The Calculated Slant Of An Eyebrow

Jamie had the most expressive eyebrows of this or any other generation. They were eyebrows that could communicate what sculptor's stone and painter's easel have lamely attempted for centuries. When Jamie raised them, doors flung open.

While one can refute even the most carefully constructed argument, there's no arguing against the calculated slant of an eyebrow. At a nuanced protragalation from just one of Jamie's bushy caterpillars, fleets would unfurl their sails, old wives would once again see their husbands as young men, and whole economies would lose their composure.

So more is the shame that Jamie was a woman.

The Shoemaker

I was walking through my lawn when a choleric little gnome asked, “Why don't you have shoes on?”

I replied, “I’m going back inside in a sec. There’s no need for me to put on shoes.”

“I can make shoes, ya know,” the gnome said, and with a stamp of the foot added, “I will make shoes for you tonight!” I smiled and nodded.

When I checked my mousetraps in the morning, I discovered the gnome’s body strewn about my kitchen floor with but a strip of leather as a reminder of the shoe he had promised would be mine.

From Guest Contributor, Anthony Tao

The Leprechaun Hunter

Every Leprechaun I've ever known's nothing more than a ruddy thief. All that 'gold' they keep at the end of the rainbow, that's ill-gotten pillage, buried where they think no one will ever find it.

People, especially the lasses, get nostalgic when I tell them I'm a Leprechaun hunter. But their ain't nothing romantic about it. They're shifty bastards, and if you turn your eye for one second, they'll bite you in your nuts and abscond with your daughter.

Being half Leprechaun meself, I reckon their luck don't work against me. Leastways, I've killed more Leprechauns than raindrops in Winter.

Middle Management

Alan Alanwich preferred to leave the details to his subordinates. That's what he paid them for after all. He was much too busy to worry over moon landings or oxygen to nitrogen ratios.

But someone had failed to inform him that when the rocket detached, more than half his employees would be left behind. He did not regret their deaths, but who the hell was going to oversee the transition?

Someday, his tombstone would beg the question of how a man who spectacularly failed as a the CEO of his own company managed to build the world's first interplanetary skyscraper.

The Ides Of March

Caesar was warned.

The first emperor of Rome, the ruler of Europe, Asia, and Northern Africa, the man who had broken the Republic, simply scoffed.

The old man had not been cowed in his presence, and Caesar, having grown accustomed to instilling fear, awe, and respect in even his closest associates, was vexed. Who would dare lay hands on Caesar? He derisively dismissed the warnings.

That evening, Caesar saw the old man on his way to the theater. "Well, the Ides of March have come," he remarked.

The old man, still defiant, responded, "Aye, but they are not yet gone."

Arthur

On the thirty-fourth floor of the Alan Alanwich Tower, Arthur sat between cabinets of yellowing paperwork. Had he been near a window, he still would not have noticed as the Tower crested the troposphere.

While the calculus of rocket trajectories was not terribly different from the calculus of financial modeling, the transition resulted in a couple of irregularities, putting Arthur behind schedule. Arthur always felt nauseous when he fell behind schedule.

As stage two of the tower detached, dropping the accounting department and mail-room back towards Earth, Arthur sighed. He would miss the company picnics. He had always enjoyed those.

Bankrupt This

Against the flat gray sky of the Financial District, the skyline begins to stir. Clouds of soot bellow down the narrow cross-streets and grand avenues, away from the Alan Alanwich Tower, which teeters, lurches, and completely parts company with the ground. Triumphant as Jupiter, the ten thousand ton fledgling of cement and steel lifts itself above the be-spired brotherhood of sober banks, ascending towards the heavens.

On the penthouse viewing deck, Alan Alanwich raises his fists. As all eighty-seven floors of his company rocket away from insolvency, one thought reverberates through his mind - "This will teach those fucking Democrats!"

The Mustache

Last Tuesday morning, I woke up with a moustache. It had not been there the day before. It appeared, fully formed, overnight.

My new moustache seems to have a mind of its own. I used to smoke regularly, but it will not abide by any kind of flame close to my face. It also has a taste for jerky.

My girlfriend, thinking it was one of those fake 'staches you wear for Halloween, tried to pull it off my face. Let's just say I'm single now.

And I know it is only a matter of time before it kills again.

Hindsight

I carried my shipwreck bag with me everywhere. Inside, I kept everything I would need were I ever stranded on a desert island. A Swiss army knife. A first aid kit. Fishing line and hooks. A Zippo lighter with extra fuel. My five favorite books. An mp3 player with my favorite music. A solar charger. The U.S. Army Survival Manual. Duct tape. A torch. Mosquito repellent.

People thought I was crazy, but here I am.

In hindsight, it would have made more sense to pack a satellite phone. Then I wouldn't still be stranded on this god forsaken island.

The Mad Scientist

He was mad. Truly mad.

He spent nearly every moment in his lab, concocting, inventing, dissecting the most horrific of catastrophes. His chilling laughter echoed through the 3 AM night.

He toyed with science, shaping it in his hands, bending it to his crazed will, contorting the numbers to the point where everything was possible.

He published his results profusely. His colleagues, upon receiving their monthly journals, trembled with dismay when they saw his name listed in the table of contents.

His diabolical genius compelled him to tweak his results just enough that all of his results would be slightly inaccurate.