Category: Humor

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Artistic Integrity

  I want to be an art critic. I want to have such a glorious eye piece, that the thinnest strokes of oils and acrylics could shine off my lens into your face when you address me as “madam” and I grace you with my gaze.

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Crash

  That crash could’ve been an ancient computer tossed from the twentieth floor, the Hewlett-Packard bricks in vintage disarray, the collection of hipster hues in the hallway closet. It was that loud! The raised voices which follow make sense, as if a strong-armed woman in her own right rose up to her man and chucked his grandfather clutter out that living room window, smashing … Read More Crash

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Theories on “Maturity”

There I was, sitting cross-legged on that big stone in the middle of the creek. The mountains were celebrating or something, cause the water barely lapped halfway up the stone; if I straightened my legs out they wouldn’t touch water at all. It was high summer, too, it being the southern hemisphere–ever felt a day this warm in January? Not me. The trees lining … Read More Theories on “Maturity”

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Wellington Central Library

. I’m delighted by the brave women and men who fall asleep in public library chairs. Sometimes bold to go for the window seats, the ones commanding view of the civic square, full shine of lunchtime yogis and sushi advocates. I take my lunchtime time to doze, thank you, they seem to say in endless gape of mouth, a stream of hahhhhhhhh hands nestled … Read More Wellington Central Library

Maybe One Day I’ll Earn My Own Plum Sweatsuit

  A pint of strawberry stems sits plastic and dull on the bench in New Lynn. We share the space; least I could do.

Staple Tales

  The inefficient stapler, what with its effeminate undertones, emasculates the opposition into petty submission to do its bidding til the end of time. Inefficient? It asks itself as it gazes with lust into the hallway mirror. Hardly. Subtle swagger lights up steel hips and the stapler sways back to its black hole.

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Intersection Choreography

When it happens, it is my toes that feel the thrill the most. They are housed in sandals, and in their breezy half-naked happiness they wiggle against the black pedals. If I were better at balancing, I would stretch out my arms like an albatross and soar (I usually attempt this one-armed to not the same effect). I wish I could chuck off my … Read More Intersection Choreography

Under a Tree (in the Rain)

  If you could see, right now, this piece of notebook paper upon which I write, you would know practically the whole story. The ink smudge bullet holes would be enough and you, in your intelligence, wouldn’t need the sight of my speckling jeans to know that, now: it’s raining.

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Leading the Brigade

My Auckland e-bike, a long black thing sporting a waterproof saddlebag and a rectangle motor which spoons my seat tube, is heavy. The bike is hard to hoist over fences and it gets caught going up curbs. It’s tricky to swing around to fit the bike stands and near impossible to rotate it to hide the saddlebag from lazy snatchers. It’s especially difficult to … Read More Leading the Brigade

At the Coffee Shop One Afternoon

  When the man in the hat ordered a beer from the high school barista at the coffee shop, I politely declined the impulse to stare; him, in his funky, retro cowboy-hat and single, dangling hoop earring ordering a beer from the kid behind the espresso machine who giggled. Poor kid. I wondered which was redder: the lad’s salty cheeks or the man’s full-body … Read More At the Coffee Shop One Afternoon

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The Trouble with Dozing in Parks

“Hey, excuse me?” called a voice. I jerked awake; and was horrified to find I had slipped into fetal position mid-doze. I pushed myself up to lean, awkward, like some uni-legged creature. There was a man standing behind the knee-height wire fence which separated Starling Park from the streets of Ranui. He had black pants and a dusty white t-shirt, which revealed sleeves of … Read More The Trouble with Dozing in Parks

Wild Man of Swaziland

  Buck-toothed and dreadlocked the wild man of Swaziland plunged sugared fingers into a bowl of cheesy potatoes. He shifted his restless feet for a firmer perch against the mountain scree, and spat out a hunk of chicken poo. Plump beetles scampered around his hairy ankles looking frazzled to existence; the wild man took but peripheral notice his attention otherwise committed to thick fingered … Read More Wild Man of Swaziland