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*This story contains bad language. Keys jin-jin-jingled. Door shhhlid to a click. Junk mail fl-fl-flopped and scattered on the table. Little box sat. It was addressed to Roger Rose. Beth turned away, removing her coat. Damn tremors wouldn’t let her unhook the zipper, so she let the whole thing fall to the floor. Nice move, dummy. Now her feet were caged in. She was creating her own therapy obstacles. Her PT, Steve, would be elated. Experimentally lifting her foot, she set it back down. Walls don’t move. Right. She spread her palm against the...
Weekly Contest #219
Security detail for a chocolate distributor. How the hell had Paul been so lucky as to land this gig? He spun in his office chair, beside an enormous monitor with nine split screens of silent, gray night-vision entrances, loading docks, and alleyways. He dropped a chocobomb in his coffee and gave it a stir and a sip. Delightful. There were three other chocolate bars on his desk. Paul leaned back in his chair and found the best desk spot for his feet. If he had to work a night job, at least he could enjoy good eats and comfort. The only thi...
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