The night was warm and mild

By moonlight gently aglow

I lay there half asleep

My thoughts quiet and slow

As I turned to switch the light

A sound echoed nearby

And again I was awake

Tides of sleep washed away

At first the sound was foreign

But then I heard a word

Beneath the mild moon

The predicament was absurd

I stumbled to the window

A man stood near the door

And chatted on his telephone

A sound I couldn't ignore

He would finish soon

How long could the phone call be?

And then he'd walk away

And maybe I could sleep

Minutes passed

And then an hour

Still the man remained

Somewhere an owl cooed

His presense was tedious

He could have been there for years

His words buzzed in my head

I wanted to stab my ears

He needed to be stopped

So disgruntled at best I rose

Rest was a distant shadow

Dreams were foreign prose

The man shouted and laughed

Fueling my pounding heart

He had to be stopped

He needed to depart

The door knob was cool in my hand

My heart a staccato beat

Blood pulsed and pounded

The floor creaked under my feet

The man could be hostile

I knew not his face

But I only wanted to sleep

To rid him of this place

I went to the kitchen

To grab a sharpened knife

It was better to be safe

Somewhere an owl cooed

The man was oblivious

He spoke and shouted still

The sound that deprived me of rest

He needed to be stopped

His voice was like needles

I unlatched the door in silence

He spoke and shouted still

A tone that bordered violence

I knew not what to do

At my back the blade concealed

So quickly he whirled and turned

Shadowy features revealed

It all happened quickly

The man and I alone

It felt like watching through glass

As icy metal struck bone

To the ground fell the stranger

I hadn't even learned his name

His phone cracked and clattered

Somewhere an owl cooed

And then there was blood

From his chest it poured and flowed

Hot, sticky, everywhere

I had only wanted to sleep

The moon watched overhead

Before me the man died and bled

That taunting, silver eye

Illuminating the body, cold and dead

From my hand fell the kitchen knife

Echoing a chaotic mood

The predicament was absurd

Somewhere an owl cooed

Nobody saw

Except that silver eye

Maybe I could get away

Wordless is the sky

I had only wanted to sleep

In defense my actions were made

A mantra I repeated

As I hid the bloody blade

The blood stuck to my hands

Panic would not relent

The situation was robbed of logic

Somewhere an owl cooed

In the street sounded a scream

But they could not know it was me

The body more corpse than man

And I still walking free

I hand't been alone

Somewhere, someone saw

I had only wanted to sleep

My conscience broken and raw

In prison I'd never sleep

Where inmates yelled and stewed

If they took me it would end me

Somewhere an owl cooed

Outside, another scream

If I ran, I'd never sleep

A life of hidden uncertainty

Somewhere and owl cooed

They had to know it was me

I was running out of time

The clock was deafening

That final, telltale chime

There was only one true escape

From what I'd done

From what would be

Somewhere an owl cooed

Once more I uncovered the knife

My hands were sickened with sweat

And my heart thumped and pounded

Somewhere an owl cooed

The blade was sharp and cold

The only escape I knew

I drove it through flesh and bone

Welcoming sleep, final and true

Bob stepped out of his car, grocery bag in hand and faced the grocery store. He always went to the grocery store on Monday; it had been his routine for so long that he couldn't imagine going any other day.

And so he walked to the entrance, a crumpled list in his pocket. He'd been using the same list for years, and saw no need to change it.

The automatic doors opened with that same, underwhelming squeak and slide, and Bob was welcomed into the sedentary symphony of checkout machines and rolling grocery carts.

Only today, the store was different. The first thing that Bob noticed was the song 'Be My Lover' being blasted on the speakers so loud that he nearly had to cover his ears. The lights had been dimmed, and the employees were riding on roller skates throwing bananas and boxes of spaghetti.

Bob was so surprised that he nearly dropped his grocery bag. As one of the employees rolled by, Ol' Mildred she was called, Bob tried to ask what was happening.

"New Manager", was all the woman deigned to say.

Bob had no clue what to make of the situation. In all his years he'd never seen anything like it. And so he did the only sensible thing he could think of.

Five minutes later, Bob again returned from his car, mounted on a unicycle. He hadn't ridden one in years, but he still carried it in his car for good measure. Bob got very uncomfortable when he didn't fit in, and would do nearly anything to avoid feeling that way. And so, he mounted his unicycle, and immediately lost control.

Poor Bob flew through the condiment aisle, unable to steer or stop. He tried to scream for help, but the music was too loud. It wasn't until he crashed into the seafood counter that he finally stopped. And fell onto the lobster container.

Don't break, Bob silently pleaded with whatever god was listening. The issue was that Bob had ostraconophobia, the chronic fear of lobsters. On a good day, he wouldn't even go near the seafood section because he couldn't stand the lobster case. The way that they crawled around in that unnatural blue water, staring at the tall beings that had trapped them there with beady, vengeful eyes.

Bob tried to move, but he had gone into shock.

The lobsters. The lobsters were so close. He could see them. Hear them. Feel them.

"Everything okay there?" Someone asked.

Bob looked up. Square into the beady eyes of a giant lobster. And he screamed. Screamed until his throat burned.

The giant lobster held out a claw and Bob leapt up and tried to run. But he tripped on his fallen unicycle and toppled over. And the giant lobster...it was going to kill him. Bob was sure of it. And so he grabbed the only weapon he could find. A giant dead fish that lay in the crushed ice of the seafood counter. And he struck the lobster.

"Hey!" The lobster said.

Bob didn't care.

He struck again and again, beating the lobster with that fish until the lobster was limp on the floor. And then the lobster's head fell off.

Not the lobster's head, Bob realized, but the head of a costume.

What had he done?

Bod stood there, still holding the fish, and stared down at the limp figure. And the music still blasted.

"Mike!" Someone exclaimed.

"What were you doing?" A voice said somewhere."That was the new manager!"

I was scrolling through old prose and had to repost. I loved this challenge when it came out! The objective was to write a response to a failed resume.

Dear sir or madam,

We have not found your written resume to match the criteria for the job in question.

Regarding the 'useful skills' section, we found your answers to be relatively inappropriate. Unfortunately, the company does not consider "farting the alphabet without defecating", "reaching level 265 on candy crush", or "keeping it real" to be useful skills. Furthermore, we do not believe that anything you presented will be a useful tool for your potential job as a phone receptionist.

In the 'past experiences' section, you presented a confusing set of answers that again showed us little promise that you are a fit for this job. Your answers, "tightroping the Grand Canyon without tightroping or going to the Grand Canyon", "attempting to ride a unicycle while juggling wet teabags", and "being a substitute triangle player for a garage band" did not show us that you have had any experience in a similar job position, or the right experiences to aid you in learning this one.

In the 'relations' section, we feel that you may have misinterpreted what was being asked. This part of the resume aims to assess the applicant's ability to effectively contribute to a positive environment in the workplace. Instead, you presented a long and confusing story about how you once fought your mom to save a spider she was going to kill, and instead placed the spider outside. The story ends with your confusion after not receiving a Christmas card from the spider because you "gave bro a second chance" and "thought he was a real one". Unfortunately, this fails to positively represent your skill at working with others.

We hope you understand our reasoning, and wish you luck in the future.

I ride horses. Sometimes without a saddle. Inspired by Shel Silverstein's "Something Missing"

I put on a helmet and boots

I remembered a bridle

I put on a coat for the rain

So I suppose I can't complain

But its making my brain rattle

I may have forgot-

What is it? What is it?

Buffard- a stupid person

Shreuard- scoundrel, rogue

Putrefactible- subject to putrefaction, rotten

Clom- shut up

Mobard- rascal in a foolish sense

Conjoun- nincompoop

Gigelot- Harlot

Bisulpen- corrupt

Smotten- corrupt/imbalanced

Wither-laue- ruffian

Shitel- rash

Slabbard- someone slow or dull witted

Grisli-hideous

Weary silken wings

Stricken by frigid air

Push forth with no small effort

Beneath a silver glare

A wingtip brushes another

A small comfort in the night

And together flies the mated pair

Across the frigid blight

Guided only by stars

Beneath them lies a glade

Mourning the forgotten

Hallowing the made

The geese are privy to all

Within that silven hollow

And so they continue on

Where others may stay to wallow

The sky is clear tonight

And time holds still for a minute

An atlas of freedom and life

Studded by stars infinite

And so the mated pair flies on

As blustering winds turn mild

Tired wings find rest at last

A solace from the wild

This flight will be their last

So much the geese have known

And yet they have found comfort

For neither will be alone

Making one final ascent

Something ancient takes a sigh

The geese have found eternal peace

And in a better world they fly

A vast majority of the average human life is a trivial pursuit. Perhaps, within the expanse of their time, the individual may be able to count on one hand their contributions of value to the existence of human life. No matter, such an issue is one of subjectivity; the value of a human contribution can only be determined by the individual and those around them. One may ask, "Is it better to be an agent of change, or one of consistency which others can depend on?" It would seem that both types are needed in the establishment and maintenance of progress. However, it would also be the case that the two types that have been mentioned have a habit shunning each others' actions. Such a phenomenon can only be attributed to the paradox that is human nature.

An individual sits at the bank of a river and in that moment, time passes as slowly and nonchalantly as the lazy flow of the river itself. Thinking about nothing at all, the individual bites into an apple. The apple's skin, a rich, pure red, is slightly warm from sitting in the sun. The flesh within is complex in flavor, both sweet an tart in the way that only an apple can be. The apple is juicy, but not overwhelmingly so, as a peach might be. It is neither too crispy nor too soft, but somewhere in the middle.

Eyes on a distant horizon, the individual munches in silence, putting little thought into the apple because they don't have to. The apple simply is. When the apple was purchased, there was no particular wish for the apple to exceed the pre-existing expectations for what it should be like to eat. The experience of eating the apple was preconceived; a lazy expectation that could be carried out in the mind's eye with no particular effort. It was mere fodder for enjoying a leisurely, purposefully insignificant day in the sun.

With the preconceived notion of the experience of consuming an apple, a sense of comfort arises. In such a scenario, the apple has become an agent of consistency, and thus becomes capable of complimenting the nonchalant experience of lazing beside the river. It would be wrong for the apple to become something unexpected. An explosion of new flavor and strange textures would be a breach to the long established ideas of modest yet pleasant dependability. In truth, such qualities can only be found in one member of the vast apple species.

In the year 1811, the Macintosh apple was discovered by Canadian farmer John Macintosh. It would seem that the Macintosh is a perfect combination of its predecessors, exhibiting the juicy tartness of the Detroit Red, and the sweet flavor and hardy nature of the Fameuse variety. Compared to the long expanse of humanity's existence, it could be considered unfortunate that it took so long to make such a simple, yet fantastic discovery. Perhaps that it the best description of all for the humble Macintosh; fantastically simple. Nonetheless, the Macintosh unsurprisingly rose to popularity in the 19th century, establishing itself as that mundane yet versatile figure of consistency that we perhaps do not deserve.

It is true that in some capacities, the Macintosh cannot compare. It does not possess the prestige of the Flower of Kent variety, renowned for falling before Sir Isaac Newton and prompting the discovery of gravity. Certainly, the Macintosh apple does not possess that frilly crispiness and sweetness that has brought the Honeycrisp into the adoration of the apple consuming strata. But at the end of the day, the Macintosh is something that we can all can come back to. A figure within the turmoil of our world that doesn't try to change or become something more than it's meant to be. When all is said and done, it is the humble Macintosh that sits at the center of the world that is the apple consuming populous.

Within the consumer culture that has become the essence of our current setting, there is a constant competition for the individual's passing eye. Certainly, the apple industry has attempted to employ such an approach, and it has been proven that the results can be disastrous. Take, for example, the unnecessary bitterness of the Granny Smith. The apple is known for its iconic green color and supposed usefulness in baking, yet upon the first bite it stings teeth and burns throats. Consider the Red Delicious, flavorless and dry. If one who was unfamiliar with apples were to take a bite into the disappointing flesh of the Red Delicious, they would undoubtedly assume that apples as a whole are not worth the time of day.

To say that a state of unconditional superiority over the apple species is unattainable to the Macintosh variety is not completely unfounded. However, the debate of which apple is truly superior is a matter of great subjectivity, and possibly one that is unsolvable. Perhaps there is only one true way to navigate such a quagmire, which is to resort to the known. In a fitful sea of conflicting ideas and beliefs, it is the presence of fact that becomes a beacon of solace and familiarity. With the availability of so many apple varieties, we have been given the privilege of choice; a gift that we perhaps will never be fully capable of handling.

In a time of great confusion and conflict in our world, the issue of apples is unique in the way that there is still a place to find comfort. There is still an option to take that will result in wonderful, comfortable averageness. What other apple makes people say, "This will do", or "It's not special, but it's a crowd pleaser". In the wide realm of apples, the consistent employments of such notions can only be attributed time and time again to the Macintosh; the true monarch of unageing normalcy.

In a setting where it feels as though the shiniest thing gets bought, or the loudest voice has final say, the Macintosh has become so much more than a simple apple. The Macintosh has become a symbol of standing by what is right. To those who understand it, the humble Macintosh is a pristine model; one to look up to in the ever-present fight of seeing past all of the smoke and mirrors that we are presented with in our daily lives. With so much of the simplicity of what used to be now lost and forgotten, it is our duty to stand by the Macintosh apple, and all it has come to stand for.

Gracing ember times

Within the silver glade

Flesh snagged and torn

Upon the icy blade

Laden love is gone

Over the gilded moon

Silenced is the lullaby

Broken cries the loon

Lost in the blackened wood

Stricken by shadowed grief

Emperor so far and gone

Elusive is relief

Drowning deep and frigid

Ashen breath draws thin

Sining in a boundless sea

Jagged toothy grin

Alone cries the loon

Delirious and free

Tap, tap, tapping

Bony fingers of insanity

Shoved beneath the umbra

Shrieking to the night

What would it cost to see

That precious golden light?

Weary bones grow taught

Wicked and distraught

Beseeching eerie gods

Immortality grows fraught

My initial instinct was to paint the horror that I experienced in the sacrilegious and abhorrent light that can only be attributed to a rating of no stars. However, upon further reflection, I came to the conclusion that I, myself held a certain responsibility in the matter.

It was a cold night in March, and I was north bound on the New Jersey Turnpike. Weary from driving all day, and resigned to the fact that the final slivers of my sanity had escaped me, I resolved it was time to stop.

My cheeks slightly flushed from the cold, I stepped into the doors of the Thomas Edison Service Area. This is no ordinary service area, but the final stop before performing a deed that cannot be undone. A final chance to stop oneself from entering the hellish wasteland of potholes; the inferno of brake lights that they call the Cross Bronx Expressway.

I rarely waste my time in the lines that accompany the regular fast food joints within the establishment. After you've been on the road for so long, lines are just another type of traffic.

Instead, I chose to go directly to the hub of the most seasoned traveler. An area with no windows and compromised lighting, occupied mainly by passing truckers and tradesmen; men who have places to go and things to get done, if you will.

I browsed for a time, waiting for anything to catch my passing eye. Then it happened. My eyes, and perhaps my entire being, honed in on a beacon of hope. A potential comfort to lessen the pain of the Cross Bronx.

In front of me sat a microwavable burrito of rice, beans and cheese. In my dazed mind, it seemed to be quite a nice balance of carbs and protein and certainly less risky than the taquitos that roll around in that little display case for days on end.

My decision was made. I paid for the burrito and placed it inside the gas station microwave for the instructed one minute and thirty seconds. At the time, I payed no attention to the gas station cashier who would occasionally cast me a glance that can only be described as something between confusion and concern. Reflecting upon the moment with a clear mind, it seems as though I missed a valuable warning.

I was back on the road, less exhausted and almost sane, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding the burrito. In that moment, the most fragrant spices and sweetest flowers could not counter the aromatic harmony and comfort that was produced by that burrito.

Unable to wait a minute longer, I bit into the burrito as the radio played the absolute banger that is "Low" by Flo Rida. It was a moment of near-solace where everything was almost okay. An eye in the storm, if you will.

The burrito was not bad. The textures and flavors didn't quite match what the smell had suggested, but I was hungry and the burrito warm. I finished it quickly and washed it down with a sip of Poland Spring, because I was not about to spend my hard earned money on a six dollar bottle of Aquafina.

I was ready for the Cross Bronx. Still, I did not want to go there, but sometimes there is a difference between wanting something and being ready.

In the beginning it was average. There were lots of bumps and the expected host of aggressive truckers and stupid people, but nothing tragic. I kept my head down and kept driving. Traffic was slow, but it was moving. All I had to do was not hit anything and I'd be through it soon enough.

It was just after the George Washington Bridge that I experienced that first twinge of pain. Initially, I thought little of it. The burrito may have crossed my mind but I quickly dismissed it thinking that it was just a coincidence.

Ten minutes later, I knew that it was not a coincidence. I was building up the remains of my stamina to convince myself that things were going to be alright. So what the gas station burrito gave me indigestion. Things could be worse.

By the Throg's Neck Bridge, things were even worse. I will spare the most concerning details, but this was the point that I truly began to worry. I told myself that I just needed to hold on a bit longer. Realistically, I was still at least an hour and a half from home, but in that moment of despair, even false hope seemed better than none.

I'd arrived on the Long Island Expressway and mercifully, the traffic was light. Suddenly, my preferred driving pastimes of complaining about the bumps on the road and wondering where, exactly, my tax dollars had gone, seemed obsolete.

I drove fast. The cops didn't matter to me in that moment. Instead I thought 'fuck it, let them come.' My entire being had isolated itself within the singular cause of receiving the twisting, bubbling pain in my stomach.

The Long Island Welcome Center couldn't come soon enough. Had it been only moments later, I may have perished. I ran straight through the doors, and through the middle of a foreign family that looked at me disapprovingly and muttered incomprehensibly.

It did not matter. In that moment, nothing mattered except receiving that pain; that absolute apocalypse that had been born from the gas station burrito.

After a period of resentment and betrayal, I have accepted that the gas station burrito may not have been a good choice. Better than the taquitos, but still a poor decision. To anyone who is still reading this, I warn you to stay away from any burritos in the gas station. Resist the temptation at all costs and remember this; sometimes it's okay to buy a banana or some crackers and call it a day.

Set aglow on a winter's night

Bursting into amber flame

Combating eerie, mournful light

Darkness to which none lay claim

Huddled by the bricken ingle

Crouched upon a tired knee

Weathered fingers fold and mingle

Crumpling gossipy decree

Balled up in crinkling complaint

Laid upon the ashen floor

Serving to grow a spark so faint

To the warmth that all implore

Every row of text contorted

Stony faces in the news

Lies and hate and crime reported

Melted into inky blues

An ode to one who remembers

A greedy consuming roar

Cast away in floating embers

Smoky ghosts of modern lore

Every word is lost by morning

Where only ash remains

A modestly potent warning

To the press' bitter stains