Fiction

It was the seventh mission of The USS-MASON and after lots of external ship repair the preparation for re-entry was underway when something happened. The EVA was a disaster. Alex, our number one expert in Extra Vehicular Activities coordinator exploded into a bloody mess and when retrieved, showed most unusual symptoms. Although he was mostly liquid, he would gather in small organ-like pieces inside the spacesuit and looked like he was trying to reconstitute. It was the scariest looking mess and Doctor Kellner was totally perplexed.

Teddy Fister took the bus to work today, something he will never do again, unless the used car he plans to buy tonight also croaks in the middle of an intersection the way his 1960 Rambler did last night. He sold the clunker on the spot to the tow-truck driver who took it to his junkyard. And that's where his beloved Rambler, and its 210,000 miles, sits in a row with other cars, some terminal and others deceased, every one of them waiting for an automotive mortician to part them out.

It was a gray day at the beach. The wind was whipping up and a storm was imminent. Seagulls rode the shifting gusts, gliding low in search of food. The crowd on the boardwalk was thinning out as people began to realize they'd better take shelter. The few people still out on the sand and playing in the green choppy water would soon be coming in.

I went to talk to God again today. I wanted to know why my brother died. I mean he was a combat veteran. He had a kid. His wife was dead and who was going to raise the kid? The State of Georgia? I hope to Hell not. I went down to God’s Chamber and paid my fee and they let me in. I had an hour.

The Mustang raced through the intersection. It's driver was oblivious to the streetlight being red; it simply didn't matter to him anymore. After all, he was the last person left on Earth.

In misty pathways we walk Truth, is the experience of the soul. Bundt T. Jameson was a condemned man. He was a prisoner of the state. One of only two passengers, free to roam on the immense, all but empty space-ship, like an octopus attached to the giant 10km comet headed for the inner solar system to supply volatiles.

Bob the Big Dog – the Chevrolet dealership manager – was rocking and rolling. He had ordered the Y chromosomes to march into his pirate mustache and to militarize his Elvis sideburns. The woman sitting across from him had nothing to match his male follicles, and she knew it.

"Damn the vernal equinox! Full speed ahead!" is all that Cootie Murphy would ever say when he sat on the last stool at the end of the bar in The Stag & Doe Inn. He wouldn’t say it very often, only when provoked by someone or stirred by thoughts known only to him. Mostly he would simply sit at the bar in silence, staring straight ahead, tapping his fingers now and then, and sipping his Guinness.

“This marvel of an exercise machine can provide you with twenty-seven different workouts, working all your core muscle groups!” The combination of a pine scented candle and lemon air freshener proved no match for the overpowering, potent, musty stench of the small bedroom. Only half of the bulbs in the chintzy ceiling fixture worked, emitting a dim glow over the dingy, cluttered bedroom. Nicholas sat slouched over in his ratty brown leather armchair, motionless, staring blankly at his sixteen inch television that rested on a stack of unused textbooks atop a small dresser. Dozens of beer bottles littered the floor, surrounding him like a minefield.