Time Travel

For nearly three weeks, I found myself in a state of utter confusion. Despite using my usual login details, I was unable to access any of my accounts. It was as though I wasn't myself, like something else had taken over my body. I entertained the possibility of theft or insanity, but my motherboard's lack of responsiveness left me with more questions than answers. It reluctantly crossed my mind that I had been transported elsewhere. However, how and why I would end up there was still a mystery. These unexplainable experiences have left me feeling perplexed and uncertain. Time travel.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

Special Sauce

Maybe advertising was the wrong field for Bob. His boss, Ralph, passed him up for the accounts he wanted, like “Granola Gambit” and “Veg It Up,” giving those to his arch-nemesis, Ted. Bob kept getting accounts like “Killer Shrimp” and “Pork for Your Fork.” (Bob was a known vegan; passive aggressive much, Ralph?) Bob would’ve left ages ago had it not been for his secret love for his coworker, Darlene. He couldn’t shake the vision he’d had of her one day when he’d come upon her eating barbecued ribs like a wild animal. She’d been covered in sauce, but adorable.

From Guest Contributor Susmita Ramani

Susmita lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and two children. She’s a lifelong writer whose work has appeared in The Daily Drunk, Nymeria Publishing (winner of March 2021 poetry contest), 50 Word Stories, and Vine Leaves Press (50 Give or Take), and will appear in upcoming issues of Short Fiction Break and Secret Attic.

On The Floor

Marty was a penny stock trader back in the 80s. A breathtaking collection of liars and cheats, everyone doing blow. Stock exchange officials were bribed. Client accounts were bled. It was something to behold.

His supposedly statelier sales manager was all smiles but for the dead shark eyes. He would say, "If people want yellow ties, sell them goddamn yellow ties."

Once or twice a month, after market hours, Marty would go out and stick up random banks, his rickety scheme to salvage honour.

His profession was put early to the silicon sword. Mercifully, Marty never saw the party end.

From Guest Contributor Kevin Campbell

Kevin writes in Vancouver, Canada.

Psychopath

The girls in accounts are crying.

They returned from lunch to find the end of month statements shredded and scattered across their department like confetti.

Divisional manager Mr. Yale was vetting the statements, when he thought he saw a mistake. He took punitive action instantly.

The following week, statements reprinted, the girls sit with Mr. Yale to check any error he may find.

There is no sign of a mistake.

Apart from the statements going out late, it is a most enjoyable month for Mr. Yale.

Satisfied with his bonus, he savors the delicious memory of making the girls cry.

From Guest Contributor Barry O’Farrell

Barry is an actor living in Brisbane, Australia. The acting experience has inspired a latent desire to write. Barry is enjoying the challenge of writing in 100 words.