Taking Appropriate Action

"Mr. Winter, I'm afraid your daughter said something unacceptable in front of class." Principal Thomson leaned forward and clasped her hands on her desk, her serious statements pose. "Oh?" replied Mr. Winter. "What did she say?"

"She said a bad word."

"Did you, now?" Winter looked at his daughter, sitting next to him. She nodded.

"Ms. Thomson," said Winter, "there are no bad words, only bad uses. How did my daughter use this word inappropriately?"

"She said 'Thomas Jefferson died of shitting too much.'"

"Did she?" said Winter. "Did you?" he asked his daughter. She nodded. He looked back at the principal. "Is she right?" The principal leaned back and crossed her arms, surprised. "Hold on." He took out his phone.

"Look, it doesn't matter if—"

"Sh," said Winter. "Here, these sources say Jefferson died of many diseases, with symptoms including diarrhea. So," he turned to his daughter, "you see, the shitting happened because he was sick, but it wasn't the real cause. There," he said to the principal, "misconception corrected."

"It's not about whether she was right! She shouldn't say 'shit' in school."

"Sweetie?" said Winter.

"Yes, Daddy?"

"Don't say 'shit' in school."

"Okay, Daddy."

"Done," he said.

What Did You Say?

"Yes, I understand. I'll take appropriate action. Yes. Goodbye." He turned to his daughter. "Daughter," he said, "did you say 'Fuck' in front of your classroom?" She kept her eyes on the floor. "Yes."

He put his feet on the floor and leaned toward her. "Why did you do that?"

She fidgeted, looked back and forth on the floor, and said, "I don't know."

"You're going to sit there until I get a believable answer to that question, so I suggest you think about it." He turned away.

She sat, and fidgeted, looked around, and looked at the back of her father's head. She said, "I guess I wanted to make everyone mad."

Her father turned to look at her and smiled. "You seem to have done that very well," he said. "I'd call that a lesson in effective communication. Here." He gave her a dollar.

"What?" she said.

"I think you've learned something valuable today. I'm rewarding you."

She held the dollar and looked at it. "Do I still have to do detention?" she asked.

"Of course," he said. "That's part of the lesson. Their space, their rules, your decision."

"That's just fucking great," she said.

"Yes, it is."

The Classic Tale of Ashley

Hush, child. Close your eyes and I will tell you a story. Long ago, on the planet Earth, there was a young eggspawn whose eggparent died. Its seedparent's new eggmate brought along its two eggspawn. This eggmate was jealous and controlling, so even though the family wasn't hungry, the young eggspawn was treated cruelly and sent to work in the ash fields. For this reason they called it Ashley, a very strange name on Earth.

No, I don't know where the wombparent is. I don't think it's in this story.

Now, the Governor of Earth threw a fabulous wriggle-party. Of course Ashley's eggsiblings-by-fiat did not permit it to attend. After they left, Ashley huddled in its nightsac and wished to go.

From nowhere sprouted the wishworm. It sheathed Ashley in scintillating mucus and created that most fabulous of Earth conveyances, the icecreamtruck. But the wishworm said it would all disappear at nightmax.

Ashley went to the party. Everyone marveled at its beauty and stylish wriggling. The Governor wanted it for its mate. When the clock struck nightmax, Ashley devoured its two eggsiblings-by-fiat and mated with the Governor.

Yes, darling. I like how it bided its time. Sleep well, beloved eggspawn.

Dear Homeowner

Dear Homeowner,  

You could be eligible for a 1022 tax-exempt like-kind property exchange, with an increased value of up to $85,000. Ask yourself these few questions. If you answer yes to most or all, you may be eligible!

Have you lived in your home for two of the last five years?

Is your annual salary $82,000 or less? Do not include retirement investments, such as a 401k or IRA. If you have other investments, you may include 1/10th of their total net worth or an average of their last three years capital gains.

Do you live alone with up to three pets? Please discount fish and birds.

Have you been meaning to renovate the downstairs and finish the basement for the last three years? If you have bought some of the tools but not used them yet, answer yes twice.

Do the strange sounds in your home make you uncomfortable, nervous, or scared?

Are you opposed to having your soul nibbled at by lost spirits, wayward souls, and untethered phantasms?

If you answered yes four or more times, consider applying for a 1022 exchange. Contact your local banker today!

sincerely,

The Ghost Who Lives in Your House

Introduction of the Tocklord

Even the door looked like a giant grandfather clock. "Does that thing really work?" asked Kell, as it closed behind them. "Yup," answered Mags without hesitation. "And before you ask, so do all those." She started walking down the long, dim hallway, paneled in ticking clocks of all shapes and sizes. The synchronized ticking was tangible. Kell stared, then hurried to catch up.

"So," he said, "you think he's going to help us?"

"Maybe," she replied. "If he likes us, then maybe."

"Do you think he'll like us?"

"Sure," said Mags. "If he's eaten, if he's had a nap, if all his clocks are working, if he's not sick. If he's not he's just mad about nothing." They reached the clock-faced door at the far end of the hall. "Stop thinking about it. There's nothing we can do to affect it now we haven't already done."

"Okay," said Kell. He looked up at the clockface, large as a bank vault door. "Wow. The Tocklord."

"Let's do this," said Mags.

The door ticked over to the time of their appointment and swung open. Inside, a two-year-old sat on a throne made of clocks. Kell swallowed, and prepared to make his pitch.

This Is a Story

Every story starts somewhere. This one starts with me, watching three people hold up a truck carting off medical waste. It's the fourth time someone's done this. This time I'm following them. This isn't a story. The real story is the police detective, asleep now, who'll see my photos on her desk. In that story, she tosses some photos on the table, makes some brilliant deductions, and closes the case. Following a stolen truck at midnight in a beat-up sedan with my headlights out? Not a story.

The real story doesn't mention this derelict warehouse until the third act, when the cops raid this place and stop whatever's going on. All because unmentioned me follows on foot for the photos.

Inside, the three are shoveling bloody bandages and sharps from the truck into some kind of grinding compactor on the floor. I snap silent photos until the pile fucking stands up and bellows this grating roar. That's when I scream out, and the thing sees me.

Something that big shouldn't move that fast. Before it grabs me with its used-needle fingers, all I can think is that this was a story after all, and that not all stories end happily.

Maybe Another Tomorrow

"You're not Stopsky's," said the woman. "You'll never be Stopsky's." And then the asshole stomped her way out the door of the sandwich shop. Pinned to the counter by a line of people who actually wanted sandwiches, he had no recourse but to glue his smile back on and take more orders. He did his best to project cheer to the customers, but inside he was just pissed. His actions took on an abrupt character, until he had to restrain himself to avoid spilling the espressos.

Whittling through the line was hard. He wanted a smoke break, and he didn't even smoke. What he really wanted was a drink. None was forthcoming. He'd been told the previous place had a bar, but none of that liquor had been left behind where he could find it. And he looked, as hard as he could in the five minutes between the line drying up and the woman coming back.

He saw her outside first. Then she came in. He clenched his fist behind the counter as she said, "I'm angry. But it's not your fault. I'm sorry."

"Okay," he said. "Do you want anything?"

"Maybe tomorrow," she said, and left.

Hopefully not.