Posts Tagged ‘ Daniel Clausen ’

“Timmy on the Other Side of the Universe,” by Daniel Clausen

Aug 20th, 2015 | By

It finally happened. Somehow he knew it was only a matter of time before he said something so utterly offensive to his teacher that it ripped a hole in the space-time continuum.

Timmy knew his mouth was impressive. As a 4th grader, his peers had told him that he knew how to swear at at least a 7th-grade level (if not higher!).

“Something Not Sentimental,” by Daniel Clausen

Mar 25th, 2015 | By

I wanted to put something on paper that I would not regret throwing out later. I wanted it to be the most regrettable thing in the world– a literal literary crime to write. And when I was done, I would wash my hands of it.

But it’s never that easy.

“The Politics of a Comma,” by Daniel Clausen

Jan 8th, 2014 | By

I get quite confused by where a comma goes. Does it go here, or there, does it connect an independent clause after or before a conjunction? Does it depend on the conjunction’s politics, smoking habits, or sexual preference? If the conjunction has a history of spousal abuse can it really be trusted with the custody of a dependent clause, and does it deserve the use of a comma? After all, a comma is a privilege, not a right.

“Sal and the Revolution,” by Daniel Clausen

Aug 20th, 2012 | By

If he tried hard enough, he could make sense of it all. Everything except the monkey. He was stark naked. That–he was sure—was something that happened quite regularly. The guy to his right saluting him with one arm, the other arm trying to hold his guts in place—he was sure he had seen him before in some kind of movie or something. And the guy in front of him, he was sure his name was Dennis or Donald.

“He’s clean,” Dennis or Donald said over a walkie-talkie.

The other man stopped saluting him and said, “It’s good to have you back, sir.”

“Your Relationship with Edward Gray,” by Daniel Clausen

Dec 20th, 2010 | By

He manages his finely tuned anti-élan with bureaucratic flair, killing the life out of the walls and people in our tiny office on Porter Street. He stalks the hallways with his organizationally upright diction, walk, and mannerisms. His indefatigable confidence is both boring and compulsive. Skinny, like an assemblage of toothpicks holding up a suit, the visibility of his bone structure shows a love of desk, paperwork, and company–a willingness to persevere to starvation in order to fulfill the demands of a deified “efficiency” and to bring misery to those who don’t.