Here's a short story I wrote for a contest. You had to write about the photo they provided. “Did I ever tell you the one—“ “Yep.” “Wait, I didn’t even finish—“ “It don’t matter, Wilbur. I’ve heard every joke you know at least a hundred times. Give it a rest.” But Wilbur couldn’t shut up. Never had. Never in the twenty years I’d known him. It was just yak, yak, yak all day, every day. I stared down the long hallway ahead. The one that ended in a ten by ten room with a gray metal chair in it and big windows on two sides. I didn’t look at Wilbur as he shuffled along beside me, leather and chain restraints creaking and jingling with each step. “No, this is a new one, man. Really.” He took a deep
I read an interesting article today. It was about how you should “manage Millennials.” I’m sure every Baby Boomer and XYZ Generation has been told a couple dozen ways how Millennials need to be treated now that they’re entering the workforce. But what was interesting is this article talked about a study of 600,000 people over 8 years, and it shows that two Millennials are more likely to have differences between each other, than a Millennial and a Baby Boomer(https://www.inc.com/jeff-haden/a-study-of-600000-people-shows-secret-to-managing-millennials-is-to-quit-thinking-of-them-as-millennials.html). The reason this struck me is that I’ve worked with a couple Millennials in the last year, and
Most people never think about being on any of the police agency watch lists. But writers, well, we’re different. Most people don’t go to the Writer’s Police Academy and find out how to get away with arson, or what types of biologic creatures you could commit a (possibly) perfect murder with, or how hard it would be to dismember a body. Most people don’t sit in an airport and try to think up ways for a terrorist to cause, well, terror. But writers do these things. We also search on-line for poisons, ask how fast a body could fall from a 10th floor balcony and what would happen to it when it hit, what the response time is for police in a specific town/area, and lots of other kinda creepy thing
Cousin Ollie stopped by the other day and invited my husband (we’ll call him Jughead to protect the guilty) to come along on a fishing expedition. Now we women, we have this supply of emergency excuses to be used for unpleasant or unwanted requests, like for 42 dozen cookies at 9:00 p.m. the night before they’re needed, or escorting a class of rowdy 1st graders to the glassware store, or a family reunion with your 7th cousins twice removed in Death Valley in July. But men don’t plan ahead for these things, so even through he knew better, Jughead blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “Okay.” They were off and running in Ollie’s pink Willys jeep with a home-made towbar on the front
