When I Get To Heaven

The dust stuck to everything, even my sweat. The heat wasn't as dry as everyone said. I'd be happy when this job was over and I could head back to the city.

The pay had been too good to say no. Five thousand bucks for a single target. I assumed there would be catch.

The catch was the location. Heaven, a town I'd never heard of, found just a few miles down from the edge of absolutely fucking nowhere.

If I wasn't headed to heaven to kill a man, I'd have assumed I was the one who was already dead.

Among The 1%

Alice had always known she was special. That knowledge had kept her strong before she could leave her toxic family, and supported her through subsequent poor relationship choices and lousy jobs.

She was seventy when the aliens arrived, bringing with them the secrets of a rejuvenation process that they promised would work for the great majority of Earthlings. She, however, was one of the unlucky few, doomed to a remaining lifetime of being condescended to by those who looked younger every day because they actually were. Being special, she belatedly realised, wasn’t always all it was cracked up to be.

From Guest Contributor Alastair Millar

On The Money Trail

Family members need help. I oblige. I’m their doer of tasks.

Why me? I’m between jobs, behind with payments and I haven’t shopped for new clothes in ages. I guess they trust me to deliver. I’m okay with that.

No time to linger. Housebound auntie wants her groceries.

As I hasten, sunshine glues sweaty polyester to my back. I spot sparkles on the sunlit lawn along my walkway.

Coins! Many coins, strewn in a line towards the space where a car had once parked.

I gather, add up their value, sigh.

Someone’s emptied change-purse or pocket. My bit of fortune. From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction regardless of the season or location she finds herself in.

The Lottery Jackpot

“You know what I’d do if we ever win the Lottery Jackpot,” she says while she crumples this week’s ticket.

I’ve heard this before. She’ll start summing up wild and expensive dreams, each time leaving out some she no longer desires, but adding a few new extravaganzas.

“...south of France. An electric car, we’ve talked about this. It’s the latest fashion – we should definitely own one. Quit our jobs, obviously. And you won’t have to mow the lawn of that young widow twice a week any more.”

I sure as hell hope we never win that freaking Lottery Jackpot.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and hasn’t stopped since.

The Postscript

It was boiling mid-September, Freshman Gym, 30 kids in blue and white trying not to faint, two bees hounding us, Mrs. Jenkins scowling at our clumsy volleyball.

Since then, Brian’s been in and out of marriages, has a kid he’s ok with not seeing often, multiple jobs, half-bald, half-brown wisps, slow, ineffectual, chunky.

But in that gym, Brian was a long-haired demon god, always moving, lean and all instinct, feasting on shiftless opponents and becoming the postscript to everything I would ever write about my youth, not always the point or the signature, but an afterthought never to be ignored.

From Guest Contributor Steve Bogdaniec

Jobs For Humans

The android smiled at Brad. "Did you enjoy your work day last week?"

"Watching androids build walls? Are there any jobs where I actually dosomething?"

The android paused. "A day as a headmaster at a school?"

Later, another android greeted Brad at the school gates. "Mr Earnshaw,come this way."

"What will I be doing?"

"You'll be giving the human day teachers a motivational talk on howimportant their role is."

"Do they teach?"

"The children are busy with android led classes."

Brad was stood in front of a room of bored humans, and left to do his job.

From Guest Contributor Ross Clement

Pigeons With Pants

In an effort to eradicate the disease carrying pigeon population from the city, the mayor signed into law an ordinance requiring all pigeons within the city limits to wear pants. His hope was that they would be forced to flee the city as they did not possess the dexterity necessary to fashion their own clothing. He underestimated the pigeons’ solidarity and the ordinance instead sparked an uproar in the garmentless pigeon community. The pigeons quit their jobs as letter carriers in protest and decided to focus their efforts solely on their cynical hobby of defecating on large man-made objects.

From Guest Contributor, Sean Franklin