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In fifth grade English, Mrs. Barnett use to give us a picture from a magazine and had us write a story about it. To this day, I still find this fun. Person, place or thing, what’s the rest of the story?

Is she good or is she bad? Was she jilted on her wedding day? There are no rules, whatever you think is the right answer.

Shall we play?

I was told I’m evil, a child of the dark. The light say I may be innocent now, but eventually I will kill and destroy just as my ancestors have done.

Until a few months ago, I thought there were only humans and I was one of them. I didn’t even know fae existed, light or dark. Now I’m hunted, already judged and sentenced because of what, not who I am.

I’m one of the last dark fae. I can’t let them execute me. But if I fight the light, will I fulfill my dark destiny?

What’s her story? Tell us your version.

 

Orange Drop



Jim was a nuclear physicist, a brilliant man. Much to his own detriment, he didn’t know when to stop thinking.

He had been through a series of interviews. The job was basically his. All he had to do was pass a drug screening. I don’t know if they said drug test or not. I’m assuming not, they must have been vague.

The company had an on-site clinic where the test was performed. 

So, Jim comes toddling in. The tech hands him a cup and tells him to return the sample to her desk.

Does Jim think “They want to see if I use drugs.”?

No.

He thinks “It’s a nuclear facility. They want to take a baseline reading now so they can measure exposure affects over time.”

So instead of urine, he gives them a sperm sample. Later he was trying to figure out why he didn’t get the job.

Can you imagine the technician’s reaction when a cup of sperm lands on her desk?

 


What’s Up Here?


I was fairly new on the job. I’d been there just long enough to know there was a woman, my manager who would come downstairs, jump on her broom and terrorize the entire wing. 

She was a pretty woman, which made her more frightening. You could hear her coming, stomping along in her high heeled shoes. If her pace was quick, you knew she was coming for someone.

When she launched into a tirade, everyone would stop to listen. And after she left, no one worked, they were all busy talking about her.

I was located in the furthest cubicle from the elevator. One day the doors opened and the click, clack of her high heels echoed on the floor.

I knew she was coming for me.

She snapped around the corner, her skirt swishing with each step as she quickly narrowed the distance between us.

Her entire face was pursed, on the verge of venomous explosion.

“Deidra,” She spit out my name like my Dad did when I used his stamp collection to post Valentines Day cards in grade school.

“Wait,” I cut in, “I know you have a problem and I’m here to help you. But you need to go somewhere else and wipe that look off your face and get control of yourself before you speak to me again.”

She gasped.You could hear a pen drop and none did.

She started laughing. “Am I really that bad?” she asked.

“Yeah, you scare grown men.”

That year I dressed up like her for Halloween. Hey, I can ride a broom too.


I received a text from an old friend. 

It read – I want to call you, what’s your phone number?

I replied – I think you just texted it.


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