Roderick Stockingforth, Worst Federal Agent Ever
Jenny Blandford sinks into her office chair, pulls herself up to her desk, and logs into her email account. Lunch Theft Issues from Gary in HR. Delete—she goes out for lunch, anyway. Lose 10 Pounds in 10 Minutes! from shrinkyobutt.net. She’s already on the 20 pounds in 20 days plan. Delete. Fwd: Cute Kitten Meows –Best Video Everr!! from her sister. Well, that’s got to be good. She opens it and watches the video. She smiles—the kitten is cute, and it’s even meowing. Superlative: the video delivers and its title is accurate. “Haha so cute! Thanks!” she replies to her sister. She rolls back and forth in her chair a little. This will be an alright third day on the job, she thinks.
Politics, Part II
The peaceful neighborhood centered on Cambridge Street was, put shortly, enveloped with a case of dire suburbia. All but one of the lawns (Trent’s) were the lush sort of green that can only be attained by wasting irresponsible amounts of water, all but one of the houses (Trent’s, too) were identical in construction and and color palette. The streets, flanked by perfectly straight rows of perfectly trim evergreen trees, were so clean that one could eat off of them, and, at ten at night, the place was already as silent as a deaf-mute mouse. Even that one less than standard house that sat behind a decidedly unkempt lawn sat quiet and inconspicuous, its incredibly stylish inhabitant either sleeping or out as his abode’s exterior paint stretched out to breathe.
Politics, Part I
It was as hot a Saturday as any other in Pittsville, Massachusetts. Birds fell out of the air en masse and en flammes, air conditioners-- blasting from the windows of every home-- threatened to shut down the electrical grid, and the temperature was such that a curious soul could fry an egg on a sidewalk. The wisdom of those who might consume such an egg, however, would be suspect. Some might say that this sort of person would have to be a bit cracked.
Lennivolchuck Falls
The sun was high overhead, hot and bright as I’d ever seen. It seemed to hang only inches above me; I could feel my shoulders burning. From time to time, the wind would pick up and push aside the heat for a while, though it would disappear as soon as I dared to grow the least bit comfortable. Well, relatively comfortable—no matter how much I wished otherwise, I was still alone, outdoors, dehydrated, and lost in the least popular nature reserve in the United States of America.
Crustacean Chat
“Nice day,” bubbles the Crawdad.
“Good sunlight, I say,” hisses the Prawn.
“What are we all doing here?” queries the Rock Lobster, its legs flailing a little as it rights itself in the shallow water.
The room is made of cold granite: the floor, the circular wall, and the ceiling. Soft light radiated from a bare, low-watt light bulb. Of course, crustaceans don’t know what light bulbs are.
“Hey there, Prawn, do you happen to know what that thing above our heads is?” asked the Rock Lobster. Clearly, it was less of an intellectual than the Crawdad or the Prawn.
“I surely do not know, Rock Lobster, though I would hypothesize that it is a little piece of the sun.”
“I reckon it’s a monster come to eat us,” says the Crawdad. It wears a straw hat that covers both its head and its thorax.
“I’ve never seen anything quite like that eat, period, Crawdad. Perhaps you are mistaken,” skeptically replies the Prawn.
“You’d never know, course, anything about the real world at all, Prawn—too much time spent with your book learnin’, and whatnot,” retorts the Crawdad.
“Guys! Guys! Let’s not fight!” shouted the Rock Lobster.
And that was the last anyone heard from that particular trio of crustaceans.
Roderick Stockingforth, Special Agent
Agent Stockingforth straightens his tie, looks over his suit for specks of lint or dirt, ensuring for the third time in as many minutes that his shoes are shined as shined can be, and puts on his holster. He goes through the ritual of stripping, cleaning, and reassembling his service weapon, a .38 Ruger, something he does far more often than required, and then holsters it. He puts on his jacket, steps out his front door, and rasps “Time to bring in some tax evaders.”
Taxjammer
The aura of the village had drawn him there; like a moth to a candle’s flame he had been drawn closer and closer to it from the time it had first caught his attention. One of its youngest, a white haired little girl that looked to be perhaps eight, maybe nine years old pointed him out to her mother. Will tried to duck back into the tall grass, but the glint of the sun off of his binoculars gave him away. Soon the young men of the village, under the command of their testosterone more than anything else, began to descend the hill. All were armed-- scythes, knives, a few even had shovels in their hands. They surrounded Will, having moved quicker than their strides should’ve allowed, and held him hostage at the tips and edges of a thoroughly intimidating array of sharp things.
Divinity Schmivinity
It was a day like any other on the outskirts of the city of Ur. Scorpions skittered from rock to bare bone; the occasional crocodile snacked on the occasional careless wanderer, and the sun hovered mere inches above the scorching, lifeless earth and sand. The air smelled of new dust mixed with the delicate, distinct odor of rotting flesh. Many of the city’s inhabitants might call this a good day for gardening, or perhaps for salting a particularly appetizing animal carcass. Life in Ur itself, however, was not its usual self. At the moment, the irrigation systems sat untended, the city gates were shut and abandoned, and the city’s oxen trudged round and around in circular paths, unsure of where to travel next. Outside outside of a small, aged-mud hut, a huge crowd had gathered—something were unheard of amongst Urers. Why gather and gawk while there is work to be done?
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