Epic StoryMany, many years ago we were deeply entrenched in a war…and obviously kicking tail since we are purely awesome. But that’s a different story for another time. The story that I have for you to hear is of me and my choice encounter with someone…known to many as Sarah. Now, just sit back and listen…from I don't know what you're smoking Billy..but that must be some GOOD stuff!
“Me and my friends were playing hopscotch, you see? Now we weren’t in our top form, since we had all ready won the international championship, (had to beat out a few angry first graders, which was very difficult I assure you) and so didn’t feel that motivated playing. Anyways, it was Jimmy the Cruel’s turn (long story about the name, mainly to do about Vikings and an angsty Harry Potter impersonator) but unfortunately as he was about to land a perfect jump on one foot, a pebble that no one anticipated showed up out of nowhere! He stepped on his toe and our hopscotch team was ruined for all eternity…now all we have are memories of that fateful intern
The Mistletoe NeclaceMilton Fickleburg edged by Bower Tech for over twenty years without making so much as a single friend at work. He skidded by unnoticed and under-appreciated with sub par work and a forgetful attitude. He was a man people wouldn’t even joke about because it would be a waste of time and energy to make fun of such an insignificant spec in their daily routine. Milton Fickleburg—however—excelled in one thing: retaining information.
Every year, the employees at Bower Tech threw a Christmas party, a party where employees liquored themselves up and partook in numerous acts of debauchery. Since he began working at Bower Tech at twenty, Milton attended every Christmas party without fail. Every year, he sat in the same chair in the corner of the office next to the Christmas tree. Every year, he managed to find the one non-alcoholic drink in the building and sip on it the entire night, never placing his glass down, ne
AngelesThey sent an angel, of course. They did every year, and the angels fluttered back with broken wings, pearlescent skin chipped like old porcelain. It was easy enough to repair the cracks that leaked blood like quicksilver, to mend the fingers bound in strips of cloth where sections had gone missing. But the angels were never quite the same again. Their eyes darker, warier, like pearls dipped in ink. Their golden hearts a pale dying amber within their translucent chests.
(Sometimes at night, you can pass a clump of the ones that have been sent down, clinging together, their sleep interspersed with screams, wordless sounds like the child-cry of a wounded panther. They toss and turn like maggots writhing in a fetid corpse, clawing at nothing.)
If all had gone as planned, the angels would return each year in full regalia to kneel at the Maker’s throne and offer a precise report of the progress of Man. It was not expected that Man should be perfect—heavens, no—but it would be