Satire
Hand-Me-Down
Have you ever been told you'll get a car and it seems too good to be true? The current owner says it doesn't have too many miles on it, the paint is new, upholstery is perfect; just the overall best car that could have ever been. The current owner did an amazing job with this car. They wanted to keep it, but that's not an option so they have to give it away.
By J. L. Green2 years ago in Fiction
Circle Six. Content Warning.
Circle six, beat in four, then thrust to his opponent’s neck. The lieutenant parried, made a riposte to the dirty brigand's seven, which the dirty brigand easily parried. Then the dirty brigand's cell phone rang, so he continue dto fence while pulling it from his pocket. All around them the queen's soldier's and pirates continued to battle, as the brigand answered his phone, without bothering to check the caller ID.
By Jason Edwards2 years ago in Fiction
A Hazy Shade of Thin Mint. Content Warning.
Liam is afraid to drive across bridges. Which sucks for someone who lives, works, plays and learns in and around Seattle. It's close to 3 PM on a Tuesday in June and I'm driving Liam's car. He met me at the airport, gave me a handshake and a brohug, threw my bag into the back seat and then got in on the passenger side. You want me to drive? And he said Yes, Liam is afraid to drive across bridges. In third person like that.
By Jason Edwards2 years ago in Fiction
Hugh's Bris. Content Warning.
Forty-seven-year-old upper middle class lousy lover and excellent writer Hugh sits on a skinny white chair and grits his teeth and grins and bears it, pretending his skull beneath all that flesh and muscle and blood is just a skull. Can Death die? I am not dying, I am death, Hugh doesn't say out loud, so she can't kill me, skinny little hardened piece of brie that she is, Loretta, forty-six, not a day over thirty-six, babbling incessantly, as usual, ad nauseum, Hugh's personal mausoleum, his penance for half a life of selfishness, he tells himself. He knows he needs to be around people more, needs people, needs to be seen with them if he's to be accepted for who he is, forty-seven, lousy lover, excellent writer. So he sits on the skinny white chair and listens to the skinny pale Loretta and pretends not to notice that all mastication is delayed micturition. The Chablis at Chateaux Cher is awful, simply awful.
By Jason Edwards2 years ago in Fiction
Bad Motorcycalia. Content Warning.
Jack Johansson strolled into Jack Scarlatti's office. It was a stroll kind of day. New sun, old enough to not be that exciting anymore, summer well ensconced but not bothersome yet. A status-quo kind of day, an even keel, que sera sera kind of day. "Jack, buddy," said Jack, while Jack shuffled papers and held a phone cradled between his ear and shoulder.
By Jason Edwards2 years ago in Fiction
Knights of Vocaldom. Top Story - September 2024.
They seemed an endless horde across that morning field. Soulless soldiers of metal, animated by greed, stood row by row as fog filled the narrow valley. The endless ranks of automatons had long assaulted their realm, and yet today they would be held. The enemy bore no banners, for there was no cause nor honor to them.
By Matthew J. Fromm2 years ago in Fiction
Hardy Laughter. Content Warning.
The door slammed shut with a loud bang, making Gary jump in his chair. Across the desk, Grayson seemed unmoved, as if this sort of thing happened all the time. He continued to scan the document before him. Eventually he said, "Door stop must have slipped. It's the new carpet. Still too slick."
By Jason Edwards2 years ago in Fiction
An Eulogy for Biffy. Content Warning.
Biff, Biffy to his friends, people who didn't like him but didn't hate him, not HATE hate anyway, didn't know how to delete google docs. Occasionally he'd open a new doc, change his mind, and write nothing. But that blank document would be in his folder, waiting for him. You'd think he'd remember the blank one, and use it instead of starting a whole new one. But you wouldn't think that if you were one of Biffy's friends.
By Jason Edwards2 years ago in Fiction
Too Late For White Flags
The last glimmer of light diminished in the sky above, on the eve of war. Thom and Gwen looked at each other for the last time, free from the blood, death and misery. The screech of devastating machines of their creation eviscerated the land ahead.
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Fiction
