell Lacey how he felt. Well miss innocent, top of her class, mathlete wasn’t so innocent after all. Two sloppy kisses and a few clanked teeth later they had landed on some random bed. What happened there was primal, visceral, and frankly, downright sick. Basically, it was the greatest night of Ian’s life. All the years of waiting had been worth every bit of it. Even the herpes.
Kevin Schwoer is a struggling screenwriter who did not base this story off his real life.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Italian Regents Essay Prep
by Danielle Apfelbaum
The few words we knew, we knew well: compleanno, sorpressa, torta, morire. The canned situations – a cinch: we could humor the crossing guard, flirt with the malcontent waitress sardonically bearing her breasts at the bar. We could ditch of the dull museo, find the stadium, chug birra fredda. The trick: filling the page after that. But there would always be weather and some way to feel about something. There would be birthdays, too – an ambush in an unexpected place: family, candles, cake. And to conclude, to put the whole damn test to bed, we’d have our sweet protagonists drop dead.
D. S. Apfelbaum is studying to be an archivist. She blogs at http://thebookofdan.wordpress.com/.
The few words we knew, we knew well: compleanno, sorpressa, torta, morire. The canned situations – a cinch: we could humor the crossing guard, flirt with the malcontent waitress sardonically bearing her breasts at the bar. We could ditch of the dull museo, find the stadium, chug birra fredda. The trick: filling the page after that. But there would always be weather and some way to feel about something. There would be birthdays, too – an ambush in an unexpected place: family, candles, cake. And to conclude, to put the whole damn test to bed, we’d have our sweet protagonists drop dead.
D. S. Apfelbaum is studying to be an archivist. She blogs at http://thebookofdan.wordpress.com/.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Fertilizer
by Alex Megaro
My dad is a man who loves his garden. What he hates are shrews that won’t leave his garden alone. Every day I hear his complaints about the shrews stealing from him, and how they have taken hold of his hollow wood, or something. He says they are nothing but rodents from Hell. I think he is right because they annoy him. He takes me in to Bernstein’s Greenhouse and has me hold his garden hatchet. He says “We are gonna end this shrew problem right now. This is no longer mein kampf. It’s our kampf.” I love my dad.
Alex Megaro is a New York based filmmaker/writer who will soon be eradicated thanks to science!
My dad is a man who loves his garden. What he hates are shrews that won’t leave his garden alone. Every day I hear his complaints about the shrews stealing from him, and how they have taken hold of his hollow wood, or something. He says they are nothing but rodents from Hell. I think he is right because they annoy him. He takes me in to Bernstein’s Greenhouse and has me hold his garden hatchet. He says “We are gonna end this shrew problem right now. This is no longer mein kampf. It’s our kampf.” I love my dad.
Alex Megaro is a New York based filmmaker/writer who will soon be eradicated thanks to science!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)