Then the Monster, Lucky Me
Fressen & Gefressen Werden by Eden, Janine and Jim | Flickr
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by Bryan Miller (1183 Words) The auditor was wrapping up his presentation, a tale of cooked books and mislaid funds—one for which I had no explanation—when the monster emerged from Lake Michigan.
Thank the lord for big-ass, hydra-headed favors. Specifically the auditor was saying something about turning me over to the Securities Exchange Commission when a woman in a pinstriped power suit interrupted with a hearty “Holy shit!” She must have been the second person in the room to see the thing hoist itself dripping onto Lakeshore Drive. I saw it first. We had a tremendous view from the gleaming window-walled fourteenth floor conference room. Even from here it was hard to distinguish between the monster’s prehensile legs and its multiple tentacular heads. |
Inertia“Nothing wrong with do-overs,” I tell Ralph as we file into Bowman Gray Stadium for maybe the hundredth time this summer. “More times a man goes around the track, slicker he gets,” meaning, no days off for us. “Practice enough, you do without thinking,” I say. “Practice makes perverts,” I say, and on, and on like that.
I am the brains of our operation. Ralph’s the hands, the feet, maybe the balls, but not the mouth. He’s what you call legally dumb. Can’t make words. It’s on me to coach him up, so he don’t get sloppy or give in to the heat. “Do-overs can’t hurt a man,” I holler every night. “Do-overs can help a fool, which, not saying you’re one,” which, actually, who knows? “Look,” I say, pointing at the track below, “reps teach when to speed up and when to slow.” But – this I don’t tell him because this don’t occur to me yet – reps can’t teach a man what to do when shit hits the windshield. |
by Bob Shar (980 Words) 
Speed by James Loesch | Flickr
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The Earth Revolves Around the Sun
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by Alya Demina (1631 Words) The door was a leather-wrapped cripple with a colony of miscellaneous bells sprawling from its edge to the wall. I double-checked the address and pressed a random button. Shortly after it warbled inside, the door flung open and a rumpled woman in greasy flower prints gaped at me.
“Doctor Nehms,” I introduced myself, trying to shield my nose from an acrid smell coming out of the apartment. “Oh yes.” She nodded and forced a crooked smile. “Come in.” She beckoned me to follow her down an endless gloomy hall, heavily laden with ancient wardrobes, broken chairs, rusty bicycles, bundles of rags and all sorts of clutter placed in a random pattern. I hit my elbow on the edge of an antique chest of drawers; it rattled, and something scurried from beneath my feet. I suppressed a scream. |
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Doggerel [ daw-ger-uhl ] adj. 1. (of verse) comic or burlesque, and usually loose or irregular in measure. 2. rude; crude; poor. |
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