Tag: writing

The Feminist Wolf

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By Sam Jarvis

I’m always cold. Sure, it’s a girl thing. But it’s not so much that I’m cold in bed, my frigid feet snuggling up against a warm partner. Or that I’m cold in the office, the thermostat seemingly always lower than it should be. I’m more so cold because it’s fucking snowing outside and Alaska is freezing as shit. Fur or no fur, I’m ready for bikini season.

My pack is wonderful. I love my family, I love our domain. We have 20 square miles, but our den is homey. We roam our territory day in and day out trying to put food on the table for the kids. I mean pups. Mmm, I could go for a kid right now. Small goats are rare here but with a little lemon and pepper it would make a fine dinner for a school night.

There are dangers, but the men piss all over everything so they don’t have to murder the shit out of other wolves that come into our space. Do you know how many fictional loads of laundry it takes to get blood out of your husband’s muzzle after he’s fucked up a rival wolf? Make up wipes don’t do the trick, that’s for sure.

Wolves mate for life. But if my husband got killed or something, I would have to be with someone else. I wouldn’t have another option, really. And that’s the problem. There is not a lot of choice for us women wolves, and I’d like that to change.

I’m in a fucking dope ass wolf pack, okay? Like, we are the shit up here in Alaska. Oh, you’re a brown bear? You might as well be Lennie from Of Mice and Men (which is a wonderful read, by the way. I have it on my Kindle.). Wolves are different. We’re super awesome. Would you rather have a fat ass bear on your sweatshirt, or a sleek, mystical wolf? Right. You get me.

But even so, I am left with the feeling that as a female I can’t have it all. Every year when I get pregnant, I have to stay in the den until the pups are born, and even then I have to rely on my husband to bring home the bacon (or moose, deer, sheep, some bison burgers. Depends on the night.) And while it is lovely that he does so, I want to work too. Why do I HAVE to stay home with the children? I had a job before I got pregnant. I’m just as good at draining the life out of things as he is. Yet the second you’re knocked up it’s like none of that matters, and you have to just concede to being a mother and ONLY a mother. Can’t I still be a terrifying blood-hungry wolf, who just happens to have offspring?

Sure, there is a lack of babysitters amongst the pack. Not a lot of bubble gum chewing teens texting their BFFs while watching Pretty Little Liars. I understand that. But I guess I’d like it if my husband helped out too. He could spend a day in the den while I go out and piss on shit. I want to show everyone that we aren’t just baby making machines. We’re strong and powerful. Our purpose in the workforce doesn’t end when we get pregnant with a litter of small baby wolves.

So let’s fight, and prove that we can be anything we want to be. CEOs, athletes, predatory mammals! Don’t let a dominant male tell you shit, girl. You do you.

Because as the moon rises above us, its light shining onto our glistening grey fur and we howl into the darkness, it’s important to remember one thing. Even if things never change in our pack, no matter what, we are still (quite literally) badass bitches.

wolf military jacket feminist

Read more of my short humor pieces here.

Suicidal Math Teacher (The Downs and Downs of Mr. Greenwald)

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By Sam Jarvis

The only thing Mr. Greenwald liked was numbers. Problem solving of any other kind was just too hard. Every day, he went to work in a bad taupe suit and looked into the eyes of 25 freshman. Was this all his life had become? A turkey sandwich for lunch and chalk on his hands? He stood in front of the class.

“Say there was a train traveling 70 miles per hour, and 3 miles down the track I’d tied myself to the rails,” he began. “How long would it take the train to hit me?”

“Don’t you mean how much time would you have to free yourself?” Rachel Cunningham asked.

“No,” he responded. Abigail Billows raised her hand.

“2.57 minutes.”

“Not soon enough, I say. But correct.” Mr. Greenwald paced as students passed notes and stared at the walls. He stopped, noticing chalk on his pants. He tried to brush it off but ended up spreading it even more. “Now let’s say,“ he continued, “I was at a record store and they were having a sale. Buy one CD for $13, get another 30% off. If I had $35 and planned on jumping out of my apartment window later that night, how many CDs could I buy?” Mr. Greenwald waited for a response. Trevor McGinley blinked at him.

“Um, sir? We’re supposed to be learning about parabolas today.” The class erupted in laughter as Mr. Greenwald set his chalk down. A paper football was launched in his general vicinity. He exhaled, rubbing his eyes with such force that he wondered if gouging them out should be part of today’s lesson plan. His vision soon refocused on the stupid kids in front of him.

“What if I had a gun and was going to shoot myself in the head. How far away could I hold it and still have it kill me instantly? Bullets travel at 1,126 feet per second, if that helps.” Abigail again raised her hand as Mr. Greenwald nodded in her direction.

“I would suggest putting the muzzle right up to your skull if you wanted to guarantee being killed instantly. The velocity of the bullet wouldn’t really matter at that point.”

“Also,” Rachel Cunningham chimed in. “Your sandwich just fell on the floor.”

Read more of my short humor pieces here.

Heartbreak: A Vampire and a Mosquito

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By Sam Jarvis

The vampire stood in front of the mosquito, trying to keep his eyes on her as she hovered.

“Please, Leonard,” the mosquito begged. “Don’t do this.”

“You’re great, but I just think we’re moving in different directions.”

“But we have so much in common! Drinking blood? That’s a big one.” The mosquito looked helpless. She tried to flutter her eyes, be sexy, but the vampire shook his head.

“I’m dead and you’re a very small bug. I just don’t think it’s going to work.”

“But we BOTH drink blood! That is like, super bonding,” she argued, flying slightly closer.

“Yeah, I get it, we both drink blood. But that isn’t enough to sustain a relationship.” Now the mosquito was getting annoyed. She sighed with gusto.

“What about all of our plans? Our travel dreams?”

“I don’t remember making any specific plans,” he started, now kicking the dirt at his graying, crusty feet. “I thought this was more casual.”

“Casual? You thought this was CASUAL?” Her little arms were now crossed. The vampire sighed.

“Look I like you, but you’re coming off as clingy.”

“I thought we were in love.” Her eyes darted around, tears streamed from her tiny face.

“I’m sorry, but I’m done. You gave my sister four bites and she was itching so badly she needed to go to the dermatologist to get prescription cortisone cream.”

“I thought she was some floosy trying to date my man!”

“I’m not your man, Veronica. And if you don’t leave me alone I’ll have to buy bug spray.”

The mosquito shook her head in disgust.

“You are not the vampire I thought you were, Leonard Van Hausen. Not that vampire at all.”

Read more of my short humor pieces here.

Life of a Haasler

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By Sam Jarvis

It’s weird being one of the hottest foods of 2015. It’s been a real transition for us over the past few years. Everybody talks about the “guacamole days” and how depressing they were, but slowly we’ve made an epic return (thanks Obama!). My friend Dave was put on a turkey burger. Eleanor was laid over an omelette. Those would both be good ways to go, I suppose. We’ve lost good men sitting on kitchen counters for a day too long, the brilliant green of their insides turning brown and gray. To be mushy and thrown away is every avocado’s nightmare. Even thinking about it gives me a pit in my stomach, although it’s probably just the actual pit in my stomach.

Going out with glory is important to me. To all of us. That’s why the second you get put in a grocery store you need to pray for a good home. A 20-year-old, new to living on their own, could come and scoop you up and the next thing you know you’re in the garbage can. Young people don’t have the patience or knowledge to appropriately deal with ripening. They get distracted and by the time they remember they even have an avocado, it’s too late.

I want more for my short life, you know? It’s easy to be complacent and end up in a cobb salad. Which is fine, it’s just not for me. I want to be special. Go out with a bang! So every night as I drift to sleep, snuggling with the rest of the gang in produce, the hum of the freezer section droning on, I picture it. The best way to go.

I can see her now. A woman, 30 or 35, in a t-shirt and jeans (yoga pants would be fine also), picks me up. As she squeezes me gently I hold my breath. She is the perfect person to appreciate what I am and more importantly who I am. I make it into her basket, meeting new friends Greek yogurt and flax seed bread. I’m liking this crowd already. We don’t get into a car, we walk home. It’s been so long since I’ve felt the breeze on the face I don’t have.

Her kitchen is lovely. Simple, but homey. She is in the prime of her life and career, having yet to settle into children and everything that comes with them. She’s independent. Alive. I spend a day in a large bowl on the counter and I have to say, it’s really nice. Calm.

The next morning I watch her make coffee, effortless in her work blouse. She puts a piece of the flax seed bread into the toaster and I am moments away from everything I’ve always wanted. Please be for me, I think to myself. The toaster dings and she takes me into her arms. I am so happy I could die. I am dying, really. As she slices me, adds pepper and a hint of sriracha salt, I have somehow made it to the nirvana of my kind, the highest honor bestowed on an individual Haas. I have become avocado toast.

When I open my eyes I’m still in Trader Joe’s, sad to be ripped away from my dreams once more. But then, there she is. The woman I’ve always pictured, sipping on a green juice. She walks over, feels some of us. This is it. Hold your breath.

Read more of my short stories here.

Things That Are Not Like Riding A Bike (And Why)

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By Sam Jarvis

  1. Paying taxes. Basically one is the physical act of powering a pedal-driven vehicle that utilizes two tires and a chain, while the other is the collecting and filing of paperwork to make sure you’ve given the government the correct amount of money. So they’re really nothing alike at all.
  1. Getting your tarot cards read. Again when riding a bike, you are trying to get from point A to point B, whereas with getting your tarot cards read you’re sitting at a table in some kind of mystic and odd smelling room while someone tells you what is in your future by randomly pulling cards.
  1. Going to the dermatologist. Both have some kind of travel involved, but going to the dermatologist is not like riding a bike because at the dermatologist there are doctors and bad lighting and people checking you for moles. Also they try to get you to do weird chemical peels and stuff and it’s like guys stop, I’m 27, I don’t need one of those yet.
  1. Microwaving a veggie burger. This one’s harder to see the difference because both are so fun. But with a bike you are feeling the wind on your face. You’re free. With microwaving a veggie burger, you’re clearly trapped in your house. Otherwise you would certainly eat something other than a frozen non-meat thing. If you were free with the wind on your face, you would definitely eat mozzarella sticks or a hot dog. So yeah, they’re not the same.
  1. Making a YouTube video showing all the stuff you just bought at the mall. They’re called haul videos I think. But yeah again this is another classic example of the fact that riding a bike is a fun fitness activity but also a means of transportation, and at a certain level a competitive sport, while making a YouTube video showing all the stuff you just bought at the mall is just a haul video.