I didn't expect the wind to hurt this much.
Have you ever heard if you throw a penny off a skyscraper it could kill someone? I'd imagine wind resistance would play a key factor in the fatality percentage; otherwise rain would have the probability of instantaneous death.
Someone should make a graph: chances of death up the side; shape and weight of the object across the bottom. They'd need multiple scales to take weather into account. It could be more work than anyone would care to do.
Would humans be close to sacks of potatoes?
This may have been a mistake.
Originally published in The Pacific NW Inlander
Showing posts with label Flash Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Flash Fiction. Show all posts
Thursday, April 2, 2015
Friday, November 29, 2013
Daily Agenda for an Unpaid Intern
Originally published at Foliate Oak Literary Magazine
9:54 am: I arrive six minutes early. It's so I can take the stairs. The newspapers' office is on the fourth floor. It's my exercise for the day. Even after two and a half months my legs still feel like rubber when I get to the top.
9:57 am: Maureen, the receptionist, says hello when I come in. I try to say good morning, but I'm out of breath from the stairs. I don't think she's ever heard me speak, but still greets me everyday. I hope Amy is reading this.
9:58 am: I sit down at the interns' desk and unpack my laptop. I try to regain composure, but the deep inhales are noticeably distracting the real writers around me. I assume my body will eventually acclimate to the physical strain of the stairs. Amy said I needed to better myself—physically and mentally. It's the reason I applied for the internship, no matter the lack of pay.
9:59 am: I notice Ethan isn't here. Point: me.
10:20 am: I successfully make it twenty minutes without checking Facebook. Instead, I alternate between a blank word document and the NPR website. I don't actually read anything. It's my personal routine for getting ready for the day.
10:21 am: I check my Facebook. No new notifications. I leave a status update, “How about that weather?”
10:22 am: I refresh my Facebook page.
10:24 am: After I refresh the page a few times, the music editor comes out of her office. She asks if I saw Ethan's new blog post. I tell her no, even though I read it last night. Seven times. She says I should check it out because it's freaking hilarious. I silently agree, even though I wish I hated it. She goes back into his office without inquiring where Ethan is. He's half an hour late, I want to say. But no one likes a tattle-tale, according to Amy. Point: Ethan.
10:25 am: It's the first time during the new day that I think, I hate Ethan.
10:26 am: I wonder if anyone asks Ethan if he read my blog post from the day before. Probably not. I need to blog more.
10:28 am: I go back to staring at the NPR home page.
10:41 am: Ethan walks in and sits next to me. He hands me a CD I was asking about earlier in the week. He's trying to grow a mustache. Doesn't he know he's not even old enough to drink? What a hipster. Thinking about how young he is reminds me that I'm old enough to be divorced.
10:46 am: I refresh my Facebook page. No new notifications.
10:53 am: Ethan goes into the music editor's office without knocking. They're called manners, idiot, I think to myself. What an immature kid. I giggle. I try to do it quietly, but the news editor glares at me.
10:54 am: I hate Ethan.
11:19 am: He's still in her office. They're laughing every few minutes. I can tell she's laughing to be polite. I've actually made her laugh. She just thinks he's a dumb little kid. I'm the one with a college degree. I realize I haven't changed my computer screen. It's been on the blank word document for twenty minutes. I type a quick sentence to fool any of the real writers around me, just in case they walk by. There may be more than horse meat in Britain's beef. That'll buy me some time.
11:28 am: Ethan taps me on the shoulder and asks if I want to go to lunch. I tell him it's going to be a working lunch for me. I hear them say that on TV. He says, next time, and leaves. I can't believe he's already going to lunch. He's probably going to get mac 'n' cheese. Hipster.
11:30 am: I hate Ethan.
11:31 am: Everyone goes to lunch. Now I don't have to feel guilty about refreshing my Facebook page.
11:35 am: I refresh my Facebook page. No new notifications.
11:37 am: I try to go to Amy's profile, but she blocked me.
11:38 am: I refresh my Facebook page. No new notifications.
11:39 am: I eat my granola bar. I have to force myself to eat less. Amy said overeating was a vice.
11:42 am: Refresh. No notifications.
11:43 am: Refresh. No notifications.
11:45 am: Refresh. John Anderson likes my status. I leave my only comment of the day, “I know, right?”
12:07 pm: Luke, the Arts & Culture editor, asks if I can send over the movie review that is due today. I tell him, no problem, just give me a minute to format it.
12:11 pm: I watch the movie's trailer twice on Youtube, hoping to get enough sense to write a four hundred word review. It's for the new Francis Ford Coppola movie. I have no idea what it's about. Another attempt at lo-fi independence. I'll just segue into talking about Vincent Gallo.
12:15 pm: Ethan finally comes back. He sits down next to me and we both type for an hour.
1:20 pm: Luke calls out from his office. He wants to know if I sent the review. Of course, I yell, I guess it didn't go through. I give the movie a four out of five and send it.
1:25 pm: Ethan packs his bag. He tells me to have a good day. I want to say, if you worked a full day, maybe I would. The music editor tells him she just got his email. Article looks great, she says.
1:26 pm: I hate Ethan.
1:35 pm: I get an email back from Luke. Did you even watch the movie? I guess the phrase, “gotta love the smell of Gallo's charisma in the morning” didn't mask my ignorance very well. I look at the clock. 1:35 is a reasonable time for an intern to cut out early. Ethan does it all the time and everyone loves him. I put my laptop in my bag without turning it off. Any problems can be dealt with tomorrow. Interns usually just need to work four hours. How hard is that, Ethan?
1:37 am: I take the stairs one by one. I want to tone my leg muscles for Amy. She used to call me chicken legs. I don't really know what that means.
9:54 am: I arrive six minutes early. It's so I can take the stairs. The newspapers' office is on the fourth floor. It's my exercise for the day. Even after two and a half months my legs still feel like rubber when I get to the top.
9:57 am: Maureen, the receptionist, says hello when I come in. I try to say good morning, but I'm out of breath from the stairs. I don't think she's ever heard me speak, but still greets me everyday. I hope Amy is reading this.
9:58 am: I sit down at the interns' desk and unpack my laptop. I try to regain composure, but the deep inhales are noticeably distracting the real writers around me. I assume my body will eventually acclimate to the physical strain of the stairs. Amy said I needed to better myself—physically and mentally. It's the reason I applied for the internship, no matter the lack of pay.
9:59 am: I notice Ethan isn't here. Point: me.
10:20 am: I successfully make it twenty minutes without checking Facebook. Instead, I alternate between a blank word document and the NPR website. I don't actually read anything. It's my personal routine for getting ready for the day.
10:21 am: I check my Facebook. No new notifications. I leave a status update, “How about that weather?”
10:22 am: I refresh my Facebook page.
10:24 am: After I refresh the page a few times, the music editor comes out of her office. She asks if I saw Ethan's new blog post. I tell her no, even though I read it last night. Seven times. She says I should check it out because it's freaking hilarious. I silently agree, even though I wish I hated it. She goes back into his office without inquiring where Ethan is. He's half an hour late, I want to say. But no one likes a tattle-tale, according to Amy. Point: Ethan.
10:25 am: It's the first time during the new day that I think, I hate Ethan.
10:26 am: I wonder if anyone asks Ethan if he read my blog post from the day before. Probably not. I need to blog more.
10:28 am: I go back to staring at the NPR home page.
10:41 am: Ethan walks in and sits next to me. He hands me a CD I was asking about earlier in the week. He's trying to grow a mustache. Doesn't he know he's not even old enough to drink? What a hipster. Thinking about how young he is reminds me that I'm old enough to be divorced.
10:46 am: I refresh my Facebook page. No new notifications.
10:53 am: Ethan goes into the music editor's office without knocking. They're called manners, idiot, I think to myself. What an immature kid. I giggle. I try to do it quietly, but the news editor glares at me.
10:54 am: I hate Ethan.
11:19 am: He's still in her office. They're laughing every few minutes. I can tell she's laughing to be polite. I've actually made her laugh. She just thinks he's a dumb little kid. I'm the one with a college degree. I realize I haven't changed my computer screen. It's been on the blank word document for twenty minutes. I type a quick sentence to fool any of the real writers around me, just in case they walk by. There may be more than horse meat in Britain's beef. That'll buy me some time.
11:28 am: Ethan taps me on the shoulder and asks if I want to go to lunch. I tell him it's going to be a working lunch for me. I hear them say that on TV. He says, next time, and leaves. I can't believe he's already going to lunch. He's probably going to get mac 'n' cheese. Hipster.
11:30 am: I hate Ethan.
11:31 am: Everyone goes to lunch. Now I don't have to feel guilty about refreshing my Facebook page.
11:35 am: I refresh my Facebook page. No new notifications.
11:37 am: I try to go to Amy's profile, but she blocked me.
11:38 am: I refresh my Facebook page. No new notifications.
11:39 am: I eat my granola bar. I have to force myself to eat less. Amy said overeating was a vice.
11:42 am: Refresh. No notifications.
11:43 am: Refresh. No notifications.
11:45 am: Refresh. John Anderson likes my status. I leave my only comment of the day, “I know, right?”
12:07 pm: Luke, the Arts & Culture editor, asks if I can send over the movie review that is due today. I tell him, no problem, just give me a minute to format it.
12:11 pm: I watch the movie's trailer twice on Youtube, hoping to get enough sense to write a four hundred word review. It's for the new Francis Ford Coppola movie. I have no idea what it's about. Another attempt at lo-fi independence. I'll just segue into talking about Vincent Gallo.
12:15 pm: Ethan finally comes back. He sits down next to me and we both type for an hour.
1:20 pm: Luke calls out from his office. He wants to know if I sent the review. Of course, I yell, I guess it didn't go through. I give the movie a four out of five and send it.
1:25 pm: Ethan packs his bag. He tells me to have a good day. I want to say, if you worked a full day, maybe I would. The music editor tells him she just got his email. Article looks great, she says.
1:26 pm: I hate Ethan.
1:35 pm: I get an email back from Luke. Did you even watch the movie? I guess the phrase, “gotta love the smell of Gallo's charisma in the morning” didn't mask my ignorance very well. I look at the clock. 1:35 is a reasonable time for an intern to cut out early. Ethan does it all the time and everyone loves him. I put my laptop in my bag without turning it off. Any problems can be dealt with tomorrow. Interns usually just need to work four hours. How hard is that, Ethan?
1:37 am: I take the stairs one by one. I want to tone my leg muscles for Amy. She used to call me chicken legs. I don't really know what that means.
Maybe the Next Game
Originally published at Rock & Sling.
“He’s
the most intimidating pitcher in the history of baseball.”
“Because
of the beard?”
“Well,
that helps. Would you want to go against this guy?”
“I
don’t know if I’d give a shit about him as much as a dude who
puts people in the hospital or once exploded birds in mid-air.”
“Imagine
that, but add a big, gnarly beard opposed to a sick mullet.”
“That
ruins the whole argument. Sasquatch here doesn’t blow up birds.
Dude doesn’t throw a consistent hundred-mile fast ball.”
“But
if he did.”
“You
already said he was the
most intimidating.
You’re backtracking.”
The
buttons strained on Jefferson’s Ken Griffey, Jr. jersey. It was one
of the originals, he would say, from the nineties. Not original like
Griffey wore it, but original as in an MLB authentic fan jersey. This
was before Griffey was a greedy prick who only played for money. Back
when the Mariners were a team full of players who did it for the love
of the game.
“I’m
just saying I wouldn’t want to bat against him.”
“You
wouldn’t bat against anyone in the majors. Probably not even in the
minors,” Jefferson laughed a brittle few shots of air.
“Like
you would,” Preston sank back against the plaid love seat. The
fabric used to be tight and perky, but years of use had worn it down.
Jefferson knew he needed to go and find a replacement, but couldn’t
find the motivation. Preston’s extra weight pushed cat hair into
the air, the floating particles catching the solitary source of light
from the TV.
“Not
only would I, but I could.”
“Bullshit.”
“Seriously.
Stick me up against any of these guys and watch it happen,” he
said. “Wham-O,” the O
was
hardly audible. He made the pantomime of swinging a bat. The way he
held his hand showed Preston that his friend imagined a wood bat,
just like the pros. Babe Ruth would have held a bat like the one
Jefferson put into his hands. The fabric clung tight against his ever
expanding stomach. He’d been eating worse in the last few months,
having to go to the store every few weeks to upgrade his waist size.
Even the ring on his left hand felt tight.
“Looks
more like you striking out, you son-of-a-bitch.”
They
turned their attention back to the game. 3-2,
two out, bottom of the ninth. The
pitch looked high and tight, but the ump called it. Game over.
“Well.
Crap.”
“Maybe
they’ll play better on Wednesday,” Preston stood up, shaking his
head and patting the stray hairs off his jacket.
Jefferson
stayed seated in his recliner, staring at the TV, twirling the golden
band on his finger.
“Maybe,”
he said.
“I’m
off. See you then?”
“Yeah,
yeah,” Jefferson sighed. “See you Wednesday.”
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