Jeremy stared at the bread, horrorstruck. It was the fifth heart.
Maybe the sixth.
Last week, he’d gone to a fortuneteller and somehow a seven-of-hearts had gotten stuck in the tarot deck. The fortuneteller gamely forged ahead, declaring he would die after seeing seven hearts.
Now he’d seen five—maybe six: that cloud had either been a heart or a camel.
Jeremy finished making his sandwich and left for work. Stepping outside, he heard a screech of metal. He looked up just as the heart from a new erotic cake bakery sign bore down.
It wasn’t a camel, he thought.
A Date with Death
The moon was a milky corpse eye shining over the Lopinot Estate, Trinidad’s most haunted site. Inside, flashlights beams swept back and forth.
“Honey?” There was no answer. She listened. A scream came from out in the jungle. Just an animal. Probably.
Creak. She hid her light. Come on, she thought.
A light appeared in the next room. “Hey, I found the basement!” he said, poking his head out. “It looks like there’s a grave. Let’s go down and sit in the dark.”
“Awesome!” She kissed him hard. “I love you. This is the best anniversary ever.”
I wrote this story for my wife Leah. As of tomorrow we will have been married for sixteen years, and I’m sure one of our anniversaries in the future will be spent exploring a haunted house in the dead of night looking for ghosts.
Teddy Bear Brawl
Teddy bears’ picnic, my ass.
Those pretentious little Paddingtons thought they could leave us out, just because they sit on the bed and we live in the closet.
Baby-doll saw them sneaking out the window. We found them under a tree in the backyard.
“Let us join,” Baby-doll whined.
Somebody, probably I-Couldn’t-Give-A-Care Bear, sneers, “Back off vinyls. Plushies only.”
That’s when the Pooh hit the fan.
I beat the stuffing out of a few, and soon we were all muddy and ripped.
At least we cleaned up with some Windex. Those bloody bears got a trip to the washing machine.
The Forbidden Door
I made my way through the inky blackness, walking ninja-like towards the door. A thick chain barred my way. Just like the queen to take such extreme measures to protect her riches. But I knew that she kept the key under her pillow, and I had stolen it.
I unlocked the chain and lowered it silently to the floor. As I drew open the door, a hallowed light burst from the chamber within, revealing the treasure I so desperately sought.
The light snapped on. “Harold, are you getting into the Thanksgiving pies?”
I wiped meringue off my lips. “No, dear.”
copyright Janet Webb
The Old Man and the Seafood
Shoppers meandered around the store in hip waders, shopping carts half submerged.
“How did you come up with this idea?” the reporter asked.
Jeff grinned. “I thought it was about time someone applied the self-pick produce model to seafood. With seafood, freshness is everything. Here, everything is alive up until you buy it. No expiration dates needed.”
An old man shuffled up in oversized boots. “Excuse me, I just need a can of tuna.”
“No cans here, I’m afraid,” Jeff said, throwing the reporter another grin. “Everything’s fresh.” He handed the man a spear gun. “Bluefins are in aisle 30.”
copyright Jan Marler Morrill
That’s been my nickname for six months now. Hey, I’m just a fruit seller, making a living. Maybe even a profit.
“Morning,” I say to the first alien. Twenty are lined up behind him. He slings his rifle, holds up twelve fingers, and I bag up a dozen oranges in exchange for a glowing cube which I guess is money. I’ve got 518 so far.
Later when the aliens all die, scientists discover that the Vitamin C was slowly poisoning them. Suddenly I’m a hero.
The government is really curious about those glowing cubes.
Now the real profit comes.
copyright Rich Voza
“We’re gonna get murdered.” I unlocked Donald Trump’s private jet with stolen keys.
“It was your choice,” Jack said. “You wanna switch?”
“No.” I climbed into the cockpit and consulted the WikiTheft page on flying a stolen jet.
Somehow we took off. Somehow we flew to Mexico City and crash-landed in the busiest airport in Central America.
Somehow we spray-painted “To Mexico, love Donny” on the side and escaped the authorities.
“It’s your turn,” I said as we sat on a sidewalk, trying to think how to get home.
Jack looked thoughtful. “I think I’d better pick Truth this time.”