The Origami Bird

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The Origami Bird

There once was a bird who lived inside a paper house. The walls were so thin that he could hear everything from the other side. Afraid to make a sound, he sat by himself, stiff in an armchair.

On the days that he would fly from his window into the deep blue sky, he could not be there fully. Instead his mind was trapped inside the origami house, wondering what his neighbors were doing.

He wondered if they would be fighting about who would do the dishes. He wondered if he could smell their worm casserole through the walls. He wondered if he could hear them laughing and talking with friends late at night.

So consumed was he by these neighbors that he forgot where he was going. He forgot about the sky and its magical feeling of infinity. He forgot about his hunger for worms and mice. Instead, he stayed inside and listened to the lives around him.

His neighbors had children together and raised them to be strong. They had birthdays and wedding celebrations and dinners with guests. His neighbors would sometimes listen to loud music or shriek over the phone. There never seemed to be an end to their stories of excitement.

One day, when the neighbors were unusually quiet, the bird got an itch to find an adventure of his own.  When he got up to go to the window there was a sharpness in his side. He lifted his wing, but could no longer remember how to fly.  He hoped for the sky.  He hoped for the best. But when he looked down, his wings had turned to paper.

 

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The Office Plant

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Missed Connection

To: Plastic Mini Plant

Location: The Office

 

You: Firmly planted on the windowsill. Smooth as a Las Vegas card shark on a Tuesday afternoon.

I pass by your window every day on my way to the library. I love your low maintenance style.   I feel like you could fit in at a Walmart as well as an upscale boutique. Nothing gets you down because you are straight up chill. Doesn’t matter if it’s spring or winter, you always light up my day.

Don’t listen to people who say you’re cold. Being sterile and clean is a good thing. You’re not like some kind of clingy fungus. You’re the most independent beauty I’ve ever seen.

I know people call you fake, but you are as real to me as my love for you.

– Always Phresh

The Tooth

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Was she the good one? Or was she the bad one?

 

I stared at the fairy with the floppy head and wondered just how hard Merribelle, the real tooth fairy, had hit her. Floppy Fairy had one eye closed, as if sewn in place with a purposeful vengeance. It was the wink of a cruel joke.

Even if she wasn’t dead, there was no way she could practice her tooth ferrying. I doubted her ability to fly. One wing was slightly crooked and sticking out at odd angles.

She was probably a good fairy. The kind who was never young and always kind. She probably gave children whole dollar bills instead of the dimes Merribelle doled out. Her voice was probably as small as a cotton ball, soft and beautiful forever.

It was her rich and rewarding happiness that Merribelle hated most. The way she always seemed to feel better than anyone had a right to feel. This was the sensation Merribelle tried to steal when she knocked the other fairy to her demise.

But because Merribelle won, because she became the tooth fairy, her generosity was never considered cheap. Dimes are a fortune when dollars are dreams. Like all winners of a game, Merribelle became the fair, the just, the champion.

Merribelle was the good one.

http://www.circleid.com/posts/20170111_history_is_written_by_winners_can_internet_archive_change_that/

The Answering Machine

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“Hey, you got me, but you didn’t really get me. Leave a message at the beep.”

You can get back home through the telephone wires. From city to suburb, follow the skinny black lines until your voice is my voice and our voice is here.

 

“Hey, you got me, but you didn’t really get me. Leave a message at the beep.”

Pick up. Where do you live now? Do you like your job? Who are you with?

Every now and again, your machine is full. Too many voices trying to get in. They push and they shove, but they stand just to wait.

I know, you’ll call me when you can.

 

“Hey, you got me, but you didn’t really get me. Leave a message at the beep.”

Do power lines still map the way if only cell phones are used? Invisible pathways going in a million different directions scatter the world apart.

Misplaced conversations. Lost words looking for a sentence.

Face focused on the front of the phone.

 

“This number is no longer in service.”

 

 

 

 

Redesigning Voice Mail :  The UX of the Missed Call

The Dress

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Soft colors of a thin fabric always hide first.

Do they bleed through to the back? Or do they stick stuck to the middle?

Inked on the inside of an empty dress, printed patterns collide.

They struggle against the wrinkles. They relax against the formed.

Curled into coarseness, they gently fold backward.

 

 

Adbusters Magazine

Hi readers,

A political object piece of mine is going to be published in the next issue of Adbusters Magazine!   If you would like to purchase a copy, the magazine can be found at newsstands in all English-speaking countries, Barnes and Noble or Borders. You can also purchase a digital copy on the magazine website.

 

A Woman

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Rules For Using A Woman

Before 40 years of age:

  • Always refer to a woman as ‘sweetheart’, ‘dear’, or ‘Miss’. Even if you don’t know her. This will make her feel delicate and soft spoken. If she tries to tell you otherwise, call her something else.
  • Talk about her legs/weight/appearance even when she can hear you. She will most likely think this is a compliment since a man is giving her attention.
  • Tell her she is beautiful, but do not compliment any other aspect of herself.
  • Allow her to work in the same positions men fill, but don’t bother to pay equally. She will be grateful enough for the experience.
  • If a woman does not want to have children with you, remind her that it is the most important thing she can ever do in her lifetime.
  • When seeing an attractive woman in the workplace, on the street, at a party, or virtually anywhere you happen to be, don’t hesitate to grab her by the pussy.

After 40 years of age:

  • Expired

Donald Trump Once OK’d Howard Stern Calling Daughter Ivanka a ‘Piece of Ass’

The Recycling Bin

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The recycling bin had far more promise. Stories of late nights with loud company drained each glass bottle with a sense of nostalgia and purpose.   Those bottles deserved to be re-used and immortalized so that its energy could keep circulating for years to come.

The recycling bin was a tragically glamorous presence. Sure, used up empty products threw themselves at it – hoping to find the fountain of youth in a more promising afterlife. But the recycling bin was suave. He had but one purpose in life. To save money for the tenant.

Every week the recycling bin lured glass bottles and plastic containers out of their comfortable refrigeration. Subtly reminding them of an almost out-of-date expiration, he made the process seem whimsical and for ‘the good of the community’. Never mind that most of those spaghetti sauces were still good, the recycling bin was able to convince almost all of them of a better life ahead.

If not recycled, he coaxed, an object’s very presence and soul might not live on to contribute goodness to society.

Although the sentiment was understandable, there was something about the trendy ‘go green’ sticker plastered onto plastic that made me think of a salesman more than a do-gooder.

 

The one object that was never good enough to be recycled were the jelly jars. I loved the jelly jars. As a dying breed, they were all the more exotic. They were thick and old fashioned with an unself-conscious air about them. They were not delicate in the same sense as a vanilla bottle. I had a feeling that if any kind of fight broke out, the jelly jar could hold her own. Her presence was too tough for recycling.

 

“You can’t come in here,” the recycling bin shut down as soon as he saw a beautiful jelly jar heading his way.

“And why not?” The jelly jar balked.

“You don’t belong with the others.” Pregnant looking wine bottles with decorated cursive lounged in the sun. A Coldwater Creek catalog bristled.

“You belong over there,” the recycling bin pointed to me.

I stared at the ground. I knew, even though I couldn’t see her, that she must have been disgusted. No one wanted to be with me. Week after week when the used goods were sorted out, everyone always hoped they went with the recycling. I waited anxiously for her dreams to shatter.

“Good,” the jelly jar said instead. “I’d rather be trashy than miserable.”

 

News Story:  http://nypost.com/2016/09/07/this-guy-can-make-a-garbage-bag-look-good/

 

The Gold Medal

https://mytrendingstories.com/article/the-dating-profile-of-a-gold-medal/

Hello readers,

I am currently writing for the Trending Stories website that is linked above. I will be writing various articles there that I may post on here.  This is a test run to see if it’s working properly on the site.  I hope it is!

winner-1548239_1280

 

Name: Goldie

 

Age: Timeless

 

Ideal Partner:  Someone with ambition and loyalty.  Someone who loses like a winner.  Someone who shows up.

 

Ideal Date:  Hanging out in your bedroom.

 

My Biggest Life Question:  Am I worthy enough?

 

Favorite Quote:  “Everyone’s A Winner”

 

Contact me:

If: You’re a winner

At: The dollar store (next to the costume jewelry)

The Wood Stove

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I once had a fire in me that could not be contained. I knew no boundaries. I knew no limits. I knew only of energy that burned.

There were no rules. I could go anywhere. Through the mountains. Into the forest. Past the villages and under the leaves. I could spark interest in anything.

People talked and my flames became more vibrant from conversation. “Did you see the scarlet colors?” “Did you feel the warm glow?” I was a thing of dangerous beauty that I thought could only beam brighter.

But then one day I burned the earth. I wasn’t paying attention. I turned to radiate my astonishing brilliance, but the grass had already died. I fled to the trees to show them my passion, but they had already bent over backwards in ruins with dissatisfaction. I turned to the towns, to the cities, to the houses of my comfort, but they had crumbled gray, like an eraser.

I ran to the edge of the earth and straight for the ocean.

“You have nowhere else to go,” the waves taunted.

I turned around. A few miles away, stood one small cabin that I had previously overlooked. Cautiously. Carefully. Slowly I approached its window.

Inside the one room cabin, there was a wood stove, fat and dusty with age.

From outside I shouted, “I have burned everything. I have nowhere else to go.”

Immediately, the wood stove opened up its door.

“Thank God you’re here. I’ve been waiting for so long.”