Siblings

Irvin had no sibling, but he wished he did.

His parents had considered it, but decided not to. He was disappointed, and growing up, they disappointment festered.

At age 25, he decided to do something about it.

“Excuse me,” Irvin said to the woman at the café he frequented.

“Yes?”

“I’d like a tea, and also would you like to be my sister?”

The woman blushed, and said, “Sorry, I already have a brother. Your tea will be just a minute.”

At the grocery store, he asked the woman at the cash register – at least 15 years his senior – “Would you be my sister?”

“Sorry honey. Cash, debit, or credit?”

Irvin nodded, understanding, and handed his cash.

After several days, and many awkward encounters, he was nearing defeat. At work, he walked over to the neighbouring department, and said, half-heartedly, “Mee? Would you like to be my sister?”

“A brother?! Oh my god!” Mee said, holding her hands in front of her mouth. “I’ve always wanted a brother!”

“Really?” Irving said, surprised.

“Yes! This is amazing! Okay, what’s involved?”

“I dunno…uh, want to come over and play video games and eat pizza?”

“Yes! Tonight?”

“Sure!”

“Done! Thanks bro!”

Irvin returned to his desk, excited.

Orange Float

Ferdinand stood at in line, waiting.

Finally, he was at the front, and the person behind the counter said, “Next please.”

Ferdinand walked up. “Hi, could I get a root beer float, but made with, uh, orange soda?”

The person behind the counter frowned. “I don’t think I can do that.”

“Why not? Do you have orange?”

“Yes, but – ”

“Then why can’t you put ice cream in the orange, rather than in root beer?”

“Because it’s a root beer float. Not an orange float.”

“Okay, can I get an orange float?”

“Sorry, we don’t have those here.”

Ferdinand felt his frustration mounting. “Okay, can I order an orange soda, and add in a scoop of ice cream?”

The person behind the counter frowned again. “I’m going to have to check with my manager.”

“Please do.” Ferdinand waited while the employee went in back. A minute later, an older man came out.

“You the fellow who wanted orange and ice cream?” the man said.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Sorry fellow, we don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Just don’t. Please order something else, or let the next person in line through.”

Ferdinand stared for a second, unable to figure out why this was such an ordeal. He held a hand up, annoyance floating above it.

“Sir, step aside, if you’re not ordering anything. Next please!” The man turned and went in back, and the employee returned to the cash. The next person in line stood beside Ferdinand, ordering a root beer float. Ferdinand turned and walked out the door, confusion and frustration mingling in his head.

Work Like a Dog

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Darcy called. “You know what day it is?”

“Pancake day?” Wyatt asked.

“Taco day?” Leslie said, his voice hopeful.

“Pay day, finally?” Melody said, bitterness in her voice.

“None of the above!” Darcy said, her smile wide. “It’s Work Like a Dog Day!”

Everyone groaned, and looked around.

“Can we get out of it?” asked Leslie.

“Nope! So, on the floor everyone, and no more words! Barking only!”

“Boss, I really don’t think this is as beneficial as – ”

“No more arguments! Ruff ruff!” Darcy lowered herself to the floor and started to crawl around on all fours.

The rest of the office sighed, and started moving their monitors down.

Names

“Can I have your name please?”

“Anne.”

“Pan?”

“No, Anne. Like Green Gables.”

“Man? I don’t know a Man Green Gables.”

“No, Anne. A-N-N-E. Like Frank.”

“Your name is Frank?”

“Ugh, no! It’s Anne!”

“Okay, I’ve heard Pan twice now, so I’m assuming it’s that.”

“Sure, fine.”

“Last name?”

“Smith.”

“Pith?”

“Yes, I’m Pan Pith. I can change this all online, right?”

“Yes, of course Ms. Pith.”

Spiked Melon

Wilbert scooped out the last of spiked watermelon, scraping the bottom.

He had prepared three of these for the party, cautiously carving out a hole in each, then upending a bottle of vodka in one, rum in the second, and peach schnapps in the third. He wanted to provide choice.

Wilbert hadn’t labelled the watermelons, believing that an invisible hand would allow partygoers to choose the one they liked the most.

Now, as he sat on the patio, scooping out the last of the peach schnapps melon, Wilbert looked around. He lifted his glass, muttered a “Cheers”, and carved a chunk out with a spoon. He teetered in his chair, far too sauced to stand. He looked over – two watermelons left to go.

Ice Cream Sandwich

Selma nibbled her ice cream sandwich.

She ate slowly, carefully nibbling on piece at a time, savouring it.

As she neared the 30-minute mark of eating, though, Selma grew concerned. She looked at her ice cream sandwich, still whole (other than the bites). Not melting. She frowned. She turned the paper packaging around and read more closely.

“Frozen dessert,” it said. Nowhere did it say, “Ice Cream”. “Frozen Dessert Sandwich” in tiny letters, with a large picture of an ice cream sandwich.

Selma sighed. It had tasted a little funny. Now, though, she knew.

Selma discarded the sandwich in the nearest garbage can, and walked away, disappointed.

Inflexible

Woodrow didn’t have a good downward facing dog.

He was an inflexible man, in both body and mind. He wanted to burn the heretics (not literally), to imprison everyone (almost), and had only about 30 degrees of motion in his neck.

While his mind was left to its own devices, Woodrow’s doctor informed his that he needed to get his mobility increased, or he would have a bad time in his old age. At 40, it was now or never, the doctor said.

So Woodrow started yoga, only to find he was worse than he thought. His forward fold was more of a light bend. His child’s pose (which he resented) was more of a kneeling. And his downward-facing dog was only slightly more bent that a plank.

But he kept with it, trying to put aside the hokey-ness of this nonsense, and gradually his body improved. After several months, he could bend a little farther, move a little more. With that mission accomplished, he went on to the next thing.

Walk the Street

Jess walked down the street, with people yelling from all sides.

The yelling took all forms. Insults, abuses, cheering and encouragement. Jess kept walking through it.

A few people hurled items – rotten vegetables, balled up paper from Jess’s own garbage. One person threw a bottle that crashed to the side. People nearby were shocked, but went back to their yelling.

As Jess continued through the crowd, the noise level slowly rising, he smiled and waved, frowned and gave the finger. And he carried on.

At the end of the street, Jess turned, waved, and went into his house. He closed the door, and went about his day.

Remote Hiding

The television remote sat on the arm of the sofa.

In front, the television blared on. Around it, voices were screaming at each other, trying to be heard over the television.

But the remote sat where it was, waiting to be used. No one paid it any mind, and it was forgotten. It slowly slid down the arm, to fall in between the side of the sofa and the cushion. And as the people yelled at each other, it worked its way deeper and deeper, finding a resting place where it would not be found for some days, in part because no one would search for it.