by Paul Rogers
The back of the truck was filled with an eclectic mix of antiques: a grandfather clock, several paintings, ceramic pots, rare blankets, baskets weaved of yucca fiber, and a strange mix of seashells. All of which we had just liberated, moments before the curio store had been overtaken by a wildfire. The fire was moving quicker than we had anticipated in the high winds of the late California afternoon. Although the fire was seconds behind us, I was sweating more from the consistent grinding that happened when I jerked the clutch from third gear to fourth. The gas gauge was broken; at least I hoped it was broken, because it was pegged at empty.
by Kristen Forbes
On the dating site, I tell charming stories about setting off the smoke detector whenever I attempt to cook and spilling coffee on my shirt daily. I join the masses in declaring my love for Happy Hour and brunch on Sundays. I am bombarded with responses from men who claim they’ve found their dream girl.
by Kristen Rainey
The Al-Akhawayn School of Ifrane had a last minute vacancy for a Social Studies teacher who would teach World History to the 9th and 10th graders, North African History to the 11th graders, and Sociology to the 12th graders. Had I taught any of those subjects before? No. I accepted the job on a Monday and touched down in Ifrane 48 hours later.
by Jim Newman
Computational Physics Group Alpha, 11th Reserve Brigade, Cybernetics Div., First Team, Fort Lewis, WA, sounded like an actual Army unit, and technically it was true. But everybody was under contract and still a civilian. “Team Goddamn Awful” was what the guys called themselves. They were the US Army’s top computer unit, recruited from the very best at Microsoft, and Adobe, and Alpha Graphics, and elsewhere in the universe of geniuses that went from Seattle across Lake Washington to Redmond and Bellevue and Issaquah.
by Chip Kosboth
The electric voice of Master Control, the omniscient security center, pours from bullhorn speakers mounted high on buildings. It shoves into the gloom as Security calls the institute to “Fog Line.” Fog line means the perimeter towers can no longer see one another. Line of sight has dropped too low as the fog settles in more heavily, hiding inside the haven of the wall, escaping from the growing day. It has forced a change, broken the routine, altered the rhythm of the institute. Settling in, challenging the order of things, opposing Master Control and the Correctional Officers standing post throughout the institute. Inside secured rooms beneath the main building procedures are put into action.