Humor
Roger the World’s Greatest Therapy Dog and the Haunted Hospital
It was October 31st, Halloween and Roger was working at the hospital. All the therapy dogs were wearing Halloween costumes so they could win the annual costume contest. First prize is a life time supply of dog bones. Roger was wearing a vampire costume. Roger was wearing a black cape and he had fake vampire tangs in his mouth. Harry the black lab was wearing a mummy costume.
By Jmjulius15 Jay3 years ago in Fiction
Tsunami of Cats
I put my hand out but couldn't reach her even though we were in the same room. She laughed, not at me, at the TV—something to do with mice. It was a pleasant evening outside. Inside it was just evening. I asked her to change the channel to something more interesting and she replied that I should change into something more interesting first. She had the remote and is sometimes packing a nine so I went and sat in my easy chair.
By Karl Van Lear3 years ago in Fiction
How I Became a Vegan
A week ago, at breakfast, my alphabet cereal spelled Doom in my bowl. I decided then and there to switch to Cheerios. Two days later my Cheerios wrote Doom in my bowl. It seems Cheerios stole a D and an M from the alphabet cereal box, which sits nearby on the shelf in the breakfast section. I felt a conspiracy brewing and rifled through my cupboards to find the ringleader because I’m not the kind of guy to slink away when my food staples start ganging up on me. I’m the apex predator here, not those multi-grain minions. I felt if I could identify the instigator I could put an end to this uprising.
By Karl Van Lear3 years ago in Fiction
Acid Rain
It’s only the fourth day of the government-induced lockdown, and I think I am already beginning to hate him. He catches me staring at him as he looks up from his work laptop. I don’t lower my eyes like I might usually do. Instead, my gaze furrows into a glare. Then I look away before I can register if he’s amused or pissed off.
By Jillian Spiridon3 years ago in Fiction
Boulder Rolling
A writer sat down at his computer desk, coffee pot in hand, to begin again at the job of his latest story assignment. He had been awake all through the previous night, pounding madly at his keys, until his knuckles were sore, only to reach what he thought was the end. Upon rereading, however, he realized there was some inconsistency in plot, or flaw in character, that he just could not live with.
By Synecdoche3 years ago in Fiction
Not Safe For Work. Top Story - June 2021.
It is a Tuesday and on Tuesdays I feel strange. I once read an article of a man in Ireland who died “of a Tuesday”. He was in his eighties, old enough to die of old age but still too young to die without a more detailed explanation. Except the doctor gave no other reasoning, other than dying of a Tuesday, which still perturbs me to this day. Apparently, dying of a Tuesday is supposed to mean the man lived a full and peaceful life, an Irish expression... but James Joyce once wrote the actual words, “he died of a Tuesday” in a piece about hanging. Maybe it’s a quirky Irish saying I just don’t understand. Or, maybe, the fact that I notice it is some underlying sign that, I myself, will die of a Tuesday.
By Jess Sambuco3 years ago in Fiction