The Joke

"Stop me if you've heard this one before. A man walks into a bar--"

"Stop."

"I haven't even finished yet."

"But you said to stop you if I've heard it."

"You don't know what the joke is."

"Sure I do. A man walks into a bar..."

"That's just the beginning."

"The beginning of a joke I've heard before."

"Look, here's the punchline. The extra long one's for the dog."

"Oh, I guess I haven't heard it before."

"Well, now it's ruined."

"No, start over."

"Okay, a guy goes into a bar--"

"No, that one I've heard. Tell the new one."

The Stray Cats Of Glen Eden

Glen Eden would otherwise be quite charming if not for the herd of cats.

They are unlike any cats you have ever seen. The size of golden retrievers, with husky fur, they have thoroughly overrun the village.

Their favorite spot is the widow's cabin. She not only feeds them fish and chicken in individual bowls, but she always keeps her fire burning, making her roof an especially balmy spot for naps.

The cats don't normally eat humans, but knowing that there have been attacks from time to time is enough to make any visit to Glen Eden a harrowing affair.

A Wonderful Guy

At some point in his late sixties, his life became a cliche.

Most afternoons were spent on the park bench, feeding the pigeons. He stopped buying clothes more than a decade ago. He was mortified at wearing anything that might be considered fashionable, for fear of being laughed at.

He voted Republican. He drove a Cadillac, erratically. He visited the cemetery every Sunday.

Even his children knew their roles, urging him to move into a nursing home.

So close to the end, these routines were all he had left. That, and his memories of playing the lead in South Pacific.

The Bridge To Nowhere

The bridge attracted all sorts of people. Haggard old men and women, driving mobile homes. Young families, on a weekend sojourn. Teenage lovers, joined at the hands. Once, many years ago, a man came riding a camel.

"What's at the other end?" They always asked the same question.

"Nothing, as far as I know." He had never actually been down the bridge himself. It was just his job to collect the tolls.

He always wondered what possessed people to drive the bridge. Was it curiosity? A sense of adventure? Boredom? Desperation?

Whatever the attraction, no one had ever come back.

The Good Lieutenant

Recently, Officer Hanson spent most of his days seething. It seemed almost every cop in the city was on the take, whether for the mob or the corporate executives. It was giving him and the entire department a bad name.

With all the internal affairs investigations, it was becoming impossible to write a simple traffic citation without getting hauled before the citizen's review board.

Hanson prided himself on being a by the book cop. Sure, he might kidnap the occasional tourist and murder them in cold blood, but that was on his own time.

Maybe it was time for retirement.

The Librarian

Carmichael perused the aisles one last time before locking up, straightening any book out of place. This was his favorite time, with all the patrons departed, and a true silence blanketing the building.

When he was younger, Carmichael used to spend the night in the Library, reading by one of the desk lamps. He would read as many books as possible, adventure stories, how-to-books, encyclopedias. Everything.

Carmichael was just entering his office when he heard the scream from outside. It sounded like someone was in danger. He ran fervently towards the exit.

He'd waited his whole life for this moment.

The Bee Farmer

The idea had been simple enough when his editor proposed it, a story about the mysterious fate of the disappearing bees.

Now, after weeks of interviews with scientists and bee farmers, he found himself on this lonely road, in the middle of nowhere Arkansas.

As he pulled up a long gravel drive, he noticed the air was pregnant with bees.

He knocked on the farmhouse door. A grizzled, bearded bear of a man answered.

"I wanted to ask you about the bees on your farm."

"I reckon I'll have to kill you like I killed the others," sighed the farmer.

Office Drone

He adjusted his tie, making sure the knot was centered, and returned to his keyboard. He added a macro to the spreadsheet.

He stood up, and took a lap around his desk. Maybe if he took off his jacket. He shrugged his shoulders, stretching out his arms, then returned to his keyboard. He double checked all the numbers for the third time.

His pants were starting to bunch up. He stood up to straighten out his pleats, and returned to his keyboard. He'd be finished with the spreadsheet in another hour. Maybe he'd have time to fit in some minesweeper.

Jake And The Chrononauts

Jake, the only remaining Chrononaut, skated to a stop on top of the telephone pole. He was out of bullets, and his knife had broken off in the helicopter propeller. Percival still clung to his back, but using the three-toed sloth as a weapon would be too risky, not to mention politically incorrect.

I never should have dropped that alligator.

The Baskerville hounds blocked his escape. The Redcoats advanced with precise timing, firing shots every five paces. And the Voodoo priestess was still alive, hiding somewhere in the catacombs.

Jake finally conceded trusting the Hitler clone had been a mistake.

The Longest Night

Carter paused to rub his hands. Callouses had already started to form. Dawn was fast approaching, and his aching muscles longed for repose.

Why not give up this tedious digging? What rewards could he expect at the bottom?

But he continued. The men stared down at Carter from above, perched like gargoyles, or maybe angels gazing down into hell.

Carter resented their leisure. "That's it. I'm not digging anymore." He threw down his shovel.

"That's deep enough." Carter saw the flash before he heard the shot, and he realized in that final instant his childhood nightmare had finally come true.