(Untitled)

     Mindy stood outside the drugstore looking in through the window at the death machine. For only ten dollars it would prick your finger and print out a slip of paper declaring how you were going to die. No one really knew where the machines had come from, and most people had initially thought them an amusing novelty. However, after a few years their correctness had been proven with a scary accuracy. Mindy had never actually gotten her results; she was terrified that hers would say “plane crash,” and then she'd never be able to visit home again. Although it wouldn't really matter, as one of her friends had gotten the plane crash result. He hadn't set foot in an airport ever again, but a month later he went hiking in Canada, and a freak lightening storm brought a 747 down right on top of his camp. No, it was best not to know how you were going to die. Unfortunately, Mindy had been offered a fantastic promotion at work, and the only thing she had to do was inform them of her official results. The lady in HR had assured her that it wouldn't affect her eligibility, that it was simply a formality, but she couldn't see them keeping anyone on staff who was going to die from, say, a “printing incident.” Too much of a liability.

     She walked through the door and went to stand in front of the machine. It stood about waist height, with a hole in the middle for your finger. Feeding a wrinkled ten into the side of the box, she stuck her pointer finger into the center. This is it, she thought, and braced herself. A tiny anti-climatic pinch stung her finger, and the insides of the machine whirred into life. After what felt like a lifetime, a small slip of shiny paper wormed its way out of a slot on the front. Thankfully, it was printed face down, so she grabbed it without looking and stuffed it in her coat pocket. Just because her employers wanted to know didn't mean she did.

It was getting late, and by the time Mindy walked the remaining mile and a half to her apartment it was dark out. She walked in the door and saw her boyfriend sitting on the couch watching television. He glanced over towards her for a moment and returned to his show.

     “How was your day, hon?” Mindy asked him as she hung up her purse by the door. She got a non-committal grunt in return.

     “What's wrong?” she asked, going over to sit by him on the couch.

     “Why were you out so late?” He asked.

     “I told you, I had to stop and get that stupid test.”

     “Oh. Right.”

     “What?”

     “Nothing. Forget about it.” He turned up the volume on the TV.

     Sighing, Mindy got up and retreated to her room. He had been so moody lately, and she couldn't figure out why. She had been working late more often than usual, but that shouldn't be making him so sour. She threw her coat onto her bed and reached into her jeans pocket, pulling out the results from the death machine . Now that she was actually in possession of the results, she was beginning to get curious. Such a little piece of information couldn't be so harmful to know, could it? She opened it. Two accusing words were printed on the bright white paper: Jealous lover. Mindy's heart skipped a beat. Jealous lover. It couldn't be talking about Josh, could it? Was his bad mood jealousy? Mindy grabbed her coat and purse and ran out the door and down to the street. She didn't know where she was going, she just knew that she wasn't ready to die yet. Her mind was so focused on getting away that she didn't even notice the man walking straight toward her until she crashed into him. Disoriented, she looked up into a familiar face. She and Michael had broken up years ago, but they had remained on friendly terms, and right now that was all she needed.

     “Hey, Mindy,” he grinned, “You must be thinking pretty hard or something not to see me.”

     She opened her mouth to respond, but broke down into tears instead.

     “What's wrong?” Michael asked, “Don't tell me that douchebag Josh is being... Well, a douchebag again.”

     “I don't want to die,” Mindy sobbed.

     “Don't tell me you just got your results,” Michael said, “You always talked about how stupid that test was.”

     She mumbled incomprehensibly through her tears. Michael pulled her into an embrace. “Everything's gonna be okay,” he said, “I promise. I love you.”

     “What?” she asked, pulling away from the hug, “What did you just say?”

     “Yes,” said a female voice from behind her, “What did you just say?”

     Mindy spun around to face the speaker.

     “Why don't you introduce me to your friend, Michael?” The woman said, eyes narrowing.

     “Oh, um, Sarah, this is Mindy,” Michael said. “We used to go out, but um, it was a long time ago.”

     “Well that's odd,” Sarah said, “Because I thought I just heard you say that you loved her.”

     “I, uh, was just saying that in a friendly way!” Michael said.

     “Sure, whatever.” Sarah said. She glared down at Mindy, “Excuse me,” she said, and shoved past her to stand closer to Michael.

     Mindy stumbled and tripped over a crack in the pavement. Flailing wildly, she fell out into the oncoming traffic, right into the path of a huge semi-truck.

Mr. Pennybottom

          Mr. Pennybottom stood to the side of the casino holding a complementary appletini and wondered what had gone wrong. He wasn't the sort who enjoyed gambling, but his wife thought losing money – especially his – was one of life's greatest thrills. Mr. Pennybottom had been saving up for this trip to Las Vegas to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary, and it pained him to see the fruit of months of hard work disappear in a single evening. Unfortunately, there wasn't much of anything he could do about it. His wife, Ms. Molly Kingston (she hadn't wanted to take his name, as she thought it sounded wishy-washy), had the strongest will of any woman he knew.

          How had he gotten here? He'd had such simple dreams after graduating from college. Settle down in the suburbs, start a family. A nice simple life. But his parents had insisted on his marrying Ms. Kingston, as they thought he needed a strong, confident woman in his life to take care of him. And Molly needed someone to pay for her shopping trips. It was a win-win situation.

          Mr. Pennybottom took a sip of the appletini. He hadn't intended to drink anything, but taking one had been the only way to get the omnipresent waiters to leave him alone. He checked his watch, wondering when his wife was going to return. It was only ten o'clock, and the night before she hadn't left the poker tables until well past midnight. He decided that it wouldn't be such a bad idea to go sit at the bar while he waited. She couldn't expect him to stand around all night, after all. He absently sipped at the appletini, and was surprised to see that it was gone when he walked into the bar. Two hours later, he finished off his sixth glass of whiskey just as his wife walked through the doors.

          “There you are, darling!” she said, “I was worried when I couldn't find you where we had agreed to meet. Did you have a nice night?”

          Mr. Pennybottom looked up blurrily. “No, Molly.” he slurred, “I did not have a good night. I want to go home.”

          She looked confused, “But we're having such a lovely time! I lost near a thousand dollars at poker tonight, but I'm feeling lucky and I'm sure I can make it back tomorrow.”

          One thousand dollars. Mr. Pennybottom's brain hurt. One thousand dollars was more than they had spent getting to this wretched place. “This was a mistake.” he whispered.

          “What was that, dear?”

          “This was a mistake.”

          “The trip? But I'm having a grand time!”

          “No,” Mr. Pennybottom paused, not knowing what had gotten into him. “Marrying you was my mistake.”

          Molly looked taken aback. “You're just drunk,” she said. “You'll feel better in the morning.”

          That must be it. Mr. Pennybottom let his wife help him away and back to their room. He would feel better in the morning. But some small part of him knew that he never would.

At Day's End (A Triolet)

She sips black tea in late afternoon

Losing herself in an age long past

Under setting sun and rising moon

She sips black tea in late afternoon

Unthinkingly humming a wandering tune

Watching stars appear in the heavens vast

She sips black tea in late afternoon

Losing herself in an age long past

Spilling the Beans

          Grace had been preparing for the apocalypse her whole life. Years of clipping coupons and hoarding every non-perishable item she could find at Costco had resulted in a stockpile of food enough for several lifetimes. She could survive for a year on baked beans alone. So when the man on the news said that there was a nuclear bomb about to land fifty miles from her house, Grace couldn't have been happier.

She lumbered into the living room where her elderly mother sat in a wheelchair listening to classical music on the radio. “Ma!” She bellowed, “It's time!”

          Her mother gave her a sharp look as Grace grabbed her wheelchair and started to push her out into the kitchen. “Slow down,” she said, “It's not the end of the world.”

          “Yes it is,” Grace said gleefully as she bounced her mother down the steps into the basement.

          Grace was particularly proud of the fortifications she had built underground. The concrete walls were all at least three feet thick, and the walls surrounding the make-shift bedrooms were lined with sheets of lead. Every room contained a shotgun and an assortment of smaller handguns, along with a first aid kit full of antibiotics. Not knowing whether civilization's demise would come about by zombies, nuclear war, or a global epidemic, she had prepared for all possible scenarios.

          Grace parked her mother in the corner of the room. “Don't you go anywhere,” she said, and continued on into the depths of her lair. The centerpiece of her achievement was her pantry, although to call it such was stretching the definition. Shelves stretched seemingly for miles, filled with thousands of cans of every sort of food imaginable. Grace's neighbors had ridiculed her when they witnessed her carting the goods into her basement, but now she was the one who would be laughing when they begged for her to share. She walked down the aisles for a while, admiring her collection, until carefully selecting a can of tuna from one of the lower shelves.

          Returning to the main room of her fortress, Grace turned on a small television in the center of the room. She wheeled her mother over and settled herself down into the easy chair facing the screen. The news anchors were frantic, which Grace thought was very unprofessional. Apparently the bomb was only a few minutes away from hitting, and no one besides Grace had any idea what to do.

“This is why we should've bombed those Arabs ten years ago,” Grace's mother said, “The whole world is falling to pieces.”

          Grace opened her can of tuna and realized that she had forgotten a fork. She extracted herself from her chair and hurried back to the pantry. She didn't want to miss the frenzy on the television when the bomb finally landed.

          She was walking back down an aisle of canned vegetables when suddenly the room shook. This is it! Grace thought excitedly. She picked up her pace, and the shock came again, rattling a few cans off of their shelves. The towering shelf to Grace's left leaned precariously above her, but she didn't notice it until it was too late. Hundreds of cans of baked, black, and refried beans came down in a clamoring avalanche, crushing down on top of Grace and knocking over the other shelves like dominoes. This is going to be hell to clean up, she thought, right before a five pound can of pinto beans smashed into the top of her head, killing her instantly.