dreamszilla

Misfit Ronnie struggles to care for her mentally ill little sister, while channelling her daily tragedies into her stand-up comedy; by DC Diamondopolous.  My sister Angie gives me outrageous material for my standup comedy. She's a bona fide nut case, a paranoid schizophrenic, bipolar, manic depressive - you name it - Angie fits every disorder that isn't wired to reality. The voices inside her head tell her to run from anyone trying to help her - except me. I take my sister's sorry existence, find the humor in it - in the loonies of my own mind - and make people laugh. Do I feel guilty? I'm half Jewish, half Catholic. Humor is my way of coping. Hell, I'm a female stand-up comic, and there's no higher hurdle in show business. Growing up, bullies at school called me circus girl. I'm 5'10", big boned, with short blonde hair. I was gay- and Jew-bashed. I rolled in the hurt, turned it inside out, and now make people laugh. I'm a babyface dykey-

via American Short Fiction https://ift.tt/3f5wWVn

Abel's destiny is as a scientist, trying to extend the life of mankind during a terminal ice age; by James Rumpel. "Ignore the bullies." That was the advice Abel Fairweather's mother always gave him. " Well, it is awfully difficult to ignore someone while they are sitting on your chest ," thought Abel. What he said was, "Get off of me, Borg. I didn't do anything to you." "You keep making me look bad," replied the behemoth eleven-year-old. Borg Runzel, at his young age, was already over six feet in height and weighed upwards of two-hundred pounds. His size and barrel-like build were in complete contrast to the skinny boy he was currently harassing. " It's not my fault you're stupid ," is what Abel wanted to say in reply. However, he wasn't stupid. "I'm just doing my best." "So am I," shouted Borg. "School is dumb. What good does book learning do? It doesn't put food on t

A career Navy sailor falls in love with a Micronesian island, and a Peace Corps woman living there; by Gary Ives. In the spring of 1967, I was Chief Engineman aboard the destroyer escort USS Tinker. From Pearl Harbor we were to begin a Westpac cruise, normally six months of exercises and patrols around Japan, Taiwan, Guam, and the Philippines. On this cruise however, we were tasked with a couple of unusual missions. First, a United Nations project to reduce childbirth fatalities among remote Pacific islands. Our mission was to deliver midwifery kits, throughout the Trust Territories of Oceania. Before leaving Pearl, we took on nearly 100 small boxes marked with red crosses: medical kits containing post-natal medical supplies; antiseptics, antibiotics, sutures, and bandages. A destroyer escort is a small ship whose space is dedicated for weapons, not cargo, so these boxes ended up stowed all over the ship. We had twelve in our tiny machine shop. The other mission was a diplomatic s

On our way home from the Virginia Beach area, my husband suggested we take the rural route, using the east-west Highway 58. “That’s a good idea, I said. Let’s stop and get a map.” Unfortunately, we didn’t have one in the car, “We don’t need a map, he said. We’ll follow the GPS on google.” “No, I want to see the entire route on the map,” I said. He didn’t argue with me because he knows how much I like maps. We drove into the next truck stop. I looked around but didn’t see the maps, so I asked the clerk where they were. Before she had time to answer, a man standing in line said, “You can just google where you want to go.” I smiled and looked at the young woman behind the counter. She looked at me puzzled and said, “Map? I don’t think we have a map. Most people just use google on their phone.” I reminded her that truckstops usually carry maps, and she came around to look. After a moment, we saw a few on a stand in the corner. “Oh, she said, I didn’t know we still carried paper map

At the height of the Covid pandemic in 2020, extrovert Brit Nell is forced into a stifling quarantine when she travels to her family's old cabin in Ontario; by Mary Sylvia Winter. There is silence, and then there is silence. Some people are born to be silent, thought Nell crossly. Not me. Definitely not me. Some no doubt acquire silence. Hermits. Writers, maybe. Again, not me. And some have silence thrust upon them. Me. She sighed, did a last check over the car she had rented three hours ago upon landing at the airport in Toronto, and then shoved the key into the drop box of the company's northern branch. She hoped it wasn't covered in Covid germs. Damn - should have disinfected it. Too late now. She settled the rucksack onto her shoulders and set off for the walk to the house. Even if it hadn't been Sunday and the rental place closed, she couldn't have asked for a lift from one of the staff. Not right after getting off a plane from England. For all anybody