Posted on September 20, 2011 by writer
The Bridgetown Serpent
by Nick Powell
Of great age were the halls Paul strode. Not in four years had the feet of men tread within, but now there rang the clangor of steel and the roar of machines with cutting teeth. Strewn about were rags and boxes of caustic powders and buckets of hissing acids, and to and fro went his fellow workers clad in rubber and helmets grunting as they pried wood and pipe from the walls, stripping the halls down to their metal frame and carrying the dross out in wheeled buckets as fogs of dust billowed in their wake. They yelled and laughed at each other above the din. Prowling in the noise was the timekeeper, whose work lay in a stack of papers, rather than in his hands. Paul, dressed as his fellow workers and gripping a great hammer in his right hand, strode into a room whose skin was of porcelain, punched through by cracked tin plumbing, all corrupted of a creeping black mold that the years had been kind to. He was thankful of his mask as he went at his work, smashing with broad sure strokes the wall, sundering tile as though it were soil ‘neath a plough.
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Posted on September 20, 2011 by writer
The Wyrd
by Team Training Bra
Tonight was the night.
Ben smoothed his fingers over the outline of the key in his pocket, breathing slowly. He calculated every movement as he walked down the corridor into his room, ensuring to adhere to the list of rules written on the wall of the ward.
1. No contraband in the Rose City.
2. No stealing in the Rose City.
3. No smoking in the Rose City.
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Posted on September 20, 2011 by writer
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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Posted on September 20, 2011 by writer
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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Posted on September 20, 2011 by writer
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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