by Quintin
It’s customary to show up to at least one of your opponent’s fundraisers. I figured if I had to suffer, I might as well get some pancakes out the deal.
I’ve been working in this city for 24 damn years, clawing my way on up. I’ve served on every shit-can board. Assessors. Conservation Commission. This little twerp? He’s shooting for mayor to boost his inevitable Senate run.
So when she screamed, “The baby is yours, Mike,” I couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. That blonde with the legs just walked out of the VFW along with his political career.
by Quintin
Elliot spun his wedding ring on his finger idly. If you had asked him six months ago, he’d never imagined he’d be here. On a 737, staring at the stupid passengers. Seething. He hated them all. He had already counted seven kids. Seven screamers. He was grinding his teeth.
But, at least he got to travel. His wife hated flying, so they never went anywhere. Even one night in an exotic locale was better than the cube farm, too. The hours were better, anyway.
“Boarding complete. Cabin secure. Prepare for take-off.” Elliot grasped the intercom so hard it nearly shattered.
by Quintin
There were a lot of nicknames given to our generation. The Worthless Generation. The Too Many Generation. Generation Omega. But I think Generation Population was the most fitting. Especially since the media often abbreviated it to Gen Pop. The joke was lost on a world that no longer believed in incarceration.
But as a wasted generation, we weren’t allowed to travel. We were stuck on Earth. Anyone born post boom couldn’t apply for a passport or visa to visit any of the colonies. Not even on Luna. We were a grounded generation, left to die on a burned up rock.
by Quintin
There is a secret place, somewhere off the far reaches of the green line, where public transportation goes to get away. There, they can forget the troubles of the world and not be worried about the schedules and overcrowding and intoxicated occupants, temporary as they are. Have you ever sat at Wellington Station, waiting on the 112 for what seems like forever, wondering where the bus could actually be? Or sat out in the cold, waiting forever for a shuttle at Lechmere? Then you, my friend, even though you didn’t know it, have experienced the magic of the Bustruck Garden.
by Quintin
Henry sighed deeply, pulling the phone away from his mouth in a hope that the representative wouldn’t hear him. She did. She told him that it was an elective surgery, and those weren’t covered under his plan.
He couldn’t afford a better plan, not unless he got a better job. But that was impossible, without the surgery. Henry was at a disadvantage without the upgrade. His chip couldn’t run the newest operating system, which meant the new versions of the basic protocol apps were right out. Nobody hires someone who does math at a third of the speed of competitors.
Pancake Social
It’s customary to show up to at least one of your opponent’s fundraisers. I figured if I had to suffer, I might as well get some pancakes out the deal.
I’ve been working in this city for 24 damn years, clawing my way on up. I’ve served on every shit-can board. Assessors. Conservation Commission. This little twerp? He’s shooting for mayor to boost his inevitable Senate run.
So when she screamed, “The baby is yours, Mike,” I couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. That blonde with the legs just walked out of the VFW along with his political career.