by Dora M. Raymaker
My mother named me Thor. Which clearly she regretted.
“Thor means ‘thunder.’ But the only thunder commin’ out of this one is a fart,” she would introduce me, slapping my shoulder with affection.
“No thunder in the Rose City,” my mouth would sound out, and everyone would laugh. Everyone except me of course. I never meant it as a joke.
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by Team Baldwin
Erik Petersen stepped out of the airport and surveyed his surroundings, hands on hips and with a sense of expectation. His red eyebrows nearly met in a frown as those expectations failed to be met. First of all, it had definitely been brighter inside the airport than it was outside, and it was three-thirty on a July afternoon. What sort of climate made such a thing possible?
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Lisa Galloway
Chris hurls the Vogue magazine at his partner’s Pomeranian who squeaks and then begins yapping. Chris grits his teeth, lambasting the pup, “I will fucking cut you, you little bitch. Shut up already!” Chris tosses a squeak toy into the bathroom and kicks the dog inside slamming the door. Then he makes the phone call.
The phone rings for the first time all day. Thor hates working for the family business. He reluctantly picks it up and answers in his artificially chipper voice, “Viking Sprinkler and Fire Safety, Thor speaking. Can I help you?”
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