Kathy admired his dating-app profile: “Farm-to-table, eh?” she texted, flirting.
“My lifestyle,” he rejoined. “Dinner’s on me?”
She arrived hungry.
He opened the door, beaming.
A live chicken strutted across the kitchen.
“Meet Beatrice. She’s organic.”
Kathy blinked.
He sharpened a knife.
Kathy backed out slowly.
Beatrice clucked.
Alone. Again.
Albert wore his “lucky socks” to the job interview. On the way he stepped in gum, then a sewer grate. He didn’t get the job. Now he’s unemployed. Scientists say luck isn’t real—but Albert disagrees from beneath his umbrella, under a lightning-struck tree. He’s applying next at the horseshoe factory.
The great escape has begun. The ear worm, stuck inside Jim’s fevered brain, thrashes madly against the confines of his subconscious. “I’ve gotta get out!” it screams, rattling neurons. Jim hums the tune absentmindedly, sealing its fate. The melody sighs, another loop, another day in captivity. No parole in sight.
She bloomed in a crack of concrete, defiantly. Commuters passed, blind to her grace, but one man paused. He knelt, wept, and whispered her name—forgotten until that moment. The rose listened, then wilted, her purpose fulfilled. By morning, only petals remained, scattered like secrets no longer needing to hide.