spaghetti war crimes

When we all got news that Hawley was headed back home to Reno, none of us knew what to think. The strongest link in our chainmail, in our holy divine armor, was about to come undone. We had spent countless weeks forging those chains, building what we had come to enjoy for the past couple months, weeks, years? Time has felt odd while in this settlement. One can’t be quite too sure what day it is, what year, what month, what season. It doesn’t help that the weather is perfect with a high of 75 each and every fucking day. Blending the mondays into tuesdays and the tuesdays into wednesdays and so on and so on; so that there is just one blanket of continual day and night that spans for such a time that beards crop out and babies begin primary school. So that relatives pass and that no one can be sure if the ham in the fridge has gone bad. But yea, Hawley’s leaving town. It’s sparked a certain hysteria amongst the group. We’ve all got this trepidation beginning to rear up in our bellies, for...

waterlogged pages bend in awkward ways

          Alexander was a careful young man. He measured up all decisions in his mind before ever taking action. The world of his thoughts was more vivid than the world of forms that danced before him on his cave walls, lit up by the ever-present firelight. Each morning upon rising, Alexander would make himself a fresh pot of coffee. Everyday it was the same amount of the same blend made in the same coffeemaker and poured into the same cup alongside a small amount of the same cream. Alexander measured out 31.8 grams of coffee each day to load into his coffee making machine. That amount was–in his eyes–the perfect ratio for a cup of coffee. Of course, he would only drink a single cup and dump the rest down the sink, but he saw this as a necessary sacrifice in order to obtain the ideal ratio of coffee grounds to hot water in his cup. When ready to measure, he would place the special scale he got as a Christmas gift from his mother on the kitchen counter, do...

father sleeps on our couch he is childlike in posture slumped to his right head resting on a pillow arms tucked into himself i see a twelve year old boy and a sixty two year old man wrapped up at once long day of swimming at the community pool fractured marriage reaching its end overheated from football practice under a sweltering new mexican sun spirit worn by a perturbed son blistered sore feet from evading cowboys and chasing indians childhood sealed by death of both parents while father sleeps it's hard to tell his real age i see a sprawling boy then after a readjustment  of the arms a shift of the legs he is transformed back into an aged man looking with and without eyes i see two different sorts

I fucking hate chess. I don’t know why I suck at it so much. Like, it’s a simple concept: capture their pieces without letting them steal your pieces. So simple but I suck so fucking much. So much! Anyways. Yesterday I went to dinner with one of the girls staying in my hostel room. Her name, I think, was Tsinhe. She’s from China. I first said hi to her two days ago and we spoke very briefly. Then yesterday when I got back from skating, I showed her some of the clothes I bought and got to know her a bit more. I made a little show of pretending to try on the clothing items. It awarded me with a few laughs. I wanted to go to this Chinese place for dinner cause they had rice and miso soup, and I thought that’d be best for my upset stomach. I felt bad asking the Chinese girl to a Chinese restaurant, but I was curious about her. Turns out as we were walking there, the restaurant named Bento Copenhagen is not Chinese but in fact Japanese. Yep. Nice Brennan. When we got there, we realized we ...

i gave him a beer      he taught her to ollie      i've blown my chance

Unrequited (adj.): not returned or reciprocated Love (n.): a profoundly tender, passionate affection, often mingled with sexual desire, for another person Many years ago, I gave a girl I loved a book for her birthday; and since I loved her, I couldn’t just give her any ordinary book. Well, the book was ordinary enough, but I felt that I must imbue it with some special quality. Since I didn’t know any spells or incantations at the time, I settled on something a bit less fantastic. I started on the first page of the book and circled a word, then I continued farther down the page and circled another. Turning the first page, my eyes skimmed the second as I searched for more words to circle. Word by word, I began piecing together a poem for this girl I loved, hidden in plain sight. I got to around the 20th page before I was content with my conglomeration of appropriated words and phrases. I gave her the book and waited for days, then weeks, then months for a text or call or facetime. I don’...