Satire
Gaming is my Super Power
Alex Roth had a normal office job, crunching numbering for a tech company. On his off days, he would never leave his apartment because he was too busy gaming. He spent so much time online that he once played straight through the weekend and almost missed work the following Monday.
By Nicholas McKenna4 years ago in Fiction
The real story behind BMW's Ultimate Driving Machine slogan
As a newbie copywriter, I am always being told to keep it simple (stupid). Clarity is the best policy. We don’t want funny, or obtuse, or abstract. So I go all Ronseal* and refrain from tapping into my (questionable) creative talent and stick to simplicity and clarity.
By Gary De Cloedt4 years ago in Fiction
Declaration of War
Many years have passed since the last uprising. The youth of the western land of the county who had once run amok, clean heads scorched in the sun with their blades swinging wildly, have forgotten their now rusted weapons buried in the hearts of their homes. Now those youth settle for their mundane chores; taming small house-beasts, teaching their offspring the proud old art of folding laundered garments, and participating in the ancient tradition of pitting energetic children against each other for sport.
By Emily Dickerson4 years ago in Fiction
Fridging Women
The gaps that separate every house on Ewe Street from its neighbours are a precise and identical ten strides of borderline-neon lawn. So too is this the case in Mare Street to the right and Gilt Avenue to the left. Each stands a concrete oasis with arms opened wide for whatever middle-class socialite has the nerve to temper feuding gossip without the gall to challenge the yearly Christmas decoration expectations. The sort of beauty to be found along that road is nothing if not meticulous and orderly – those who seek refuge in Ewe Street come to the sweet epiphany that heaven is simple, unchanging, and always bending to the ebbs and flows of Better Homes and Gardens magazine covers.
By Abby Cameron4 years ago in Fiction
Death, Bless the Lonely Souls
I have screwed a couple of witches. I try my damndest not to fuck with them, but their appeal is irresistible. What is a life well lived? What does that mean? If you don’t know, you should mind your business and let me enjoy a quiet death, the way no one expects me to welcome it. I don’t even know what to expect in life. Everyday I struggle to defeat days, nights immortal suicide. Haunting like a problem I wasn’t supposed to solve, like a secret that hopefully won’t be found even in, or after death to keep myself respected and beloved.
By Grizzly Gentleman4 years ago in Fiction
Despite Not Having Found a Mate, Local Man’s* Soul Fairly Well Satisfied with Life
Local man (not to be confused with ‘area man’, a licensed, copyrighted, and trademarked term of the The Onion and theonion.com) Eric Feeter’s soul was said to be fairly well satisfied with how things were going in general despite 30+ years of not having found a mate. Even though many souls are said to require a mate to achieve happiness Eris’s reportedly made peace with it’s own situation many years ago. Instead of finding joy and life satisfaction through a mate, Eric’s soul has obtained a similar level of fulfillment through a passion for collecting comic books and paraphernalia related to the 1980s television series CHiPS featuring Erik Estrada as officer Frank Pancherello.
By Everyday Junglist4 years ago in Fiction
The happenings of Hillstead Heights
Chapter 1. Herbert Von Ickstein sat perched on the very edge of the seat, so far in fact, that every time the old bus rattled and jutted over a particularly bumpy patch of road, it threatened to topple him off. He stared anxiously out the window as the green fields and unkept hedges lining the road rambled past. Laying across his lap was a polished briefcase and a black bowler hat, both of which he held onto with extreme precaution. He was alone on the bus, besides the old man sitting down the front deep in conversation with the driver. The bus slowed as the road sloped and wound its way down into what Herbert could see was a little town. He could see smoke puffing from chimneys and neat rows of fences lining the streets. Hillstead Heights, which contrary to its name, lay in a valley surrounded by rolling hills dotted with white specks that Herbert could just make out as sheep. It was here in this sleepy little town that there had been a number of strange occurrences reported.
By Laynie helms 4 years ago in Fiction
