The Birth Of Tragedy

I was nervous about interviewing for the job, but my confidence rose as soon as I walked into the anteroom. My only competition seemed to be ignoramuses with a fixed repertoire of inanities and washed-up ballplayers in the habit of spitting. Forty minutes later, my name was called. “I’ll lick stamps,” I told the gargoyle from HR. “I’ll lick whatever you want.” He looked at my wrinkled boots and patched coat and just shook his big ugly head. Some may be born with a tragic sense of life. Others are like me and acquire it by dint of long effort.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's most recent poetry collection is Gunmetal Sky, available from Thirty West Publishing.

Christmas Cards

My eccentric aunt sits in front of a stack of approximately one hundred Christmas cards, freshly signed, sealed and stamped.

“May I help? Let me mail them for you,” I offer.

I grab a plastic bag. As I manoeuvre cards into the open bag, about one third fall to the floor. I kneel down to scoop them up.

She begins to wail. “Don’t you realize, I spent forty minutes sorting them into fashionable zip code order?”

Is there any point in explaining they will become part of the greater mass once dropped through the chute at the Central Post Office?From Guest Contributor Barry O'Farrell

Barry is an actor who sometimes writes, living in Brisbane, Australia. Barry's stories can be found at Cyclamens & Swords, 101 Words, The Flash Fiction Press and here at A Story In 100 Words. One of Barry's stories was runner up in the recent Arts Alliance competition.