copyright Dale Rogerson
If you’re going to connect your robotic theater to the Internet, make the password more creative than shakespeare123. It took me ten minutes to hack it.
My mother told me not to cause trouble. She also told me to create art. You can see my dilemma.
It started small, like making Hamlet declare “To pee or not to pee,” then changing every instance of “cat” to “pig” in a certain musical. To be fair, Pigs was sold out for six months.
They caught me eventually, after I added a techno remix to Phantom. The good news I’m on salary now.
Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
“I’ll have the ghost pepper pie,” I said.
The waitress’s expression was that of a cop approaching a rooftop jumper. The words Are you sure? crouched unsaid on her lips.
I glanced out at the bleak Alberta winterscape. The meteorologists were rejoicing at the mid-February heatwave as the mercury rocketed up to -20.
“I just need a little heat in my life,” I whispered.
Twenty minutes later, my mouth was ablaze and sweat poured off me like a monsoon. I closed my eyes and imagined Cancun.
The manager noticed. The next week, they were advertising Mexican vacations, $4.99 a slice.
“So, who else should be in the club?”
“What about Chad?” I suggested.
“Chad?” he shouted. “Chad Shermanburger? Investigated-by-the-FBI Chad? Started-a-forest-fire-testing-his-homemade-rocket-fuel Chad? Brought-a-baby-cougar-to-school Chad? Sold-his-own-version-of-the-Nobel-Prize-online-sparking-outcry Chad? You want Chad freaking Shermanburgar, who somehow sneaked aboard Air Force Two and met the vice president to join the Adventurers’ Club?”
I gulped. “Not at all. I meant Chad . . . Parsons.”
Looking back, I should have stuck to my guns. Chad Parsons was boring.
copyright Linda Kreger
“Come on, team!” Larry bellowed. “There’s no “I” in Sisyphean!”
“There’s a ‘y’ though,” I said, ignoring the fact that there obviously was an “i”. “As in, why should we try?”
“I’ve got a good feeling about today,” he said, just like every day.
We sighed and started shoving the rock. “That’s it!” Larry screamed as we approached the top. “You’re almost there. Three more feet!”
Ryan slipped. The rock crashed back down.
“Good effort, team,” Larry said. “Let’s break for lunch and try again this afternoon. Just stay positive. At least we’re out here getting exercise, unlike Team Prometheus.”
The Mythological Punishment Olympics is a pretty depressing spectacle. Here are some of the teams in contention:
Jimmy rushed to the airport from his night shift at the I-20 overpass. He took the architecture entrance, trying not to step on any early morning commuters in his haste.
“About friggin’ time,” Tommy muttered, the third shift A15 pillar on Concourse D. They carefully switched places. Pillaring wasn’t exciting, but it was steady work for those cursed to be 100 feet tall.
Jimmy awoke to tiny screams. He was on his knees, the roof sagging above him. He’d smashed the Gate 24 United counter. Again.
He ordered a ventimila* from Starbucks. This was going to be a long day.
*ventimila: 20,000 ounces (about 156 gallons)
There are three of us stuck in this cabin, locked up together until spring comes.
Raymond’s fat and lazy. Heaven help us, it’s his job to cook and keep the fire going. Liam is small, hard, and lazy. He cleans and does the laundry when I can convince him to go collect snow to melt for wash water.
My job is to keep the whole operation going and give the others a whack when they need it. They should thank Providence I lost my way in that blizzard and happened to stumble on their cabin. Otherwise, nothing would get done.