Dane's Workshop

“Jesus Christine. We’ve been in line for almost twenty minutes now,” Blake said in a huff. “Relax. You know, just a few decades ago, it would’ve been a million times worse,” Christine replied. “You can’t hold it just a little longer?” “No. I gotta go. Just take my damn card,” Blake said as he shoved his debit card into her hand. “My pin is 3891. The cashier won’t ask for the pin, but if he does, it’s really not that hard to remember. Take my coat while you’re at it, I’m burning up.” Christine put on a pouty face and grabbed his arms pleadingly as he tried to maneuver out of his jacket. “You know I get stressed about these things!” she argued. With a frustrated sigh, Blake draped the coat over her shoulder, turned around, and rushed out of the line, brushing past people as quickly as he could without knocking them over. The mall was as crowded as he’d ever seen it; last time he was here, he was sure it was going to go out of business. Black Friday has that power over people, he guessed....

Harry’s shoe scraped against the coarse sidewalk as he shuffled towards the front door. He sighed with a slight quiver, and took a moment to compose himself. He slowly pressed his finger into the doorbell, producing a barely audible ring. Harry glanced at the window to his right, and through the shades he could see a figure approach. The doorknob jiggled a little, and the door swung backwards. “Harry… I didn’t know you were coming. I, uh... come in.” Harry stepped inside, the warmth of the house fighting back the chill of the dreary day. “I know I didn’t call or anything. I’m sorry Mark, I should’ve. But, you know, it’s been-” Mark put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Harry. It’s been hard on us both. I just appreciate the fact that you came. It’s times like these where I regret how we have been with each other. But to see you here, it reminds me that we’re still blood. Here, let’s sit at the table, catch up a little.” The two brothers walked past the stairway and into the din...

The glare of the sun hit his opaque visor. The cyber cycle shot across the metallic highway, kicking up loose bits of steel here and there. The rider looked ahead, seeing the holosign that read "Exit 38A". Sweating profusely in his Scarab Combat Armor, he flipped up the cycle's rear view display. Nobody was behind him; just the empty stretch of freeway he had come down. Twisting on the cycle's handles, he careened down the exit, his tires going from the smooth silver of the speedway to the rough asphalt of the road. Sleepiness tugged at his eyes; he had been awake for nearly 36 hours now. He moved his hand over his chest, finding the plunger on his suit. His armor held nearly a week's supply of combat stim, but he'd gone through it all in these last three days. His gloved hand pushed hard on the plunger, injecting the last of the blue liquid into his cardiovascular system. Immediately, the fog of fatigue lessened, and his veins popped. His HUD enlarged his vit...

The child's pencil skipped across the paper, finishing the dimples on a smiley face. "Hello friend :)" the paper read. Putting the pencil on the dirty tree stump, the child began folding the paper. Like a skilled craftsman constructing a mighty ship, the child toiled to make this paper boat a seaworthy vessel, ready to brave the dangers of the open water and deliver its cargo of good will. On the side of the boat, he emblazoned it "S.S. Buddy", and on the other side, he inscribed "Open me!" Satisfied with his handiwork, he ran through the soft mud to the riverbank. "Find me a friend, Buddy!" he ordered the ship, before placing it gently on the glistening water. With a firm salute, he bade the S.S. Buddy farewell. It didn't take long for the S.S. Buddy to catch the current and begin its maiden voyage. The light breeze tipped it side to side, and the sun reflected brightly on its sterling white exterior. It bobbed up and down as it hit ripp...

  The September air whipped through his hair as his paws stepped onto the stick-laden trail. He stopped, collar tag listlessly spinning by his chest. He took a breath in through his dried nose, and his old eyes peered through the green tint of his cataracts at the pines ahead. The pathway meandered its way up the forested hill, taking all the same turns it always had. It had been the same when he was a bright-eyed puppy, when he was so full of wonder and vigor. Though he had changed, as had his family, the trail had always been a constant. He and his boy had walked it for his entire life, and he had watched his boy grow up on it. He began walking forward, his old bones creaking and tired muscles straining. Paw after paw, he went forward, head held high. He glanced over at a weathered rock; it was there when his boy, many years ago, had brought him out to battle monsters for the first time. He was spry then, running around excitedly, barking at the beasts his boy confronted. He reme...

  I'm thirty years old, and I still can't visit a playground. I have two children, ages five and seven, who love playgrounds. They love the swings, the slides, the monkey bars. My wife takes them every weekend to our local park, but I never go with. If she's gone on business, I refuse to take them. I know it sounds extremely silly, but I have my reason. My wife knows enough to understand, though I wouldn't tell the kids anything. It's not something I like to think about very much, but I feel like it might be somewhat cathartic to share somewhere where I won't be ridiculed or accused of lying. See, I wasn't always scared of playgrounds. In fact, just like my kids, I used to love them. I mean, what kid doesn't? In my hometown, we had a huge park with a pretty massive playground, a couple of blocks from my house. The playground had all the usual stuff- swings, a teeter-totter, a merry-go-round, and the like, but its main attraction was a large central struc...

Oh, Man on the Overpass Cloaked in black, face sunken in your hood Eyes shielded by your brim, cigarette dangling from your fingertips You are a specter, a shadow behind the chain link fence I have a question I must ask: By what devices Do you find yourself gazing onto the highway? Is your soul in tatters, torn apart by loss? Is it a tremendous heartbreak that brings you to this precipe? Or perhaps it is a more subtle sadness A dull depression A funeral for the gutter your life is in Maybe it is a little more wistful Perhaps you are recalling your childhood with distant longing Or even reliving ancient memories in that very spot Yet, this all may not be so And you are not there by melancholy But by malice Are you a delinquent, poised to spit on the buzzing cars beneath? Might you toss your cancer stick onto the windshield of an unsuspecting driver? Worse yet, are you a psychopath Whose sick mind is excited to get its kicks? Is there a slab of rock by your feet You are ready to launch a...