From Treadmill To Rowing Machine

Charlie researched the treadmill market. He was intent on good habits from thereon, starting with a mile walk per day in the bedroom.

"Do you think you'll last even a month?" asked Cheryl. Two months later, she noted that it made a great drying rack for his shirts and undershirts.

Nothing is as firm as a habit. Charlie researched exercise bikes. A 5-mile ride in the morning was the way to start a day. "That thing," said Cheryl after two months, "is perfect for drying pants and pillowcases."

The rowing machine – the next purchase – was better yet for drying socks.

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

The Look Of Things

We were invited to a silent room filled with melting glaciers. I just stood there, part of the system, but vulnerable in a way peculiar to men who are naked except for their socks and shoes. I’m constantly creating problems that never even existed. I have to walk really, really carefully or there’ll be more cats than people around. After we’re dead, it’s another story: Cosimo de Medici once complained to Michelangelo, “That sculpture doesn’t look like me.” “Listen,” Michelangelo said, “you’ll be dead in 20 years, this will be around for 2,000 years. So, that’s what you look like!”

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press.

Sweet Memory

The girls play hopscotch, the one sister’s hair bounces in rhythm to her skips. She giggles and bends to pick up the rock, balancing her leg in the air. She wins, and they play again and again, until the sky opens, drenching them. Hand in hand they run home with their mouths open tasting rain drops. Entering the house, their mother yells for them to take off their wet sneakers and leave them by the door.

They kick off their sneakers and socks.

In the kitchen there’s the sweet smell of chocolate chip cookies.

Eighty-five-year-old Cindy smiles at the memory.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Sam

Sam was a contradiction. He wore shirts partially tucked in with socks often mismatched. His hair combed in glossy strokes.

He tiptoed to his office cubicle ignoring everyone. They ignored him. Except for Anne who monitored his quota. It must’ve been adequate for he continued to pass me at the reception desk.

One day, I didn’t notice the scent of his signature aftershave. Nor saw his forlorn face staring at the patterned floor as he entered.

A radio news feature announced him as a “person of interest.” Missing. His apartment trashed.

Suddenly, everyone at the office became interested in Sam.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.

Cement Road

The little girl stomps the yellow rain boots through the puddles, scattering the water that bled from the ground and collected in the damaged parts of the cement road.

She does not feel the moisture that has leaked into her woolen socks, or the place on her ankles where the shrinking shoes chafe. At this age, a child has such a narrow focus. She kicks the water around her until it has been redistributed across the dark pavement.

Once the puddle has disappeared, the patch of ground loses her interest, and she moves down the street, searching intently for another.

From Guest Contributor Caroline Meek

The Discovery

Professor Viterbi puffed up like an overripe seed pod, ready to shower his discovery all over the conference delegates in their seats.

"We have discovered a species with left handed DNA. This means life on Earth started not just once, but two or more times."

The delegates' jaws dropped; mouths like pitcher plants waiting for further details to fall in.

"This organism has been in front of our noses all the time. The common toenail fungus."

Half the delegates gave Professor Viterbi a standing ovation. The other half removed their shoes and socks, and stared at their toes in wonder.

From Guest Contributor Ross Clement

Unreasonable Fear Of…

Jumbo jets are supposed to be safer, the new Airbus A380 the safest.

An unusual, annoying sound distracts me from the terrific in-flight entertainment system.

What is that sound? Where the hell is it coming from?

Running water? Yes, it’s the sound of running water. No one seems alarmed…yet.

Now water is cascading from the ceiling of this A380.

Water begins to pool in the carpet. The water rises, continues to rise. Frighteningly, water now laps at my sneakers. I can feel my socks becoming damp.

Suddenly any fear of flying turns to fear of drowning…at 35,000 feet.

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.