The Sprocket

A tooth broke off a sprocket of a bicycle once. It made a small chinking noise hitting the street but the rider kept riding.

The sprocket tooth said, “Too bad, I liked that bicycle, but maybe being on my own will be easier; plus, I’ll be free of the other teeth, and that awful chain.” And the tooth went about being a bicycle himself.

But being a bicycle when you’re just a sprocket tooth is harder than it looks. A storm came and swept the tooth into a storm drain; it was lost forever. That bike never ran as smoothly.

From Guest Contributor Henry Eutaw

His Name Is Death

Tears flowed down her face.

The chain broke as the coffin was lowered.

She gasped and covered her face. She wanted to run, but her love for him kept her standing in front of his grave.

The grave-keeper struggled with the chain and the casket. He pulled the chain, causing the casket to drop into the grave.

The lady fainted when the casket entered the grave.

The grave-keeper said, “Carry her and put her into the hearse. I’ll bury him. Then, we will go to the hall.”

She woke up and said, “Death.”

“That was his name?”

She nodded. “Death.”

From Guest Contributor Larry Sells

Comparison

He stood mesmerized by the depth and variety of the spice-stall’s palette; deep reds to yellows that hurt the eyes so much he had to close them, having to be satisfied with inhaling the melange of aromas.

The taste of burger was still in his mouth from the fast food outlet around the corner. It felt cheap and nasty in such company. He felt shame.

Then he felt a piercing violation of flesh and fell forward, arms failing to move to cushion. The chain securing the briefcase was snipped. Bolt cutters, he thought as his brighter red smothered the fruit.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid