Enemy Mine

The gull stared into the beady, gold-rimmed eyes of its foe, its own expression one of intense disgust. It dove forward, beak slicing the air with pinpoint precision - but the blow, meant to pierce white feathers, clinked loudly and slid aside at the last moment. The gull stabbed again and again, infuriated by the realization that its target was doing the same, but each time its attacks were repelled by an unseen force. Despite its bravery the gull feared it might never succeed, and was only heartened by the fact that its hated enemy looked just as crestfallen.

Smallest to Tallest

The giraffes stood, single-file, from smallest to tallest, in front of the bathroom door. Derek paused, one hand still on the doorknob, eyes darting from one wood-sculpted animal to the next. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. The giraffes did not comment on his confusion, and Derek, though inconvenienced, did not dare move them back to their original positions around his apartment.

Don't you even MMO

A priest, a rabbi, and a pujari walked into a bar and ordered a drink. The bartender grimaced as the men sat down, clucking his tongue in disapproval as he passed out three glasses. Unable to restrain his opinion, he wagged a finger at the robed men. "Three healers in one party? You won't get very far like that, you know. You don't even have a tank. What happens if you aggro a Chimaera the moment you leave town? Damned fools, the lot of you."

All Things Being Equal

The CEO pulled in over three-hundred thousand dollars a year. He ruled over a company of peons two-hundred-and-fifty souls strong, owned two spacious homes, captained his own yacht on the weekends, and had recently dined with a world leader of no small repute. He was a mover and a shaker, a rags-to-riches story worthy of committing even the savviest financial advisor to a blush. The bird shit upon the CEO's tailored suit anyway, unimpressed.

One Yellow Balloon

When the little girl released the balloon its heart sank as its latex body soared into the air. It saw her surprised, tear-filled eyes for only a moment before it rose above the tree line, above the roof of the deli where the little girl had been eating lunch, above webs of radio antennae and cellular towers, above the flight of birds and the tips of kites, above, above, above. The town below appeared first as a spill of building blocks, then as a simple, brown-and-white blob, nestled in a sea of verdant, mottled green. The gentle gradation of the sky welcomed the balloon, pulling it from blue to white to black. It was a simple spot of yellow against the swirl of the universe, and it ascended to whatever heaven awaited lost souls.

The Flea

The flea did not like April. It held no great appreciation for the blossoming of Spring, and warmth and greenery brought no joy to its bedroom-dwelling life. It brooded, instead, over the relative filth of its meals, annoyed that the blood of its host curdled and soured on April 1st every year. Emotion was a potent tang, and stress did not appeal to the flea at all. Snugged in a blanket of matted hair, staring moodily at the heap of paperwork laying next to the bed, only dimly aware that it should never have lived long enough to know so much, the flea waited for tax season to end.

Tragedy

The radio lay on the table, silent, unused, for a long time. Dust coated its scratched plastic window like snow, obscuring the cheery red needle stuck halfway between 92 and 94. Two batteries lay beside it, so close to the radio's vacant, plastic port that one lazy spring almost touched the flat cap of the left battery's lonely head. Their relationship was electric, but every day the batteries lost more of their spark - and, in time, the radio's fervent wish to sing a song of love died a little more.

The Hand and the Cookie Jar

The relationship between the hand and the cookie jar was not fated to last. It started off as a torrid affair, enjoyed by both parties: the cookie jar had so much to give, and the hand promised so much, it promised the world. Occasionally, very occasionally, the hand would present the cookie jar with tokens of esteem, and this convinced the cookie jar of the hand's love. But the hand took far more than it gave, and before the cookie jar realized its plight it was empty, robbed of all that made it whole and vital. It was a hollow, broken thing, left to moulder on a shelf as the hand moved on to other, tastier pastures. The cookie jar wept crumbs, and gathered cobwebs, and dreamed of the day when it might again be needed.

Where is he going?

"Pants, check. Shirt, check. Socks, check. Underwear, check. Second set of underwear, check. Fedora, check. Wading boots, check. Trench coat, check. Wallet, check. Possum buddy, check. Novelty foam hand, check. Customized Dora the Explorer backpack, check. Medical note from my father, check. Elongated fingernails, check. Whipping cream, check. Pointed stick, check. Signed photograph of Herman Melville, check. Stupefied pigmy assistant, check. Depraved sense of self-worth, check. Half-finished colouring book that has blood in it for some reason, check. Sixty-two inch flatscreen LCD with optional cup holder, check. Empty tube of toothpaste that I've somehow filled with cooking oil, check. Ancient societal grudge against the Mi'kmaq nation, check. Cellular phone, check. Okay, let's get going!"

Pyjama Bottoms

When Derek was three, he received his first pair of pyjama bottoms. When he was five, he loudly decreed that he would never take them off. When he reached eight, his parents realized that Derek wasn't lying. At twelve he was bullied; at fifteen ignored; at seventeen, briefly, Derek became a fashion icon. Now Derek works at home, and his pyjama bottoms work with him. Theirs is the healthiest relationship Derek will ever have.

Rock

He strummed a simple chord, testing the guitar. It vibrated smoothly in his hands, a sonorous D minor floating out of the guitar hole. He strummed again, harder this time, catching every string in a simple up-down pattern. The walls quaked in time with the music, knocking picture frames and clocks onto the ground. He strummed again, up and down and up and down, flowing from D to A to G, not caring if there was sense to his melody, only revelling in the power of the guitar. The world shook, buildings fell and societies collapsed, and, as his fingers settled over D, he prepared himself for the end, satisfied that it would sound fantastic.

Thievery and a Drippy Nose

It was no secret that Old Man Taylor had won the lottery the week before, and he'd happily proclaimed, crazy codger that he was, that he'd never store his riches in the bank. He didn't believe in such unpredictable institutions, not after the great market crashes of the past. So when the two burglars broke into his house one early Sunday morning, shortly after Taylor left for church, they thought for certain that they'd find his fortune ready and waiting to be stolen. Search though they might, however, they discovered nothing in his house but stacks of old magazines, heaps of disgusting used tissues and a bed so hard on the back that it would break the average man's spine after a night's rest. They left, disappointed, a few filched magazines their only prizes... and when Old Man Taylor came home and found his front door broken open, he grabbed three wadded tissues from one of his many garbage bins and removed the $1,000 bills secreted inside. This, he thought, should be enough to cover the damage.

Art

Harold was just a bus driver. He had been for twenty years, and was looking forward to another twenty years of blissful, carefree driving in a small rural community. The masked man didn't care for that, however, and when he leaped onto Harold's bus and told him to 'Drive! Drive! Drive!', Harold didn't argue - he just drove, following the crazy man's directions as though a gun was at his temple. And when they arrived at the lake, overlooked by a rim of cliffs, Harold didn't quibble over being forced out of the bus. He got out, watching as the man calmly took the wheel and drove over the cliffs, into the lake below. And Harold knew, he KNEW, that the next day he would find pictures of his bus careening gracefully into the waters, its yellow hood shot in a series of thought-provoking angles and posted online for all to see. Yes, Harold's bus was just another victim of art - and Careen, the world's wildly popular (and wanted) photographer of bus crashes.

Death by Water Bottle Contest

I'll show Jer. I can down this entire water bottle in one go, no matter what he says. Liters? Pfft! Here we go... gulp, gulp... easy going... this is a cinch! I could handle three of these! Four, five, six, and not even get tired! Gulp... more water... easiest five bucks I ever won... gulp... mmph, running out of breath a bit, but still going... I'm solid... it's almost... almost emp... almost empty... isn't it...? Why the... why isn't it getting... light... lighter... eyes... blacking... why so... so much... wa... wat... ch-ch-choking... gotta... my... I can't... my lips... stuck... how... it's... gush... gushing... he's... Jer... hose attached...? H... how... that's... barely... even... f... fea... feasib... le...

The Robot

The engineer watched his robot working, admiring its sense of purpose. It knew what it was, and what it had to do. It was designed to lift crates at one end of the warehouse and take them to the opposite end. It would always do this, never once complaining about its place in the world. It would never have to agonize over its identity, never spend empty nights wondering if it had been justified dropping a promising and soul-fulfilling music career just to collect a bigger paycheck. And, watching his robot, the engineer decided that the next big revolution in the robotics industry would be programming automatons with a capacity for self-doubt. The engineer needed some company.

Calamity

Raj had always known, instinctively, that he should shut down his computer properly. Today, though, he was too busy - he had reports to finish, a meeting to attend, Christmas presents to buy - and he just wanted out of the office. So he hit the master switch and watched as the computer screen went dark. And then, to his surprise, so, too, did the lights above. And the lights down the hall from his office. The street lamps dimmed and exploded, cars swerved out of control and smashed, people knelt, clutched their heads and screamed, the earth rose and fell, storms erupted to life and assaulted the heaving planet, and, in a moment of absolute destruction, the universe reached out its invisible hand and squeezed, popping Earth in two and sucking both crumbling halves into a black hole so large that it would, in time, engulf existence itself. Life and death moaned, because one had lost all her players, and the other was overwhelmed with demise.

All because Raj hadn't shut down his computer properly.

Demise

At 78 years old, laying on his death bed, Jerry Toll thought back on his life. He thought of his stint in the war, of his time as the manager of a successful company, even of the creation of his blessed children, now grown and bearing children of their own. But that was not enough to keep Jerry happy, and as he slipped into oblivion, surrounded by weeping loved ones, he thought of the one mark of an important man that he would, forever, lack: his own Wikipedia page.

Floodgates

Floodgates. Floodgates. Keep 'em intact, gotta get home, gotta... gotta find... anywhere... mrph... just a few more blocks and I'll be there, and then this won't matter anymore... why didn't I just go before I left? I'm such an idiot. There's the hot dog vendor... past him, the bank... then another two blocks and I'll see apartments... almost home free, keep jogging, brisk... pace... hrm... what is that on the other side of the road? That flash of... browny... wait... wait! Is that... is that a hundred dollar bill sitting on that sewer grate?! Oh... oh... I could really use the money... but, I... oh hell, I'll... run run run, stay out of my way, cars... no, no, trapped in the middle, there's too much traffic! Oh crap oh crap, this was a mistake... and... and the bill... oh, no, wait, it's a leaf. A very rectangular leaf. Dammit, I'm about to pee myself for a LEAF?

The Cutoff

I can't find the damn plug, but that's okay! I'm almost done! My laptop will endure regardless! This is the last entry I have to make on this stupid spreadsheet, and then I'll be finished. For good. The project will be OVER, and I can move onto better things. You can't scare me, two percent battery life! All I need to do is hit save! Ha ha! Victory is MI

Lamentation

I thought, foolishly, that I had settled into a space most safe. But nay! Once joined, and then again, and again; vile pursuers on all sides, and I, penned, trapped, afraid. I fled their midst and sought safe shelter, but was dogged by yet darker phantoms - and when they had me all surrounded I cried out "Villains!" and beat my fist upon my chest in futile anger. "Know thou not the rule?! When space permits, ever there must be one empty urinal betwixt us!"