The Curse

To this day, I don't know what I did to anger her. I was waiting at the stoplight at Pinehurst and Rock Creek. An old woman was crossing, decrepit really, and if I was guilty of anything, it was allowing my gaze to linger a fraction too long, perhaps just a tincture of disgust in my expression. When she looked in my direction, I immediately turned away.

That's when she began screaming, condemning me and all my future progeny. She even spit on my windshield.

From that day, I've never approached an intersection without being stopped at a red light.

Endeavor

Chet sat his desk daily in four-hour shifts from 6am to 7pm, with fifteen-minute breaks in between. The working conditions weren’t the worst he’d encountered. At least they had a ceiling fan.

Chet’s job was to type the word “endeavor.” When he was first hired, sixteen years ago, his word had been “the,” but then Peterson had died and so he got promoted.

Every fifteen seconds, a new page was handed to him, and he typed his word. Then the page was taken away, and a new page came. They were distributed randomly, going from station to station, until they had 120 pages. Mostly the scripts were incoherent gibberish, but every once in a while, they’d have a blockbuster.

Though Chet didn’t think it was a very efficient system, Hollywood found it cheaper than training monkeys to use a typewriter. Chet certainly wasn’t going to complain. It beat crunching numbers.

Today's story is exactly 150 words, but you get it for the same low price as always!

A Genetic Predisposition To Solving Mysteries

I found the broken glass of the window scattered over the shag carpet. Across the room, beneath the armchair, there was a dead sparrow. We had ourselves a mystery.

Ryan’s first conjecture, not unwarranted, was that the bird struggled before it died, coming to its final resting place several feet from the window. But he ignored the bullet hole in the far wall.

Ryan was always attracted to the easiest solution. And after discovering that our parents had once been international assassins and were now in quiet retirement, I wished that I had listened to him and ignored my curiosity.

The Clowns

When the clowns first appeared, the media tried to downplay it and sensationalize it at the same time. "When will the clowns strike your home, tonight at eleven!" contradicted with studies that claimed the clowns were simply a result of too many clown schools churning out too many clowns. Where would the clowns find work? It was an epidemic of clowns, but they were mostly harmless.

We eventually got used to them. A few families were killed, but based on how many clowns there are now, a few of them are bound to be bad. Mostly, we just ignore them.

Peace Of Mind

Gus was only able to survive day-to-day under heavy sedation. It was always a mixture involving alcohol, barbiturates, and valium, with a healthy dose of cocaine to taste. He'd learned ages ago how to fake his drug tests and before today he'd never suffered from even a minor forklift accident.

The foreman didn't care much about Gus, and certainly didn't care about his bouts with depression, but he did care about his safety record. Forgetting the fact that he had killed Gary by leaving his body hidden in the foundation shaft would be best for both their peaces of mind.

The Grave Diggers

Bill and Greg had worked as gravediggers for the New Horizons Cemetery for more than twenty years, but their feelings about the job couldn't have been more different.

Bill hated digging graves. He detested manual labor, felt weirded out being around so many dead people, and frequently complained about his increased risk of skin cancer. He regretted not having finished high school, leaving him with few options to feed his family.

Greg, on the other hand, approached his job with a more optimistic demeanor. He responded to every one of Bill's complaints the same way.

"Well, it beats digging ditches."

The Secret To The Answer Is The Correct Question

"You may begin your journey," she said."Wise One, how far must I drive?" he asked."Until the pollution of light dims into darkness and the stars shimmer free," she answered."How far, Wise One, must I then walk?" he asked."Until the pollution of noise fades into the distance so that you can hear cicadas harmonize with the wind," she answered."How long, then, must I stay, Wise One?" he asked."Until the pollution of your mind drifts away like smoke," she answered."Then, Wise One, what must I do next?" he asked."You may begin your journey."

From Guest Contributor, Karen Burton.Karen is an MFA student at Lindenwood University in St. Charles, Missouri.

Closure

Dave wanted to see Rebecca one last time. He hated for something so meaningful to be left open-ended.

But what would he do if she refused to see him? If she left for Chicago without giving him any consideration whatsoever, he might do something crazy and drive to Chicago just to say goodbye.

As part of his court-mandated treatment, he discussed his options with his therapist.

"I think it's unhealthy to form such strong attachments to a cashier at Starbucks you've spoken to twice." His therapist always helped put things in perspective.

The next day, Dave was driving to Chicago.

Side Effects

The instruction on the bottle was clear: Don't fall asleep or you will die!

Lesley had no choice but to do everything possible to stay awake. She started with caffeine, loud music, and hourly callisthenics. Then she moved into harder drugs, inflicting pain on herself, and ice cold showers. By now, 48 hours had passed, and she began to wonder if she wouldn't die anyway. You could only go so long without sleep.

Eventually she succumbed to the sweet embrace of slumber. When she awoke the next morning, her schizophrenia medication had finally taken effect and her delusions were forgotten.

The Beer Has Two Inches Of Foam, Not One.

Pushing too hard. Pushing too fast. Wanting something with such veracity that the world disseminates into popping bubbles. I have poured myself into us with too much speed; I am breathless. You are smothered. As the air escapes into a toxic atmosphere, I gulp your aroma into my lungs. I clutch your being until the oxygen releases into the air, and you die beneath my affections. My sorrow does not reconstitute you; my grief does not call you from beyond. Can you hear the lack, the absence of hope? Slow is not for the desperate. I drown in your absence.

From Guest Contributor, Karen Burton

Karen Burton is an MFA student at Lindenwood University in St. Charles, MO