Category Archives: Writing

On the Slide

I lay my back down on the slide

And turn my face up to the sky

The clouds are sailing past the trees

The branches sway and stir their leaves


The wind brushes against my legs

It moves the hairs upon my head

I feel it up and down my arms

The day is nice. The breeze is warm


My glasses rest upon my nose

They’re smudged. I clean them with my clothes

When I take them off my face

I feel the breeze on a new place


I had not known what I had missed

But now I feel I’ve wanted this

A feather touch, forehead to chin

My eyelids blink against the wind


I look again to see the sky

But clouds and light blur in my eyes

The tree above has lost its leaves

Replaced by fuzzy canopy


What a pity! Cannot I

Experience both the wind and sky?

To make me choose my eyes or skin

My eyesight does not let me win



I walk to class with a orchestra of nervous violins screeching just behind my eyes. My neck is tense, and the skin of my temples stretches as my ears strain backwards. Will he give me another chance to present my performance assignment? I slept through the last class session. Now I’m cursing my choice of an 8:30am class. I need to pull my grade up in this class, and what do I do? Sleep right through it. Well done, idiot.

The weight in my stomach drags me back against each step I take, but my nervous energy propels me forwards more quickly, and I make it to class earlier than I normally would. The professor is not yet at his podium, as per usual–he has previously preferred to be no more than thirty seconds early, and he does not presently break pattern.

I sit and wait for his arrival.



I saw the Moon. Did the Moon see me?

Near the edge of where the Earth bit off the Sun’s light, she had a crater.

It was grey and large, a faded scar. Nearby were speckles of darker black, deeper pits in her surface. She shone only brightly around her blemishes.

I stopped on my path and stared. It was quite rude.

Did she see me stare? Or was the night a cover for my gaze?

Perhaps she was blushing; the moonlight was radiant in the night, sanding away the lines and points of the world. As her light soaked the clouds in her face, she revealed their transparency.

The Terrible Truth Behind Happy Bunny

“It’s cute how you think I care.” “I’m happy, don’t wreck it by talking.” “it’s all about me, deal with it.” Who remembers Happy Bunny? Who spent endless minutes sniggering over these witticisms with their friends, secure in the knowledge that this, this was high humor? Comedy of the most refined kind? You could tell by how adults didn’t get it; it went high, high above their unfunny heads. You were superior in your knowledge that this was the greatest thing to happen to the comedic world since that guy who voiced the genie in Aladdin.

Those days are long gone now (I hope), and we have put those days behind us (I tentatively assume). But recently, I stumbled across this notebook emblazoned with these words: “i’m just pretending to take notes.”

And it brought back the memories. Older and wiser as I am, though, I started wondering: who comes up with these things? Here is what my brain provided me with. This is the Terrible Truth Behind Happy Bunny.

A fat bureaucrat sits at the same desk he’s sat at for fifteen years, soullessly approving and denying notebook designs. “‘I’m just pretending to take notes.’ Sounds like the kind of bullsh they’ll like, the puerile little brats.” Overhead, the fluorescent lights rattle and flicker.

The eager young intern suggests uncapitalizing the “I”–because he explains with careful nonchalance, he’d heard from his little sister that it was the cool thing to do these days. “Children,” he may go so far as to mutter fondly, nostalgically shaking his head, firmly ensconced in superiority and adulthood.

The fat bureaucrat is not even annoyed by these antics. He is busy thinking about the lunch sitting in the refrigerator in the break room. He packed it himself this morning in the icy silence his wife managed to project from the bedroom. It contains yesterday’s dinner mixed with yesterday’s lunch in Ziploc bags; all the Tupperware sits unwashed in the sink. More of the wife’s revenge.

“Sir? Sir, what do you think?” The intern’s voice breaks through the haze, and he rouses long enough to grumble, “Yes, yes, acceptable, put it through.” He does not notice as the child goes into ecstasies. At dinner, one family will smile indulgently as their son rambles on about how the Assistant-Design-Checker had listened to his advice and how he was sure to move up in the company soon. Perhaps he could wrangle a favorable reference from the man in a year’s time.

Thus the design is passed along. As predicted, the puerile little brats love it, and the lower-case “i” is indeed considered hip by the withered production team. The intern attempts to take credit, but no one listens to him. Everyone knows interns are too young for good ideas. Eventually, he gains a reputation for brown-nosing–this may or may not be legitimately deserved–and becomes a loner in company’s the social scene.