Introduction:

“Do you still love me?”

“Oh, do you have to ask?”

“Please…”

The Government stopped by the other day. No knock. No warrant. Said something about it all being a “standard residential counter-measure” and proceeded in all due haste to remove all the fringes from my chair, sofa, curtains and dog’s personal vacation tote. They literally infringed upon my right to exist in my own home as I see fit…disturbing no one…enjoying my time and my day with my dogs and some hastily assembled, yet quite tasty cheese snacks.

Flat Tires by Douglas Colby

The DOORS OPEN SLOWLY. It is the middle of January. The windows seem to be frosted over. The doors separating room A from room B are two sliding barn doors, and they open slowly. The flat track runs smoothly. One need be careful that the bottom doesn’t run out; a tricky maneuver like guiding meat along a shackling chain.
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Maybe I was dreaming before the service, the earlier sitting
for a wake still in my mind. All of the guests (very Catholic)
would not weep from their seats. They were just “Amen”-ing
under their breaths, undulating with their fans, and sick
with the urge to leave the room, with a quick
gesture of hands on hearts, chests held tight.

When I was eight I used to imagine each blade of grass in my grandmother’s backyard was a skyscraper, and her lawn an endless city. I’d go out of my way to find tiny barren patches in the lawn and give them names similar to Central Park—Park Central, City Center Park, Middle Park, or whatever. There were numerous “Central Parks” in my city. I’d imagine the city’s population to be well over a billion. And each yard on the block was another city, each with its own untold billions. But my city was easily one hundred New York Cities combined, thus deserving however many parks it wanted.

The doors open slowly. It is the middle of January. The windows seem to be frosted over. The doors separating room A from room B are two sliding barn doors, and they open slowly.

The flat track runs smoothly. One need be careful that the bottom doesn’t run out; a tricky maneuver like guiding meat along a shackling chain.

Mammal by M.K. Joseph 

Normally, I’d take nourishment from the climax of Father John’s sermon by closing my eyes and savoring his fervent spirit. On this morning though, despite sitting in the rear of our antiquated church, his rhetoric gave such breath, such charge that the compulsion to commune with another overwhelmed me. 
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As unlikely as some myths are, there are some that you might wish were true. This may be one of them. In a land never far enough away from Iowa there lies a kingdom; this land is one of the few truly wonderful places to live. Partly because the Queen of this land, named Queen Cheezit, has long reigned with a firm hand and an iron clad constitution. One her first decrees was that mean people suck, and people that suck were to be from the kingdom. A tragedy of epic proportions is about to strike at the very heart and soul of this land and all the cool people who call this place home. This is where our story begins.

My daughter said that one of her friends had told her that there's a certain amount of hair in cookies and cream ice cream.

"Hair permissible?" I said. "I think that's just in case you find one, so you don't sue the ice cream company."

Dear Sir and or Madam,

Recently…whilst on a pleasant trans-Atlantic scurry flight to the fruit fields of Malaysia, I had the decided displeasure of making your rancid acquaintance. I remember when you first boarded… wandering in, garishly clad in your overwrought jumpsuit splayed by an abundance of sequin misuse…your tasteless sideburns and the perverse familiarity of cheap Scotch, unwashed boxers. You were severe and protracted yet strangely pithy and blunted and I do admit I felt a certain tinge of pity for you and what has become of your vanity…sodden from the futility of your apparent misplaced futility of your vocational endeavors.

Regrettably, the unavoidability of bleak fate and assigned seats would soon swathe me into quite the unfortunate reality that you and I would soon be sharing an armrest and undoubtedly, a bit of tattered banter.

Normally, I’d take nourishment from the climax of Father John’s sermon by closing my eyes and savoring his fervent spirit. On this morning though, despite sitting in the rear of our antiquated church, his rhetoric gave such breath, such charge that the compulsion to commune with another overwhelmed me.