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Thorsday Nights

Thorsday Nights

by Bob Ferguson

The young man next to me was whizzing like a race horse while I was peeing in Morse Code—symptomatic of an aging prostate.

“It must be hell to get old, eh ol’ geezer” snorted the young stallion in the stall next to me. His tone insinuated that senior citizens should stay home at night.

“Well, you’ll never find out if you don’t show a little more respect,” I said.

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The Exhibitionist

The Exhibitionist

by Team Sylwester

Alan worked in a tall but boring office building near the Pioneer Place mall in downtown Portland. His company granted him a 30-minute lunch, the minimum required by the Occupational Safety and Health Administration, which was just enough time for him to go to the mall food court for a Subway sandwich. Sometimes he thought about bringing lunch from home to save money, but he hadn’t resolved the issue of how to thwart mayonnaise spoilage on the long MAX ride to work from his condo in the suburbs.

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Subaru Stalker

Subaru Stalker

by Erica Somes

“Kat, seriously, calm down, you’re overreacting, no one is trying to get you.”

“Molly, I’m not overreacting, I’m hiding in a windowless, public restroom at Wellington park and I’m afraid to open the door because he might be out there.”

“You should be more afraid of what you might catch if you touch the walls. I watched this 20/20 episode where they swabbed down public places like buses and hand railings and there was flesh eating bacteria, e.coli, staph, flu, cold viruses— You have imprisoned yourself in a suicidal safe-house.”

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Ruthless

Ruthless

By Team Bells

The embroidered pattern on the chair rubbed against the bottom of Thor’s thigh agitating a cut he got the night before in the tunnels. He focused instead on the voluptuous flesh spilling out of the red silk camisole he saw in front of him. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. Her breath on his ear felt wet and heavy. His heart pounded faster. A flicker of light sparkled just behind the lace curtains on the window.

Ruth whispered, “U-huh, u-huh, it’s hot.”

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Butterflies and Thunder

Butterflies and Thunder

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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