Intrinsick Mag

Team Building Exercise

The Team Training Facilitator is rummaging in a duffel bag while we Perceivers mingle by the coffee. We’ve been told to stay out of the way as the Judging folks move tables. Fine. Monique is fighting with Betty about how to properly move a table, but why get involved?

I don’t want to be here, but Team Building is a required Employee Performance Improvement Module. I missed the last EPIM because my Justin got pink eye. If I had a husband worth anything I could’ve called him, but I don’t, so that’s that. Nothing I can do about it.

Now Monique is fighting with Derrick, who is one of the Perceiving. You can tell we’re Perceiving because everyone in our group is wearing a tag that says INFP or ESTP or anything, as long as it has a “P.” Derrick scribbled out whatever his tag said and wrote “ESPN,” which he thinks shows he’s funny, but Monique says proves he’s a smart-ass. Which he is.

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by Raima Larter (982 Words)

Bucket of Balls by Mike Cardus | Flickr

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Tweet by wonderferret | Flickr

by Diego Lama ( 375 Words )
(translated by Rose Facchini)

It had been night for several hours. Lucio and Arturo were sitting silently in the big, deserted park.

Lucio finished his bottle of wine. He hurled it a long way off, toward a bush, and missed.

“Fuck you,” he muttered, but not to the bush. Then he stretched out on a bench, covered himself with a newspaper, and closed his eyes.

“Night,” he mumbled to Arturo.

“Fuck you,” Arturo responded. Lucio was already sleeping.

For a few minutes, Arturo stood watching the stars, listening to the sounds of the park: a faraway cricket, leaves rustling in the wind, Lucio snoring. Then, all of a sudden, a blinding flash illuminated the hedges. Arturo looked up while Lucio continued to snore.

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The Experiment

I have no complaint. Boredom cannot survive variety. The self that I claim is a motley collection of mysteries, and for that, I'm grateful. But one aspect of my life is becoming more trouble than it's worth. Going to bed every night is the curse of my existence. I've had to endure this peculiar routine for 75 years. Half of my life's story has passed while I slept. Dreams are the singular products of this activity, but they vanish with the sunrise. It's hard to imagine a more efficient waste of time.

The bed itself is a raggedy pile of blankets, wadded-up sheets, messed-up pillows. A sight as welcoming as the sail locker in a sunken ship. Unconcerned with bed bugs, fleas, or skin lice, I lay down. Because it's warm, nothing exposed to the cold room but my face. My feet create a tent for my toes, relieving them of the weight of many old quilts. My pillow headrest . . .

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by Tim Hildebrandt (1599 Words)