He appeared out of the shadows. “Money,” he demanded, his knife cutting down the need for explanatory conversation.
Panicking, I explained I had no job, no life, and definitely no money. He apologised for bothering me and left.
I punched the air happily. The air took it like a man.
This week’s guest story comes from Jamie Middleton. He declined to attach a tagline or description of himself, which leads me to believe that he is either celebrity, a secret agent, or both. Rock on, Jamie!
“I’ve become more powerful than you will ever be able to imagine!”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Can you imagine telepathy?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Telekinesis?”
“Yes.”
“What about telepyrokinesis?”
Ever since being struck by lightning at the anime convention, Todd had been getting on a lot of people’s nerves.
“Let’s go camping!”
“In the back yard?”
“In the forest!”
“Will there be cell reception?”
“I hope not!”
“What if I break my back and you need to call an ambulance?”
“Then I’ll euthanize you.”
“Will you use cyanide?”
“Whatever you prefer, hon.”
“Ok, deal.”
Unfortunately, he forgot the cyanide.
“I can play guitar and trombone!”
“Ah, shaddup. I’ve learned and forgotten how to play more instruments than you know exist!”
“Like what?”
“Like Icelandic, Zulu, Narau…”
“Those aren’t instruments; they’re languages.”
“Languages? I’ve learned and forgotten how to speak more languages than you know exist! Like sitar, zither, didgeridoo…”
“There’s something inherently comedic about hot dogs,” she mused.
“Maybe it’s their geometry,” he suggested.
“How do you mean?”
“Well,” he said, shrugging, “to put it bluntly, they’re phallic.”
“Hmm,” she said. “No, I don’t think it’s that. I think it’s because they aren’t really made from dogs at all.”
James approached the plate nervously. The pitcher was dripping in the heat.
Previous attempts had excited the audience, but they were foul.
Four pitchers and ten full Counts later, James was crowned grand champion. He just barely made it home safe from the Royal Count’s Eating Contest before throwing up.
Charlie Dunn is a college student studying abroad in Japan. He wrote this story during his daily commute. (Ed. That’s the beauty of microfiction, eh?)
“Have you been to the moon?”
“Nope.”
“Have you been to the International Space Station?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Have you been to the Hubble telescope?”
“No! What do you think I am, some kind of astronaut?”
“Well your résumé says…”
“Oh. Right. Yeah, I’ve been to all three of those.”
“Life is like pizza,” Giovanni once told me. “You can cover it with different toppings, but the core ingredients are the same. And no matter how you prepare it, some people enjoy eating it more than others.”
I thought he was so wise. Then I learned he was a cannibal.
“If a tree falls in the jungle,” said my captor, “no one can hear you scream.”
I slowly loosened my bonds. “I think you’re misquoting that.”
He snorted, hacking at the tree with his axe.
He was right. I fled as the tree crushed him, and I heard no screams.
The igloos were melting.
On the one hand, the warmer temperatures meant there would be more people around. On the other hand, it meant they’d soon be staying in tents. Tents were easier to break into, Percival the Polar Bear knew, but he found that igloos kept the humans fresher.