I wanted to try something new, so in the next life, I became a lion. They look so majestic. But I found out that taking care of my domain and growling all day was tiring, and that git David Attenborough would not leave me alone, so I thought, let me be something simpler, but not too simple next time. So I became a mosquito.

But sadly, the moment I flapped my wings and soared through the wide open space of a kitchen, making loops and turns and dives galore, I was killed by some woman with a few thoughtful sprays from an aerosol can. Fucking humans. Apparently it was because I'm a spreader of malaria and dengue and whatnot, hurting and killing their species. Yet they kill cows and chickens and birds and bees and ants and trees, trampling all over them efficiently in the name of humanity. And I thought, what the fuck? Humanity is the death of everything else? Proud pricks.

When I went back to the ether, I said to god, Let me be human, I want to have their fun too.

And sayeth he, Oh, but why? The humans, they do not know what they are doing, they are ignorant. I sent my son down to teach them peace and love and they nailed him to a cross, and now you want to be one of them?

Yes.

Uhm...how about a bear instead? A nice, furry grizzly bear. I heard they're in fashion now. Or a whale. They're really big.

I wasn't convinced. Godamnit, I don't care about being ignorant, I said, just let me go down there and kill something for the sake of humanity.

Fine.

And I became human.

And being human, my life was like a song from a bulbul: not very lovely, but sounds nice when described as a metaphor. And then I met her, small and cuddly and could probably fit in a tiny plastic box, living only on water and sunflower seeds. Maybe she was a hamster in a past life.

I painted, while she did poetry. I did poetry too, but she had a better ear for rhyme and a better feel for flow. This annoyed me to no end. I tried distracting her with romance, clouding her mind with want and filling her heart heart with passion to dull her poetic senses. She became inspired instead. I believe I am inexperienced as a human.

Then we grew up and grew old together, planting lilacs and buttercups to pass the time. And as the flowers in the garden wilted away, their cellular breakdown a waving of the white flag to time, so did the ones in our hearts. She ended up bitter, resentful, naggy; I became lazy, passive, ambitionless.

We wasted away.

I wish I was an amoeba again.

The darkness howled around me that night.  I called the demon and he arose, burning with fires like carnival lights, skin slick with the cosmic afterbirth of his journey. 

"Payment," he demanded, his voice coming from all around me, a thousand lunatic whispers like rats scuttling through the walls of my mind.

"It's there."  I pointed to the pouch atop the old fireplace, still standing long after the house around it had fallen to ruin. 

In one stride, the demon was there, long fingered hands pulling the pouch's cord free and peering in hungrily.  A growl like a toothed winch rattling against a load arose from his chest.

"It is good.  A good payment."  He turned, drawing out one of my gifts to him.  A human sternum, one of thirteen I'd collected.  The demon pushed the bone into his mouth and bit down, cracking the bone, eating the soul trapped within.  The wild corona of prismatic flames around him waxed ever brighter.

"These gifts are what you demand, yes?" I asked him.  "These will buy me your favor?"

The demon smiled, his teeth as big and square as horse teeth.  "They died in agony, their souls bound to the chest-bone.  These and one thing more will buy you what you wish."

My heart wavered.  From my small boat of surety, I navigated an ocean of terror.  I swallowed.  "What more do you wish?"

The demon moved, quick as the flickering of a candle's flame, and was suddenly next to me, his hand in my hair, his smell--cut grass and still water--all around me.  "You."

My heart shuddered.  His quick hands found my breast, my hip, my vagina.  The demon's immense member surged against my belly.  His flames were all around me.  I burned, but was not burnt.

"Yes.  Take what you need," I breathed.  My eyes closed.  The sound of my clothes ripping away seemed distant.  His touch was hot against my skin.  He lifted me free of the ground and set me down hard, the tufted grass pushing against my shoulder blades.  The demon put his face within the open triangle of my legs and drank from me until I screamed out from it.

With a shifting purple and orange glow burning in his eyes, he mounted, stretching, tearing me inside until pain tears obscured the night, rendering it in dark charcoal smears.  The demon hollowed out my core with all his supernatural vigor, until both our stomachs were slick with my blood, until my jaw muscles cramped from the desperate clench against a scream and I thought that perhaps death would be better than another moment of agony.

The ground around us shook and was torn asunder, sharp spires of rock rising like gargantuan teeth all around us.  The shifting fires around our bodies grew so bright that I was blinded and near the point of unconsciousness when the demon spent out his tar-like passion and sagged against me, finally weak in my embrace.

"Megiddo.  Show me the way," I said into his ear.  His body tensed, shivering.

"Why?  Why would you wish to walk that ancient path?"

He slipped free of my torn womb, and I wrapped my legs around his chest.  "Because I am incarnated, one of the Conquerors of Armageddon.  Show me the way."

The demon closed his eyes, touching his smooth brow against mine.  The arid desert land, the many rising, desolate hills, the hundred veils of invisible gloom that enshroud it and hide it from all unknowing eyes--these things flowed into me.  In that moment, the way toward the trapdoor down into the realms of madness became engraved upon the dim parallax of my soul. The demon put his hand against my pubis, held close between our bodies, and energy sung between our fleshy shells.  Every injury his rutting passion had cause was sealed, made whole again.

"I would have found a way not to harm you, had I known," he told me.

"It doesn't matter now.  There were costs, and I was resolved to pay them all.  It's done."  I released him from the prison of my embrace, but he lingered.

"May...may you have a fair journey, Conqueror.  And may it be that the rest of us have sufficient time to put our affairs in order before your work is completed.  I will remember this...this privilege."

In a flash of swirling fire, he was gone.  The nearby stream ran cool and slow, cleansing my body beneath the bruised violation of the autumn sky.  Naked, I walked five miles through the forest, across the midnight pavement, through the door of my cheap motel room.  I lay atop the sheets, willing myself to sleep.  There was so much to do.  After all my efforts, all those bridges burned, my real sojourn had just begun.

One night when he seemed calmer and quieter than usual I asked him about the children on the walls.  He said to me, wife, take the photos down if they are troubling you.  Summoning my courage I persisted; I asked where were those children and who had lived here before us.  Friends of the militia, his answer.

The friends of the militia had at least three children.  A boy, about six in the latest picture, and an even younger daughter, and a young woman whose wedding pictures I found in a box in the closet, at the top of a stack that reached back into her girlhood.

These friends were an older man and his wife, much younger.  In a photo of her with the youngest as a baby she looks to be perhaps in her late 30s only.  Her husband is more elusive, showing his face in only one or two of the photographs.  Here he is, on a family vacation by the sea somewhere, when his oldest daughter was just leaving childhood and his son was a tiny baby.  He is stern and white haired.

The militia must have had a great many good friends within this village.  My husbands chief advisors and captains have also brought their wives and some of their children here to stay in nearby houses.  The people of the village who remain avoid our eyes and talk in whispers when one of us wives passes.  They refuse to charge us for our flour or milk or vegetables.  Have it, please, they beg us.  We are friends.  We are all friends to the militia.

When we first moved there, she loved it. The silence, the solitude. She liked it when I didn't speak much, so I spoke less and less. I felt marvellous in that peacefulness, though I missed my family sometimes. She did her work and sold some of it, enough for us to get by. She still didn’t sleep well, but she never complained, she just got up sometimes and went to the kitchen to fix a drink.

   I laughed when she wanted to draw me. It was embarrassing, I felt like a model. She said if she drew me once a week she might be allowed to have me.

   Thinking back it was a strange thing to say but I suppose drawing was her way of feeling connected to things, or to herself. I don’t know.

   Once when she returned from an excursion and I went to kiss her she avoided me, then turned back, looked me deeply in the eyes, and said nothing for the rest of the evening. The next day she showed me the sketches she’d been doing: fearful things, like the gargoyles on cathedrals.

   She started only sleeping during the day; she said the dark made everything seem too still and sinister to sleep; it was as if the things in our house conspired against her.

   One evening she said: ‘Say something, please.’

   I thought and said: ‘Isn’t it strange how two people who've lived together for years come to resemble each other? In their thoughts and their faces. I want us to grow old like two trees that grow together, you’ve seen the ones in the forest, with all their cracks and wrinkles, even like the old couple at the store, you've seen the way they move, or that old man and his dog.’

   She said, almost to herself: ‘It’s like God making Adam in one piece. Whole thoughts, whole feelings. Then Eve with her sinister curiosity.'

   She said nothing the rest of the evening.

   She started selling fewer paintings and our savings dried up. I had to cook every meal and food isn’t easy to come by in those parts.

   One day while she was painting I found her diary.

   She’d written: The fact is that life itself, everyday life with its people, chatter, money, social drama, ingestion and excretion, is nothing to me, has always been nothing: a paltry illusion. I don't particularly want it to be so but it is so. Landscape and portrait painters are ridiculous to me. Everything is ridiculous but what points away from, out of this life.

   There was nothing about me, my name wasn’t mentioned once.

   She asked me to stay up with her, said she feared for her sanity. She wanted me to listen to the silence with her, to ride it out.

   After a week it started frightening me too. Some nights it seemed it would never end. She comforted me, told me she knew exactly how I felt.

   It was the first time she’d caressed me for months.

   She looked almost happy.

   It was that touch that made her absence palpable to me. That was the moment I knew I had to leave.

(Based on Bergman’s Hour of the Wolf.)

So I did.

Still under 125 words, and this time I'm pretty sure there are NO ADJECTIVES OR ADVERBS.  I did, in fact, find one of each in the last version, which I've edited.

So, if you find one of those nasty li'l buggers, let me know, would you?  I'm serious, here.

Thanks!  Have a great holiday weekend!

=================================

"Man, it’s ... ." Paulie leaned in, and brushed back his bangs. "You know what it ...?"

"No," I said and shook my head. "No, I don’t."

"Hunh."

The breeze teased the field into undulating waves. I heard gravel crunch and turned to see Paulie scouring the ground. He trotted back grinning, a twig in his hand. It went from his hips to the ground. He stood over me a minute, then stuffed it in my hand.

"Here," he grinned. "Poke it. See what happens."

"What the -- no way! You poke it!" I dropped the stick, scrabbled to my feet, and backpedaled.

"You chicken?"

"Yeah! You poke it!"

He snorted, the grin plastered on his lips. "Fine, I will."

All Original Content Copyright J. Dane Tyler, 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

Are you a writer of POETRY or FLASH FICTION?

The Poet’s Pen is currently accepting submissions in POETRY and FLASH FICTION only. 

The deadline for submitting your work is September 26, 2008. - NO EXCEPTIONS.

The Autumn edition of the web publication will debut in OCTOBER

The tavern is almost empty.

He sits on a wooden chair near the back, eyes where he can see the exits. He draws the occasional stare from the scattering of customers. He does not look like he used to: he has grown pale and clammy, his skin run with sores and his shaking hand raises a dirt encrusted pipe to his lips. I am unsure what he has done to himself. There are no bite marks and so my hand drops from my sword hilt. I am appalled.

Appalled at what has happened to this person I once knew, or thought I did.

The barman eyes the weapons on my belt: the flintlocks and the sword. His hands drop below sight, it’s probably just a piece of wood he’s fingering under there but I reassure him with a nod and a wave. No one much likes outlanders these days. It’s understandable.

I slide into the seat opposite him. There is a moment of silence; we look at each other, a yawning chasm of words unspoken bridged by a worn wooden table. The barman breaks the silence by sliding a beer down next to me, then he shuffles away, cowed by the silence.

“You came,” he said. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“I keep my word,” I reply.

“Yes,” he said.

“Why?” I ask. And in spite of the plan it is a true question, I still want to know.

“Why?” he replies. “Listen: some of what he told you is true. I don’t deny that I betrayed them both but there really was no other way.”

This raises a smile, although I am not laughing. “So tell me what did you do?”

“I told the garrison about them,” he said. “I had to. And the others: Utha and Malgow. But not you or Chin – I wouldn’t do that to you. We’ve been through too much.”

He’s good. Very good. We have indeed been through a lot together, this man and I. I have seen him lie before, seen him disassemble and I did indeed believe myself immune to his – thus far – petty betrayals. Yet his most recent transgression was not minor, indeed the depths of it are still echoing across the land and my wounds still itch against the fabric of my jerkin.

“We have been through a lot Sajud,” I reply. “And I’ve always been able to tell when you’re bending or throwing away the truth. I thought you understood this.”

He looks at me now, uncertain. Can I really tell? He’s always believed himself the smarter and now he doubts because he knows he’s broken, I can see it in his eyes and the pallor of his flesh. His sores are weeping.

“Why didn’t you just ask me?” He sounds aggrieved. Unbelievably he sounds hurt and frightened and - unbidden - guilt flowers in my chest. He always was a good actor.

“I didn’t want anything to do with you,” I said. “You were always someone to handle with care: a thief, a liar and a mark all rolled into one. I couldn’t trust you anymore…hell I’ve killed men for a lot less than what you did.”

“Then why now?”

I do not tell him the truth.

“Because I am tired of this and I have no friends left, now even imperfect ones must be made use of,” I reply.

He nods sagely, trying to regain his composure. He knows what I’m referring to and it has made his already pallid skin practically grey with sickness. Still the ballsy bastard stays sat down in front of me. I’m touched, that kind of loyalty from a liar is rare. Then I remember the others and it fades. I do not feel bad for using him. He used us for so long.

“What happened to you?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“Your skin, your eyes, you look…a mess,” I said. “You look half-drained.”

His eyes snap up at this and I see real fear in his eyes.

“Nothing,” he says. “I haven’t been up to anything. Just under the weather.”

This is so blatantly a lie it makes me angry and I cup the handle of my flintlock while I drain my glass.

“Is that so?” I ask.

He nods.

“Well Sajud, I’m going to leave you now to your drink and we can talk some more in a few days,” I say. I am sick of the sight of him. Having renewed contact now I just need to wait for him to…well to be Sajud. Then I will have them.

See Sajud: staring at me like a frightened doe. Sajud who thinks only he can tell a convincing lie and who weaves his intricately designed paper-thin web. Well Sajud - you’re not the only one who can weave.

He waves to me as I leave and I return the gesture. I smile as I walk out the door, he does not see; I’ve turned my back on him.

oder auch "flash fiction",, "short short stories" oder "microfiction" genannt. also mir persönlich gefällt der ausdruck "flash fiction" am besten: "der blitz schlug in sein herz". diese sechs-wort-geschichten sind eine schöne übung für das schreiben aber auch eine wunderbare möglichkeit einen ideenpool anzulegen. darum will ich das hier abkürzen und nur auf die seite von cnn verweisen, wo manche kurz-kurz-geschichten gezeigt werden und alle sich schriftlich beteiligen können: http://edition.cnn.com/2008/WORLD/europe/08/15/short.stories/index.html

Who doesn’t like food? What’s your favorite thing to eat? Is it a family recipe’ handed down for generations and served on special occasions?

Or maybe something simple like a DQ Dip Cone. How about State Fair corny dogs, cotton candy and Midway rides? Enchiladas at the Mom and Pop Mexican restaurant tucked away on a side street across town?

I had the best tasting charbroiled cheddar burger on a sesame seed bun and soda fountain coke at a railroad car turned diner a few miles north of Socorro, New Mexico.

There I was, in the New Mexico desert, sitting on the narrow hard bench of a vintage dining car booth, peering out the window, almost expected to see the scenery moving, did nearly feel the tracks thump, thump, thumping, could just about hear the whistle blowing, and my waitress was a bearded woman. Meanwhile, the two old farts in the booth behind me were talking about the weather, like nothing at all was out of place.

“It’s gonna be a cold winter, I’m tellin’ the truth. Them crickets are swarmin’.”

“Yep, Bob. I believe you’re right. We’d better haul in extra wood. Wanna head up north and chop down some pinon this weekend?”

Quirky place, real ambiance, and real good food. Too bad I was traveling alone.

Dive in, take five, and write about the best hand-dipped ice cream in the whole wide world, candlelit dinner with a lover, or your Mama’s Meatloaf. Describe the place as well as the dish. Introduce your dinner companions or eavesdrop on others if you ate alone. Let us be privy to the conversation. Don’t forget to mention the lady who walked out of the restroom with toilet paper stuck to her shoe and how the stranger discreetly saved her from an embarrassing moment.

The secret government probably already had a substitute, for the black stuff, but that would certainly hurt the bottom line of those men who pulled the strings. And I can assure you, dear reader, that they are men, even in enlightened times like these. These string-pulling secret handshaking fellows don't allow the dimwitted frat boy to do a lot, anything of much importance, to say the least; the heavy lifting is left to the ones who have always been pushing the buttons of Western 'Civilization'. Which as Ghandi precisely put it, would have been a good idea.

Greed was far too forceful in Western Society for it to actually be a civilized. The barbarism of poverty, inequality, and war served capably as it allies as well. Yep, that almighty dollar kept wheels greased, and the motors churnin'.

A few days ago I wrote about the Motley Mansion.  It's long gone now. The Community College I attended back in the 70's stands in its place.  But the   cemetery  is still there, and I remember how creepy it felt to wander the grounds for the first time;  as if I were eavesdropping on private conversations. 

 I was shocked when I first saw the unforgettable headstone that reads, "Arm of John S. Motley-1894". 

Who was John S. Motley? How did he lose his arm and why did they bury it?  Did John later go visit the graveside with a bottle of hooch for a long conversation with his dearly departed?

Take 5 minutes and visit the dead zone. What does John S. Motley's Arm have to say ?

Huh, She thought, squinting at the sky a week before her wedding. Well this just sucks.

Forbes was all gung-ho about the whole thing; really stoked to have something that she might be able to work her frustrations out on. The way she told it -- if they couldn't immediately recognise the species of whatever it was that had killed the victim and couldn't establish sentience pretty quickly thereafter then they got to basically pump it full of bullets and do the research later. This kind of shit happened all the time -- beings from other levels escaping and making their way here

for a snack; sometimes it turned out that it had been sanctioned and these creatures had immunity from prosecution. She was looking forward to finding out what the case was with this one.

The suit was uncomfortable: it was unwieldy and it was hot inside there; claustrophobic. He did not like this situation in the least. They both had their weapons drawn. The back-up team -- three examples of varying incapability had just EMP burst the house to shut down any systems that might be operational in there and to open the locks. He got to go in first -- a privilege, he supposed, afforded to newbies who were obviously more expendable than an experienced officer, of which there were few.

They stepped inside the house and their visors immediately steamed up, the humidity was off the charts in there and seemed like some kind of new ecosystem had been established. The EMP, it seemed, had been unnecessary -- nothing had been working in here for a while. It made him wonder when was the last time Through had checked out this place. He thought he saw something edge by in his peripheral vision but he couldn't be sure. He stepped on something, it gave under his foot and burst like a

boil, hot gobbets of pus shooting up his leg. He took a step backwards and tried not to vomit inside his suit. The suit's monitors began to beep -- whatever it was that had coated him was eating through the suit.

'You need to get out of here, ASAP,' said Forbes 'We both do. This is going to need the big guns. Look over there,' she said, pointing.

In the corner, thrown in a pile that nearly reached the ceiling, were human ribcages stripped of meat and to the side of them were the shattered remnants of spinal columns, broken skulls, other smaller bones. He turned and moved quickly towards the door, surprise that nothing had suddenly leapt out at them. He made his way to their vehicle and began to strip out of his damaged suit.

'What the fuck was that in there, Forbes?'

'No clue, I suppose we'll find out when clean-up get out here.'

As soon as Grit laid eyes on Terry he knew that he had been nosing around and that he had found something he shouldn't have; something he didn't like. He stared daggers across the church at Grit. He did that most childish of things: gestured with his finger across his throat in a slashing motion. Grit got the message.

When they prayed he closed his eyes. It was out of respect and not out of belief and was one of the few times that Grit would ever close his eyes in a room full of people. The service was short: two hymns and a speech from Terry and that was pretty much it. Grit would not go to the cemetary after all -- all it would do was cause trouble and he wasn't here for that.

'So, what exactly did your sorry arse turn up here for, eh, you cunt?'

'Just come to pay my respects, Terry. John was my brother.'

'And? Didn't mean much to you while he was dying in that fucking hospital, did it?'

'I was busy Couldn't get there.'

'I know why you couldn't get there. I know what you did to my father. I know what you owed him and I know what you owe us.'

'You don't know anything, son. Don't go making any stupid mistakes -- you don't know enough about me or about what happened to go getting yourself in trouble over either one.'

'Don't call me son. Damn, you come here and you threaten me at my own father's funeral? You're a dead man; that's the only way we can settle this.'

'Didn't threaten you. Don't want any trouble with you -- I have no grudge with you. Don't you think if your father wanted me dead he would have sorted it out a long while back?'

'I have a burial to go to. Don't come. I'll be seeing you soon, uncle.'

Obviously because I wasn't here trumpeting my auspicious victory to all who cared to listen and even those who didn't, you can tell I didn't win. But still! I feel it'd be a shame for the masses to miss out on my awesome work. So here, for the first time anywhere, the world premier of my first flash fiction.

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Instant results with organ enhancement pills

by Sean Riccio

From: nancy.dorkins.pta@newportpta.com

To: Newport PTA mailing list

Re: Super-drugs in our schools

Greetings fellow parents, teachers and concerned citizens. As you're all aware, I'm sure, there has been an outbreak of drug usage in our beloved North Country Union High School. This is not the endorphine-drip wetware hacks or dope-spores that we have all had to come to terms with (and a few of our staff and parents may have experimented with themselves years ago *ahem*.) No, this is far more dangerous to our precious children and indeed our way of life.

I'm talking about Genetic Organ Enhancement Compound, or GOEC. You may have heard it called by it's street name “Chemical X” on State News. The kids also refer to it as “Marvel”, “Super Juice”, “Power Poppers” and “doing the Batusi.”

This drug is synthesized from the blood, skin, and...erm, ejaculate of despicable “homo superior” mutants and gives it's users their freakish afflictions. I know that seems impossible, since the Homeland Security department called for the liquidation of all genetic terrorists, but as you all know some countries are not as righteous as we are and still allow their freak populations to grow. These rogue states are allowing terrorists to infect our children with their disease, hoping to save themselves by turning us into them.

If your child is taking GOEC, they may show one or more of these signs:

• Skin discoloration (blue, lime, violet, etc.)

• Excess hair/fur growth

• Dramatically improved reflexes

• Dramatically improved senses

• Dramatically improved grades

• Oversized/overly-sharp teeth

• Aversion to microwaves, yellow-colored lamps, fire

• Projectile nocturnal emissions

• Being unable to explain strange fires, ice buildups, acid pools and radioactive waste in their vicinities

• Brain swelling

• Explosive nocturnal emissions

• Glue-like adhesiveness

• Bent pipes, rods and other heavy metal objects in their rooms

• Razor scars on knuckles

• Heat vision

Please talk to your children about the dangers of Genetic Organ Enhancement before it is too late. North Country has a zero-tolerance policy in effect, and our teachers and Hall Monitors are ordered to fire upon any student displaying genetic dissidence. Deadly force is authorized by the American Protection From Super-Beings Act.

In other business, the Homecoming Planning Committee will be meeting this Friday night. This year's theme: Romance In The Tropics! Students and parents are welcome.

Yours,

Nancy F. Dorkins

Principal/Head of Security

North Country Union High School

"Oh that's just the new tax choices form.  Remember last year we had that big thing with the ballot question?"

"I think I remember.  We shouldn't have to pay for things we don't support!!"

"Yup, that's what this form is, so we get to choose what we want to pay for.  You want to do it?  I've been putting off looking at it."

"Well.  I won't have too much trouble.  I know what I'll decide and it's 'NO!' on most everything.  That way we'll get a nice big refund.

Let's see here.  OK, looks like a couple things are mandatory.  Infrastructure -  whatever that is.  Public Schools - oh, they think they're clever.  I never would have checked that one.  Police, Fire...  Here we go.  Public libraries?  Can't remember the last time I set foot in one.  No check.  Public hospitals?  We don't use any of the public hospitals, do we?  I think those are all in the city.  No check on that one.  Trash collection?  Honey, you wouldn't mind hauling the trash to the dump, would you?  OK OK, I'll check that one, just kidding.  Prisons?  Well...  I guess we better keep the prisons checked.  Water- you don't want to dig a well, do you?  Kidding!  I'm kidding, honey.

It certainly is a long list, all this wasteful government hooey.  Homeless services, bye bye.  Food pantry?  Wellllll...  I guess we could pay a little for the food pantry.  Oh- look here on the very bottom it says 'Premium Plus Package'"

"What's that mean?"

"It says if you want superior services in every area become a Premium Plus Citizen.  Well, that's us, then."

"But it's more money!  I thought you were going to-"

"Honey!  I like to think we are the superior type of citizen.  We can certainly afford a little more to have the Premium Package, can't we?"

"Yes, dear.  Of course we can.  Premium Plus it is, then."

Yes, Dawn- in case you wondered this was inspired by our recent political back and forth.  Just meant in jest, though, don't think I don't know you think things through a lot more than the silly woman in my story.

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The boss checked in on his dutiful wage slaves, whenever he could get away from his soaps, to see that the underlings were still breathing and moving about the office alright. There had already been two deaths this month, and a third might bring down the long arm of the law on First Rate Industries. It wasn't that the company liked to disobey the laws, it's just that they, like everyone else, had their bottom line to cover. They had strong competition coming from the burgeoning economies of India and China, and they needed to work workers into the ground, if that's what it took to keep going at a breakneck pace. That was the only pace, that First Rate Industries believed in, the American way, according to their CEO and company founder Ernest Longfellow.

Copyright © August 27, 2008 David Hodges