Hopity Hop Carl

Hop. Hop. Hop. He was always hopping. Carl’s favorite thing to do was Hop. Sometimes he liked to swim. Or get food. But he was tired of living his life without meaning. He wanted to get a job.

Carl wrote up his resume, thinking of things that would get him employed. He wrote about how he was good at hopping.

The bosses of The Jump Company read his resume and decided he would be a good fit for their job opening. So they called him in for an interview for Monday.

Little did they know, Carl was really a frog.

Guest Contributor Zoey Zozo

Manufactured

The murder scene was wiped clean long before the police arrived to trample it in their carelessness. It didn't matter. Their best evidence was always manufactured.

Carl would maintain his innocence until the day he was executed. Most non-biased observers believed him. He was a convenient fall guy to take the blame for a crime that couldn't be solved. Yet no one dared leap to his defense. If the court system officially concluded Carl had murdered a family of seven while at the same time driving his taxi on the other side of the city, who was anyone to argue.

Carl

The windows to Carl's apartment were always closed. Summer heat and cancer-causing insulation made the one-bedroom flat in the still unseemly section of Brooklyn stink of rot and turpentine.

Carl sometimes paced about with a listless gait. He was married to the apartment, having been outside it only once or twice in his entire memory. There was nothing worth exploring that hadn't been explored years before. The bulk of his time was spent gazing out the window.

But as far as New York City house cats went, Carl had it better than most thanks to the corpse in the bedroom.

The Bronze And Beige

Autumn had descended over the valley with all its bronze and beige. Solomon found clinging to the days required more vitality than his chronic fatigue would allow. He sat his jeep with the same listlessness he sat his arm chair. Neither the work nor his TV could keep his attention.

His life was fading. Even patriarchs come to an end. His family would live on without him, but Solomon wished, in a secret part of his soul, he could take all this land with him. He was ready to die, ready to leave his family, but not ready for nothing.

The Hell Cow

She was no ordinary cow. You could tell immediately by the indecent way she chewed her cud. She almost licked her lips with anticipation. She understood it was wrong, but she chewed anyway.

No heifer had ever embraced all seven deadly sins with such fervor. She had long ago discarded her pastoral virtues, no longer content to play her role of milk-giver. She delighted in corrupting others from her herd. There was no possibility of redemption, and woe to anyone who crossed her path.

And there she was, the infernal bovine, munching the grass in my front lawn. Damn her.

Cliffhanger

Ben strained with all his might. It had been an errant throw, despite Rodney's insistence it was on purpose. Now here they were, poised on the edge of a cliff, literally hanging on with their fingertips, trying to reach Ben's coin. A stiff breeze would blow it over the abyss.

It wasn't that there was anything particularly special about the coin--no magical powers, it wasn't even that lucky--but he must retrieve it. The way it was poised there like an unanswered question made it impossible for Ben to give up.

Finally he had it.

“Tails. I go first.”

Holding It In

Hannah’s entire life has been spent looking for the perfect bathroom. It goes without saying it needs to be clean. Spotless. No untoward odors or any hint of fecal matter. It would be best if the toilet had never been used. A virgin toilet made just for her. Someone might suggest a secluded spot in the woods but it’s probable that sometime in the history of the planet a creature had at least urinated on the spot. Diapers, as someone mentioned, are completely out of the question.

Someday, Hannah dreamed, she would finally be able to stop holding it in.

The Bottom Of The Well

Carl had not wanted the bottom of the well. The high-traffic areas--the bridges, the forests--had all been selected when it was finally his turn to choose. His parents complained he should have taken his classes more seriously, but regrets were of no use. His only hope was hard work would result in a promotion.

Unfortunately, in 150 years, Carl had never once encountered another living soul at the bottom of his well. He was understandably both angry and hungry.

Calvin had no way of knowing any of this when he fell down the well behind the old farmhouse.

The Junk Yard Kids

Scottie and Claire loved the junk yard. To other folks it may have seemed a dire place to grow up, but for the two siblings, it was paradise.

Sure they had to worry about disease and oxidation and rats--man were there rats--but they had never known a moment of boredom their entire lives. Despite the other parents looking down at them, to the neighborhood children they were practically royalty.

Modesty had been instilled in them at an early age. Their parents made it very clear they were never to mention they were from the richest family in town.

The Sewing Box

Mrs. Livingston's sewing box was home to all manner of assortments. Strings and thimbles and yarns filled the various trays until they overflowed from one level and started cluttering the next.

But Mrs. Livingston's sewing box also lodged certain invasive residents who had nothing to do with sewing. A fairy family lived among the buttons and spools, hiding not only from Mrs. Livingston, but also from their enemies of the realm.

Fairy hunters know that sewing boxes are the first place to look for renegades. Unfortunately for Mrs. Livingston, she died during the scuffle, killed by her own knitting needles.