Chamomile Tea

It was once a daily ritual I looked forward to.

Like a Pavlovian dog, the chamomile scent from the kitchen always induced a sense of relaxation, no matter how stressful the day had been. Sitting in my Hepplewhite armchair, my clothes still covered in dust and blood, it took only a few sips for my heart to stop racing and my mind to be wiped clean of the raging torrent of anxieties and self-recrimations that normally plagued me.

Now it was the most agitated moment of my routine, wondering if today was the day she had decided to poison me.

Musical Industry

The human resources division of Bigelow Industries decided that, considering the low morale of the company, it would initiate a musical theater program in the workplace. What better way to enliven an often dreary office than by forcing everyone to dress in costume and sing show tunes?

The day went over so well with Mr. Kellerman, the new president, that it was decided every day would be musical theater day. The employes now spend every lunch hour rehearsing the song and dance numbers for the next day with a broadway-trained choreographer.

The depths of their humiliation truly had no end.

Is This The Beginning Or The End Of The Story

Gary swatted at the prick on his leg. Of all the days to get a bee sting, it had to be his wedding day. He wasn't allergic, but it hurt like hell. He walked with an obvious limp for the rest of the day.

When he visited the doctor in Paris, three days later, the swelling had grown to the size of a tennis ball. The pain was debilitating. The doctor came in with a look of concern.

"The bad news is you're dying. The good news is that your bee sting has opened a gateway into a parallel universe."

The Hour Before Sunset

Dax Morgan policed the town of Ashland with a harsh tongue and pair of Colt revolvers. He tolerated no dissent, even from his own sons. The town tolerated him in return, as long as peace was maintained.

Gil Thompson hated the sheriff more than most. Dax’d been responsible for his ranch being seized by the government, using technicalities and subterfuge to cheat him of his birthright.

Each wanted the other dead. They finally faced off on a lonely dusty road in the hour before sunset.

As Gil rode away, a rivulet of blood soaked into the thirsty clay behind him.

Lingering Resentments

I was presented with a choice: I could obey or I could go to hell.

It seems like a no-brainer, but to understand the nature of my dilemma, you'll need some background. As a graduate student, I lived next to a nursery. The enclosure had been shoddily built and one day I awoke to a pack of feral babies surrounding my bed. It was only with tremendous bravery that I was able to make it out of that ordeal alive.

So you'll commiserate when I say that taking orders from Baby Jesus made the prospect of heaven less than inviting.

Company

When Bill and Melissa arrived home, they found that every floor in their house had been covered with clover. The couple was understandably frightened.

Reports had been circulating for weeks of belligerent leprechauns running loose in the city. It had been dangerous for them to even leave their home, but Bill had insisted they'd be safe at the park.

It may have been Stockholm syndrome, but having the leprechauns in their home didn't seem so bad. There was plenty of whiskey and dancing, plus they were granted a few minor wishes.

But after 600 years, their company has grown quite tiresome.

Dinner With Margaret Atwood

The conversation was polite, she's Canadian after all, but surface. Her interest seemed genuine when I mentioned I wanted to be a writer, the way a mother is interested in her five-year-old's finger painting. I needed to flaunt my understanding, to let her know that I get it, and hated to think I was being patronized. She tolerated my high school English critiques with all the grace that you'd expect, but as the food dwindled, my desperation grew. I felt like I was missing my chance, that somehow if I won her approval, everything would be okay. I would matter.

Another submission to Every Day A Century, which will be posted soon.

The Voice

Stephen had a conversation with the voice every day. It tended to be an incessant dialogue until one or the other of them fell asleep. The voice cajoled and upbraided and urged him to do the worst things.

There was the time the voice commanded him to steal the money from his coworker’s till and she got fired. Or the time it wanted him to cheat on his girlfriend with that woman in the bar. Or his ongoing cocaine addiction.

What made the whole thing even more perverted was the voice sounded just like his third grade teacher, Miss Boggs.

Irresistible

Brian loved being an angel. Heaven was a playground without any teachers and Earth was Tombstone before Wyatt Earp came to town. In other words, anything goes.

There was just one rule to being an angel. Every angel learned, upon getting his wings, the one hard fast prohibition that could get you in hot water. Unfortunately, Brian had broken it three times this very first morning.

Now Brian was going to hell.

"You'd think God would have learned his lesson with the apple. If you don't want people punching baby angels in the face, don't make a rule prohibiting it."

Marching Onward

Joe toggled through the stations on Direct TV, waiting for something to catch his eye. He didn't want to get caught up in another one of those History Channel documentaries. He needed something mindless after all the drama at the office.

For some reason the remote wasn't responding very well and his frustrations began to mount. Whenever he had to call customer service, it was an endless menu of useless options. Maybe if he blew on the inside of the remote; that always worked with his Nintendo.

After changing the batteries, Joe happily returned to his slow march to death.