They push, push, push me, like that horrid boss in the Twilight Zone episode about Willoughby. The one with the poor ad executive. He’s a moneymaker, not a shape, a human form. I don’t blame him for jumping off a train, hallucinating about a dream community.Continue reading “Push, Push, Push by Yash Seyedbagheri”
You mix ten pounds of pretzels with two pounds of cheesy goldfish, dumping everything into an enormous plastic bin and then stirring with your hands. Salt leaches the moisture from your skin, and, later tonight, tourists will sit at the bar, pick out the fish, complain that there are too many pretzels.
No one wants the pretzels.
37G Henry Spiler.
Henry Spiller had long stopped caring about the missing letter on the nameplate demarcating the faceless geography of his workspace. Terry O’Callahan over in 19F had got his fixed up after his wife dropped by for lunch and nagged him about it for three straight days.
Maybe Terry used up the last L anyway
Henry had bigger things on his mind. Deadlines had to be met. In seventeen years he’d never missed a single one but this would be tight. The faint chirp from his terminal could only mean things were about to get tighter.