Posts Tagged ‘ Prose IX.I ’

“Alone, in Good Company,” by Hall Jameson

Apr 20th, 2012 | By

Melissa’s guaranteed quick fix for depression wasn’t exercise, drugs, or food; it was George Clooney. On a bad day, she could close her eyes and summon him, and they would stroll in the park, go snorkeling in Key West, or sit in front of the fire and talk. His presence in her life, though imaginary rather than tangible, was essential.

George was happiness.

Unfortunately, the George-trick wasn’t working lately, not since her boyfriend Kyle moved out. The absence of both men left her heartbroken and numb, and to make matters worse, she now had peculiar new visitors.

“Umbro-Matic,” by Gary Newhook

Apr 20th, 2012 | By

He got the idea from a Persian Silk Tree in the backyard. It would make him rich; a patio umbrella that automatically opened when it rained. He spent a small fortune conducting research and building a prototype. A small circle that was three inches across at the top of the umbrella tied into some motors inside. When water landed on the circle, or wet mat as he called it, the umbrella opened with a “splong.” It had some wires sticking out, the edges where he had made cuts in the pole were rough, it had to be hooked up to a car battery, and it opened far too quickly, but it worked.

“The Non-Binding Employment Discussion,” by Thomas Mundt

Apr 20th, 2012 | By

The Dad was tired of Baby Boy. Tired of his face. Really tired of his face, actually.


That’s what Baby Boy would say in the morning, when he saw The Dad emerge from his Slumbernator. (This is as good a time as any to tell you that The Dad never wore shirts when he emerged from his Slumbernator. You should also know his chest was the color Burnt Sienna, after spending too many hours in the Pigmentation Alterer at his work.)

“What Hamlet Said,” by Sameer Saklani

Apr 20th, 2012 | By

I answered the phone and he said, “I’m going to do it, Sandini. I’m going to kill myself.”

And I said, “Who is this?”

He informed me that it was Ernest. Knowing it was Ernest, I responded, “No, don’t do that, Ernest.”

But Ernest was an obstinate man, there was no dissuading him. In the past I’d told him that it was silly to go sky-diving. Ernest went sky-diving. I told him he shouldn’t involve himself with a boxer’s ex-woman. Ernest courted, bed, and left that woman. I told him to be wary of the mercury levels in fish. Ernest’s breath always reeked of fish. In retrospect, I believe Ernest may have been suicidal longer than I had expected.

“You Procrastinate,” by Fred Smith

Apr 20th, 2012 | By

You procrastinate. You study for every exam the night before. You prepare for every meeting that day. But somehow you succeed. Wildly. You are respected and known. So much so that they tap you to head the winter Olympics coming to your hometown. They appoint you five years before the Games. Does anything really take five years to prepare for? A year in, it is still four whole years away. A whole presidential term for chrissakes. With three years to go, you consider lobbing in a call to a couple of construction guys, get some estimates on a bobsled course and somesuch, but then the ex-wife rings your cell with some pain in the ass problem. Three years is 36 months. That’s a buttload of months.