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.
She bakes one special pastry with care—cinnamon, apples, and arsenic. At the reunion, Eric alone has that one, still laughing about prom night, unaware she remembers everything. He compliments her baking. She smiles, knowing that by dessert’s end, justice will be served warm, and nobody will suspect the quiet girl.
Marvin shuffled to the porch, coffee in hand, to greet the sun like an old war buddy. “Still fighting the dark, eh?” he’d mutter. One dawn the chair rocked empty, but the sunrise, bold, seemed brighter, as if saluting him back. Light poured down–and the day stood in silence, remembering.
Forget dirt, bugs, and lack of dignity. Try glamping. It’s camping for people who hate nature and demand artisanal s’mores. Why rough it? You can pay $800 a night to “connect with nature” from a temperature-controlled yurt with Egyptian cotton sheets and a salt lamp shaped like a pine cone.