Gerald was in the unenviable position of having a pseudonym more popular than himself. He had submitted five stories and had none accepted. Mitchell Kent—Gerald’s middle name and favorite superhero—had been published twice. Gerald had to get rid of Mitchell. Murder or suicide? Either way it’d be messy.
We had been going at it over a year before my wife found out.
She’s truly a remarkable person: compassionate, bright, dignified, highly restrained.
She said, I believe it’s time we let you-know-who go. I’ll answer your calls, do your bookkeeping, schedule meetings. It’s time I helped manage your affairs.
He was an older version of me. The years have not been kind.
“Don’t go out tonight,” he warned, before vanishing into thin air.
I guess I could invite my date here instead.
He reappeared and slapped me in the face. “The point is to avoid the girl, you idiot.”
The centurion realized they were doomed
surrounded by barbarian hordes
Not his choice, being sent to Germania
To die on foreign soil, in this supposed adventure
For the Glory of Rome and Gaius Cornelius Tacitus
He marked the time on his Rolex
The professor was wrong
Time travel… really sucked
Life had taken over. I’d tried to get it back on track. Thwarted at every step, I finally called the children to my feet. In simple language I tried to explain how life sometimes runs amok, despite our best efforts.
The television remote was beyond my mental capabilities, I explained.
He cared more than words could say. All the signs were there. One day, she was depressed; another, enthusiastic. He experienced her life in snapshots — health, sickness, good times and bad ones — more devoted than any husband.
He lifted his leg, left his reply, and proceeded to the next hydrant.
God awoke in a restless state. Something was not right yet. God watched Adam and Eve frolicking in the garden. Perhaps one more creature, something simple and resilient, something that would survive the humans if they actually managed to blow everything up.
God slipped two cockroaches under the garden gate.
She told me that she’d do anything for fifty bucks.
She was shocked by my suggestion, but a deal’s a deal, and I made her do it. We played chess, and I won all three games.
I’d better not tell my wife. She’s a grandmaster, and she just wouldn’t understand.
“What’s wrong with Rudy? Lately, he seems to spend an inordinate amount of time in the restroom.”
“He’s following our company’s new protocol which requires humming or singing a song like ‘Happy Birthday’ to ensure employees wash their hands thoroughly before returning to work.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Rudy chose Ravel’s ‘Bolero.'”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Crimson Streets, Stupefying Stories Showcase, and elsewhere.
Amy checked her seatbelt. Seats were filling… yet, more passengers still boarded.
“Hope I don’t get kicked off,” she muttered.
“I won’t do that.”
Amy turned her head. A lanky guy in a black, hooded robe towered over her.
“I’ve been running my transportation business for ages. I never overbook.”