Be Your Best Self

“...and I hate my job so much,” Bill finished. This was his fifth therapy session.

“Bill, your problem is that you’re always trying to do what you think others want. You need to do what you want,” the therapist said.

“But... what will people think of me?” Bill asked.

“Don’t worry what others think. Worry about what Bill thinks,” the therapist replied.

Two years later Bill mused on that fateful day and laughed.

“Sir, the President is calling to surrender Earth. You now control the whole world,” his First Officer said excitedly.

Bill smiled. How right the therapist had been.

Brass Memories

“Tonight we gather to honor one of our members who is retiring today. Harold has been with the ship for 50 years. Come up here, Harold,” said Captain Bog.

Harold, a small hunched man in overalls, shuffled forward.

“The cannon Harold’s munition bay feeds has-” Captain Bog stopped as he was interrupted by a small cough from Harold.

“What’s a cannon?” Harold asked.

“...A warship’s gun, Harold.” Bog replied, confused.

Harolds face twisted in horror.

“They told me I worked at an off planet assembly line for spaceships,” Harold said and then clutched his chest in pain and died, mortified.

The Scientist: A Radio Presentation In Two Parts

A word from the author:

We live in perilous times where our environment is being destroyed by our worst enemy: ourselves.

If we don’t learn to conserve resources, we will soon find ourselves in grave peril.

Instilling this into our children is one way to preserve our future.

The following is a cautionary tale to frighten youngsters.

Beware. It is a chilling and dangerous look at a future that could someday come to pass.

If your children become too frightened, stop reading and turn on the TV. They will soon forget their worries.

Without further ado, The Scientist.

----

“I’m back from the past and I’ve got the scientist!” The time traveler said.

The scientist squirmed.

“I’ll get started on fixing your drought as soon as I’ve been to the bathroom.”

They pointed him down the hall.

“Why is there a giant litter box?” the scientist asked.

“The drought... conserving water...” they replied sheepishly.

“Fine, fine. I’ll adapt,” the scientist grumped.

Fifteen minutes later the scientist yelled from the bathroom.

“How do I wash my hands?”

They pointed towards the small sand box on the bathroom sink.

“Goddamn time travel,” the scientist muttered as he furiously sand scrubbed his hands.

Format

I brought all the necessary pieces. The spell was one of my own design, different but powerful. All it needed was a blessing from the dark gods.

I plunged the knife and spoke the Cursed Tongue, using words I'd crafted.

A black figure appeared.

"I'm sorry," it hissed. "Your spell isn't in the correct format. We use Dark Tongue only. Try again later when you've fixed your errors."

I sighed with frustration.

"That's not what I learned at Cult University... Could ya just take the spell? I was up all night editing into CT format."

"Never," the spirit boomed.

Curses.

Winter Dogs

A large pile of weapons, furs, and clothes sat next to the  naked, relaxing mercenaries. Boots, coats, and thick socks were among the discarded items. In front of them rolled blue waves, beneath them was warm white sand.

"Sven, pass me more ice," Karl said.

Sven reached through the dimensional portal into their frozen, war torn home world and scraped some ice off the ground and plunked it into Karls fruity drink. Screams and explosions sounded through the portal until Sven switched it off.

"Aliens sure know how to make good tech, am I right?" Sven said.

Light snores answered.

MLM

“Listen,  signup 20 other mortals below you and then you’re a Level 1 Angel,” Rich, the rep for God 4 U, said.

“I don’t know... I’m already Christian. Seems like if I just stay pretty good until I die, I’ll go to heaven anyway, ya know?” I replied. Rich snorted in disgust.

“Are you really going to be passive about your soul? Or are you going to take control and become an Angel now, on Earth? ” He pressured.

I looked down at my hands, embarrassed.

“Fine,” I replied, and signed up.

“Only 19 more to go,” Rich sighed, depressed.

“What...?”

One More Year

Lonnie saved the document and hit print, completely exhausted. He had poured his soul into the book but, of course, that was point. Exhaustion begged his eyes to close and he began to work some kinks out of his tired muscles.

When the book finished printing, he put it into a manila envelope and mailed it off to New York. Relief flooded through him as he hugged his wife.

“What’s the point, Lonnie?” she asked. “You never hear back.”

Lonnie shrugged.

“The dark god Publisher does not give, only consumes,” he replied.

The world was safe for one more year.