By David Cook
Matt Jenkins typed 5318008 into his calculator, turned it upside down, snickered and passed it to Steve Smith. “It says ‘boobies’!” giggled Steve quietly, almost widdling himself with glee.
The two were interrupted by a raised hand. Samantha Barrington was staring in confusion at her book. She always had trouble with algebra. Mr. Jenkins rolled his eyes at Mr Smith and went to help Samantha with her problem. Mr. Smith giggled again, then strolled down the corridor and into his office, pausing only to admire the little plaque on the door that read “Headmaster.”
By Alex Colvin
Guess how much my boyfriend spent on my engagement ring? No, seriously, guess a number. Now guess lower. I don’t care how low a number you picked. The actual figure is lower. I guarantee it.
Guess even lower. Seriously, cut your guess in half. You’ll need to. We are talking about a single-digit amount here. Ready? Okay … $7.49
Yes, really. Seven dollars and forty-nine cents. Canadian. And he was really proud of himself for finding such a great deal. And I said yes for some reason. My mother, through a pained and forced grin, said, “Stainless steel! How practical.”
By Graham Robert Scott
The pages of my grandmother’s personal cookbook were yellowed, brittle; any recipe not in her hand, a heavily annotated clipping.
“You aren’t looking through my old recipes again, are you?” she called from the deck.
“Good. Amateur scribbles. Buy a real book. From a TV chef.”
I turned the page. The next recipe, in her hand, called for “1 human head, pickled.” I squinted, tilted, peered. Failed to decipher those words as anything else.
“Could you bring out some tea?” she called. “Green tea in the fridge is fine.”
Such was my haste, I spilled some on the counter.
By Christine Goodnough
Uncle Eric captivated the children with his alien spaceship story at the family picnic. Especially Andy, who peppered Eric with questions until mom finally shushed him.
While fixing their burgers by the grill, Andy piped up, “Uncle Eric …”
“Hush! You’ve pestered Uncle enough.”
“But Mom …”
Dad frowned. “Not another word until after dinner.” Andy sighed and shrugged.
After they’d eaten Eric said, “Now Andy, what did you want to tell me so badly before?”
“Two flies landed in the ketchup on your burger and you didn’t see when you put the top on. It doesn’t matter now. They’ve … uh … disappeared.”
By J.J. Vaughan
The construction site was booming
Roofers were swearing over blaring stereos,
3 PM summer sun was beating down.
Pushing a wheel barrel all day,
A bead of sweat dropped from under my hard-hat
And over my safety glasses,
Almost impairing my vision of a jogger:
Low-cut tank top.
Shit. I’m one of those “creepy” construction guys.
Don’t stare, I think.
But just then she looked up at a shirtless roofer:
I should become a roofer.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
By The Urban Spaceman
Two weeks into summer break and bored out of their minds, Tommy and D.J. rode their bikes two miles to the abandoned church in the countryside. They spent three days chiselling the image of a giant penis into an outer wall, and the rest of the summer giggling over their artistic accomplishment.
In 2717, following the aftermath of the Earth-Venus conflict, two anthropologists from Mars University won the prestigious Hawking Prize, and a substantial credit grant, for their discovery of an ancient fertility pilgrimage site and its importance in proving how primitive terrestrial humans were obsessed with phallic worship.