“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:
“How do you plead?”
“Not guilty, your Honor.”
“You were caught stealing 200 feet of wiring from a house.”
“I’m an electrician. I went there to install it, but I have this unusual problem. I sometimes get caught in a reverse time wave. I’m seeing a physicist about it.”
“You were caught trying to steal $150,000 from a bank fifteen years ago.”
“I was there to deposit it. Inheritance from a rich uncle.”
“Sure. The trial is set two weeks from today, no bail. If you’re telling the truth, you’ll walk out of the jail long before then, I’m sure.”
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.
Grandmama was as colorful as her house, but instead of flowers adorning her steps, she had pictures covering her arms and neck. Maybe other places too. She’d been in the circus, she said.
Five years after she died, I came across a book of criminal tattoos. As I read the meanings of the designs I’d grown up seeing on my grandmama’s skin, I realized I never really knew her.
“You knew her,” my mother said when I confronted her. “You knew the person she remade from the ruins of that former life. It is easier to change spirit than skin.”