'Next Time They Will Wow Them With The Shiny Stuff' by Ben Hoffman
Luckily, the Indians see them coming. They see the sails. They are picnicking, the Indians. They have spread their blankets up on the rocks, where there is a sea breeze that goes well with their Pinot Blanc. From up there, they see the sails, and then the ships bouncing in the waves.
So: They put away the good stuff. They hide their iPods. They haul their TVs up trees, bind them to the highest branches. They bury their DVD collections deep in the dirt. They sink their SUVS in the lake (they have to roll up their sleeves, lean out of their canoes, and hold the vehicles down until they stay down). They eat all the junk food, gorge themselves on fruit snacks and chocolate chip cookies until they feel they will burst and their chins are stained (wild berry juice, they will tell the strangers). They burn all the receipts. They disguise their lawnmowers as deer. They send their most beautiful women west. Donât ever turn back, they tell them. Take the Xboxes. Take the Xanax.
When the strangers land, when they come sick and tired off the ships, the Indians offer them their very best: gourds, pumpkins, spoiled corn. The strangers have no manners. They could use some sunscreen. They could use some floss. Their belt buckles remind the Indians of their fine silverware, packed safely away.
What are you about, the strangers ask. They point and wave their arms in giant circles so the Indians will understand. The Indians tell them (tell them with straight faces, no lessâonly a few children giggle: what a great joke this is!) that they worship the sun and the moon. Also the rain and the trees. The wolf. The earth, which glistens, as if packed with jewels.
Ben Hoffman was voted most likely to instinctively mispronounce multisyllabic words. (Story originally published in Treehouse)
If we drew a line down the center & filled it
with cocaine, and if the New York Times came
with straws, what would happen at the other
end, when it was gone? Where would we reach?
It's summer in New York, and raining.
White crosswalks slick on the street. I tan: the scars
turn white. Skinny gallery girls watch my arms
from behind their white desks. If I wanted
my face to go numb I'd just ask you to hit me.
I did, once. Felt like my body had swum for too long
in a cold sea, and this was the only way to find it.
Denmark, surrounded, blew up their navy before surrendering
and their scientists dipped cocaine kerchiefs in bunny blood
to numb the Nazi dogs' noses, searching. Meanwhile
Jews escaped in fishing boats to Sweden.
If we poured it in Chelsea, near where the river
rose almost to 10th Avenue in the storm, could that be an escape?
And on the other side â still ourselves, but different.
Monica Wendel was voted Most Confident Middle Child.
Dangerous substance: âThe following photos are of the graffiti artist Brain Hellman's various tags put up in and around the Carolina Beach, North Carolina area with photos 1-3 having been taken at the north end of the old Snow's Cut Bridge and photographs 4-6 being located at the abandoned Dow Chemical Plant. Brain Hellman had nothing to say."
Jack Essenberg was voted Most Likely to Never Leave.
Is Crossfit the worst cult?
Yesterday the gym staff
was watching Chick-Fil-A commercials.
I want a job
swimming in Polynesian sauce.
If the temperature keeps rising,
oceans will turn into
liquid dead zones.
The march to disaster
needs a playlist.
Effusive balls of light
shower urban gardens.
Ke$ha isnât the first in hot pants
but she uses so much glitter
I feel positive enough
to buy life insurance.
Tracy Dimond was voted most likely to use a sticker as a band-aid.
Today is the fourth anniversary of her sisterâs death, and she has dressed the cat accordingly: a frizzy blonde wig from the doll shop, white nightgown, red robe. At the back of the garage sits a scale model of Meg Ryanâs pink kitchen from Sleepless in Seattle. She has peeled a crabapple from her backyardâperfectly peeled it in one curling strip, skin still attached just below the stemâand set the apple on the miniature kitchen table next to a small toy knife.
When she places Dizzy on set, she speaks to the cat from behind her tripod. She tries to create a mood for each shoot and todayâs mood is wistfulness.
She waitsâonly for a fraction of a second, hesitatesâjust in case Dizzy might finally take the opportunity to participate in the conversation. The cat remains quiet, complacent in the photo session but unwilling to reciprocate in any two-way communication.
ââŠmagic,â she says, holding her m for a beat, humming the word like Hanks. If her sister were here, she would know the line. She would know to play the role of weeping Meg Ryan, sigh and lean her head into the radio, whisper magic just a little bit earlier than her Hanks. But her sister is deadâdead to her, anywayâand the cat is beginning to nip at the lacy hem of his nightgown.
After a relatively successful session, she undresses Dizzy and releases him back into the wilds of her overstuffed bungalow. She clears last nightâs dishes off her computer desk so that she can sit down, plug in her camera, and begin the long process of uploading and editing the photos. She hears a muffled crash. Dizzy has most likely knocked the laundry basket off the ironing board in the kitchen. She will address this later; for now, itâs noon, and she is running behind.
By two, she has selected the perfect photo, adjusted the color and contrast, and corrected the silvery reflection that washes out Dizzyâs eyeballs, every time, gives him that eerie emptiness. She types across the bottom of the photo, She could peel an apple in one long, curly strip.
She posts the photo on Dizzyâs blog, just in time, and goes about the business of promotion. By sunset, the photo has been liked two hundred and sixty-some-thousand times, shared, re-blogged, and tweeted, not the mention emailed and otherwise earmarked. A successful endeavor, sheâll add this one to the file on her desktopâFuture Dizzy Books.
Her agent has asked her to write a childrenâs book, but she isnât much of a storyteller. Captioning photos is a different animal, and often Dizzyâs followers do it for her. Before her sister left, they had discussed the possibility of a childrenâs book. Her sister would write it and she would take the photos. Back then, Dizzyâs brand was just taking off, but the sisters knew appealing to a younger generation would afford him more longevity.
But now, Dizzyâs place in pop culture seems unshakeable. A young movie star had once offered her fifty thousand dollars to adopt him, and, to be honest, sheâd considered it. Her sister wasnât around anymore and the thought of building all those intricate sets by herself was enough to send her into a days-long panic attack. In the end, sheâd decided to keep the cat, and after a brief sabbatical, sheâd figured out how to get everything done. Money from Dizzyâs endorsement deals allowed her to contract out the set design to a nearby community collegeâs theatre department. On Wednesdays, she meets with an accountant, and on Thursdays, her business manager. She doesnât have to go it alone, not as long as thereâs money to employ.
With the photo shot and posted and the weekend looming, she begins to make a list of possible themes for the next week. The last Dizzy Newsletter had asked for suggestions and one person had written back: famous dictators throughout history.
Itâs an interesting idea, something she hasnât done before, but it will be tricky figuring out the line. Might a fat little Dizzy dressed up as Mussolini ruffle some feathers? She doesnât know.
She decides instead to spend next week shooting famous works of art. Sheâs done it before. When the success of her Western Renaissance series led to the first of Dizzyâs four coffee table books, she decided it was all right to revisit the theme. This time, sheâll do Mid-Century American, from World War II to The Factory.
She pictures Dizzy in a Warhol wig, regarding a stylized can of tuna. Sheâll replace one of the men in Hopperâs Nighthawks with Dizzy in suit and fedora. This will work. She will call the community college in the morning to give them a list of sets.
With the next week planned, no need for an additional social media push for todayâs photo, and no appearances scheduled until next month, she retires to the plush denim couch and surfs the channels. She hardly watches TV for fun anymore, only as inspiration for her next photo session. Tonight, she has decided to relax. She turns to TBS, content to watch whatever syndicated reruns theyâre marathoning.
She makes herself two frozen French bread pizzasâa treat, even though the tough, reheated bread shreds her gums. She eats them slowly, plucks each little cube of pepperoni from the top before peeling off the cheese, licking away the tomato sauce, and gnawing on the hard-tack bread.
Seinfeld is on and sheâs running her tongue over her palate, finding the remnants of pizza in-between her molars. She brushes breadcrumbs off her breasts and onto the blue shag carpet. The house could use remodelingâcleaning, at the very least. Sheâd packed all of her sisterâs things into boxes and stacked all the boxes in the living room. Sheâd thought Salvation Army would come pick them up that week. Itâs been four years and she still hasnât made the call.
Dizzy wanders in from the office, which has become something of a playroom for him, filled with toys and photos from fans, shredded pieces of fabric and hidden clumps of cat shit. He sits at her feet, his sagging belly gathering around his haunches like a dropped robe. He meows, and she notices for the first time how thin his voice has become.
Heâs fifteen, not so old for a cat, but old enough that no new year is a guarantee. She hasnât thought about what sheâll do when he dies, how sheâll make money, if she even has any marketable skills anymore.
She and her sister both quit their jobs after the licensing deal went through.
âWhy not?â her sister had said, uncorking a bottle of sparkling wine from the Scotchman down the street and pouring them each a hissing glass.
She had agreed and put in her notice at the county clerkâs office the next day. Her sister left her position teaching art at the elementary school theyâd both attended as children.
The first few years were great, all soaked in that same champagne-worthy novelty. Theyâd been interviewed by the New York Times, published three photo albums, and watched their bank balances steadily rise. Dizzy was online, on t-shirts, greeting cards. There were Dizzy action figures, Dizzy Halloween costumes, and a couple even had a Dizzy-themed wedding.
After Dizzy took off, life for the two women opened up as well. She was hired for more photography jobs around the state and her sister started her own blog--a how-to site for people who wanted to own celebrity pets with completely fabricated tips, like: Find your audience. Men are more likely to subscribe to websites that feature large purebred dogs and mutts. Women prefer cats and unusual animals such as hedgehogs.
Her sister began seeing a man whoâd emailed her about marketing his llamaâs webcam, and, after a few months, began talking about moving out, to the llama farm. They hadnât discussed who would take Dizzy if they parted ways. Theyâd adopted him together.
She went to see a lawyerâjust to talk about what her legal rights were, regarding the cat. The lawyer discovered that sheâd been the one to submit to a credit check at the Humane Society, giving her the only documented risk in the adoption. Dizzy was hers. Sheâd told her sister that night; it hadnât gone well.
Her sister left, packed only a few things and headed to the llama farm. Every now and then, she would appear in the background of the llamadotcam.com feed, wearing overalls rolled up to the knee, a wide-brimmed hat, a big, winking smile. The two women hadnât spoken or even met in person since the custody discussion. Her sister is a ghost to her and to Dizzy, and so she is treated as such.
The episode of Seinfeld ends and Dizzy musters enough strength to jump up onto the sofa. He curls up on her feet and begins licking her toes. She can just reach her nearby wine glass without disturbing him. He licks and she sips and another episode begins. Jerry stands on stage and performs one of his monologues, another variation on incredulity.
âI will never understand why they cook on TV. I can't smell it. Can't eat it. Can't taste it. The end of the show they hold it up to the camera, âWell, here it is. You can't have any. Thanks for watching. Goodbye.ââ
Dizzy has stopped licking and fallen asleep. His breath rattles in his fuzzy body like a fly trapped in the blinds. She finishes her glass of wine and considers classic TV cast reunions as a possible theme. Dizzy as Kramer. Dizzy as the Fonz. Or maybe sheâll take a week off, post some candids, go on a trip. She hasnât left town since her sister moved to the llama farm. She doesnât trust any of the local pet sitters. Dizzy has received kidnapping threats before. Of the hundreds of thousands of people that he reaches every day, there are bound to be a few crazies in there.
But thatâs what sheâs for. Itâs her duty to protect him, to stand guard at his gates, keep him safe and fed and groomed, style him right, grow his brand. Sheâs the only thing standing between him and the love of his fansâand love, she knows, is a destructive force.
Anna Sutton was voted most likely to tell you that restaurant you like is terrible.
I had a dream last night and it is hard for me to remember because it is the next night already
I remembered the dream this afternoon
I don't know why I didn't write it down then
I should have written it down, dammit
OK, so, you were in a house and you stood in the kitchen for awhile, no you sat down near a window, you sat on a cushion next to a bay window and you looked though the glass
OK, so, you were in a house and you were sitting down on a cushion, no, you were lying down near a window, you were lying down on the inside of a bay window and you were looking through the glass
Ok, good start, you were looking and you saw a family playing on the beach, this is a beach house you were lying down inside of, and you saw a family in the sand, wait, I don't think they were related at all actually, but they were talking with each other and a young boy had a pail
The young boy was holding a sled and he was running now and jumped frontwards onto the sled, his belly covered by a thick coat and many layers of cotton and his family was there again, throwing softly packed snowballs at him as he slid by on his skateboard, rolling fast down the asphalt
He reached the bottom of the hill and looked up at his family from the cul-de-sac and they speed-walk towards him and just as the mother called his name, "Thomas!" Thomas ran over to her and licked her face, and she laughed and threw the skateboard down the street and Thomas caught it in his mouth, his tail waving enthusiastically, and came back holding a torch
Thomas and his co-workers walked silently into a dark cave and the dark cave became a living room and you walked away from the bay window and shook the hand of the Tibetan Monk leader and you turned to me and said, "Look, Honey, a real fighter! A real life warrior, wow!" You motioned for me to move forward as you carved a baby out of your belly and you handed me a baby that you and the Tibetan Monk leader had both decided to name 'Veronica' and Thomas barked and kissed me on my ass.
Sarah Jean Alexander was voted most likely to deform spacetime to form a black hole.
'A comically small broom leaning against my closet doorframe' by Sarah Jean Alexander
my mother texts me to say
it is snowing outside
and i close the text message
and don't look outside
i fold a paper crane
out of a small square
of blue paper
with my eyes closed
and I put it in a jar
with other paper cranes
of different colors
there is some money
in the jar too
my friend sends me an email
asking if i know what time
the light rail starts running
in the mornings
and i read it and cry a little
and decide to wait
till tomorrow
to reply
am i in proximity
to someone
who is also sitting in bed
listening to the weakerthans
and if so
how do i
find them?
i should wash
this sweater
just the sleeves
bits of my face are
in it
and i don't recognize them
anymore
anyway
i will very willfully
and forcefully press
the foreign bits
down
the drain
some people
cut them selves
to have
control
over something
i just clean
my room
Sarah Jean Alexander was voted most likely to deform spacetime to form a black hole.
We sit together
on a pair of wooden stilts
and get a little taller all the time.
We teach each other
to take baby steps
over trees & lakes.
We discover shortcuts,
and like two angry clouds
in the shape of a giraffe,
we vanish entire cities.
Our hands are knotted together
because they are two oak trees
quietly drowning each other
in a hurricane.
And we wouldnât undo them for anything.
Now you say you have these dreams
where I am far below you.
You see me on the ground
at the base of your stilts,
holding an axe.
In the dreams I look frightened
as I take my practice swings.
You tell me this,
but I already know.
Because I am having the same dream.
And it is not a dream, but a simple cabin
I am building around us.
I stand there and the axe makes my hands sweat.
I am anticipating something.
I am nervous.
I am scared for you.
I want you to be with me
whenever I wake up.
I don't want you
to hurt your head
on the way down.
Bob Schofield was voted most likely to siphon gas from the hearts & minds of America.
'THIS POLYHEDRON CALLED LOVE IS KILLING ME' by Bob Schofield
When I was smaller, I slept in the top drawer. The room felt like a monastery. Is this the seventeenth century? Am I the world's youngest astronaut? Wipe the French window in my stomach. Calculate my angle of descent. It is like twin moth wings, mostly, or the bang of a toy drum. Lie down on your stomach like a player piano. Shut your trap door. I put a dead mouse on a spring. I put a live horse on the roof. I jump through a ring you call the equator. Of course it was on fire. Sometimes I sweat so bad for you. Call me from the last payphone on earth. Wait for the day I wake up. When it rings Iâll float down the hall. I am like any old balloon. I make offerings to the pagan blood god. I slap on a suit and tie. I detach claws from the ceiling. I am a stillness. The rest of me, just one big thighbone.
Bob Schofield was voted most likely to siphon gas from the hearts & minds of America.
We did cannonballs in the moat
outside your castle.
You put the sharks away
for the night and it was just us
in the dark.
Underwater, we understood
the language the seahorses
spokeâ talk of coral and rockfish
that hopped beneath the surface.
I could see the smooth grooves
on your cheeks without my goggles
and you could touch
the scar on my shoulder,
your eyes closed.
We blew bubbles.
When we came up for air
the moon said hi to us
and threw us towels
like colorful quilts.
You threw your towel
back at the moon
and we wrapped ourselves
in mine. I held you.
We believed that the night
wouldnât end
and so it never did.
The sun never came up.
The moon never left.
In fact, it watched us
as we laid against the lone
tree outside your castle,
staring at the still water,
you nestled into my shoulder
as I played with your hair,
as we talked about
what it would be like
if we didnât have tomorrow.
Nic Reiner was voted most likely to get lost at a rave.
'Log of How I Havenât Dreamt of You at All this Week' by Eric Tran
Monday: I saved someone from a castle pinned deep in fog, hacked down thorny bushes and forded ice-slush rivers the whole way there. I fought a dragon made of pine needles and sulfur ash, while dragging a fear-struck steed behind me. All of this to rescue something a figure that couldâve looked like you. In the end it was just a beautiful heap of sticks, which I built and burned in effigy of a bear. I slept back to the blaze that nightâI was all warmth and smoke and orange-red light.
Tuesday: At thirty feet tall, I could skim the tops of small buildings with my fingers. I went downtown where we once saw a kid lose hold of his balloon. We watched it catch under the awning of a townhouse and you sighed while slowly stirring your coffee. I reached towards the sky and plucked the balloon like a ripe berry. When I returned it to the kid, he looked shy at first and I walked away. Soon, he ran after me and threw himself around my leg, muttering Thank you into my shin.
Wednesday: I took a Greyhound to New York, but we busted a flat next to a field of brass antiques: serving trays, doorknobs, spinning candelabras, everything soaking up sun. I dial for a cab or a friend and all my contacts are pet names Iâve never thought to call youâpineapple, trumpet, madrugada. I call every last entry, but the only answer I get is the clash cymbals reuniting.
Thursday: In the waking world, I bought myself a reward for doing so well, sleep-wise. You always said black wingtips looked too wedding or funerealâboth starts and endsâfor everyday wear. But I liked pebbled leather and the tight Oxford lacing. You would have hated the burnished cap toe, but I needed the heeltap to click when I walked, to echo where Iâve been, to sound out where Iâve yet to go.
Friday: I was lost in a thatch of woods, which with each step became a flooded alley, a hallway of pinball machines, the playground I learned to ride a bike. Eventually everything opened into a field of purple tulips. I carefully picked all the flowers with my teeth. I cleaned the whole field green and naked. I made a glorious purple pile of flowers and planned not to give you a single one.
Eric Tran was voted most likely to steal your man.
