Community Man

Community Man (short story)

6 minute read

Chadwick Pick - known to some as Chaddy boy, known to others as “Ew, mom look at him!” - was a real community man. If you encountered Chadwick, you’d notice the constant lip-licking and misting of spittle when he talked. The distinct scent of Irish Springs soap competing with garlicky butt sweat. You might also notice that his lazy eye - or was it his good eye? - seemed to drift to the nearest breast. Or did it? Regardless, folks smiled and waved when they saw him. He was local, after all.

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Scream of a Time

Scream of a Time (short story)

17 minute read

If you saw Freya in the workplace you’d think, “Wow she looks so relaxed, what’s her secret?” Then you’d think, “Probably weed.” But then you’d study her longer and think, “No, no, no, there’s no way she can be that put together and high all the time.”

If you saw how Freya keeps her cool in the face of visiting babies that screech more than they gurgle, Ken's constant tea-slurping, George’s ogling, and Julie's too-loud humming - you'd be wow'ed. And I really mean that. Or maybe those kinds of things don't bother you. Good for you. This isn't about you, though.

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The Stuff

The Stuff (short story)

7 minute read

Helena, pronounced Helaina but known online as “_ɐuǝlǝH_”, carefully applied liquid liner to her eternally greasy eyelids. She had seen another girl in her feed using the same brand. Yes, it was a brand from an anti-vaxxer, but Helena was willing to put her murky values on hold for the perfect cat-eye. She was confident this would make her just as pretty—if not prettier—than the girl whose feed she saw it featured on. Helena wasn’t vain, she’d just happened to notice the guy who was on his way over for their first date liked a lot of the horror model’s selfies. And Helena knew she could pull it off, too.

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Money for Nothing

30 minute read

I roll the twenty between my fingers and out from underneath a stack of bills. In one fluid gesture, it’s inside the cuff of my sweater, and the register is closed. I exhale through my teeth. My pulse slows.
Mrs. Sisson approaches the checkout counter with a plastic basket. Her white hair in an immaculate bun. Her face carefully powdered and spackled.
“How are you tonight, Mrs. Sisson? Quick Pick with Encore?” I say, all smiles and nods.
I eyeball the total of her pantyhose, nuts, and hard candies to be about ten dollars.
She shakes her head, “I’m fine, dear. And no, Bob already picked up tickets for tonight’s draw. Are you playing? It’s a big one.”
I type in the items as a return, then place her money in the till.
“Not me, I never win.”
And just like that, my ass is covered. Even if those cameras above the cash area work, which I suspect they don’t, I’m very discreet.

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