Ben Healy

Ben Syverson

Sean King

Kristen Myers

Sam Becker

Rietje Becker

Zachary Slovin

Zoe Becker

Ross Weijer

"Well, you're the last person I ever expected to see here," Abraham Lincoln One said to Abraham Lincoln Two as he casually drew his sword.

Sure, he'd have to defeat the rebellion in the South, but first, Abraham Lincoln One (the original) would have to defeat his own clone. Their swords clashed in the Lincoln Bedroom (then just called the Bedroom).

Lincoln Alpha fenced Lincoln Beta, both careful yet bold, both fighting for his life. Each matching the other, unable to surprise an opponent who was the same person. Both Lincolns’ were tiring when there was a sudden flash of light and a booming noise.

And with her, her entourage. They rushed ahead, cleaning surfaces, looking for threats, talking to bystanders in hushed tones. Once the carpet was unfurled, as it were, Beyoncé waltzed across the threshold.

Beyoncé’s dress was blinding. Glittering sequins cascaded down her shoulders. The cleaners were relieved at having cleared the carpet in time. That is, until they noticed a large wrinkle. It was ten feet ahead and in the direct path of Alfredo, an actor distracted by the vision.

Alfredo's visions came and went, but when they arrived, they were usually prompted by bright flashes: a terrible affliction for a celebrity on the red carpet. His eyes rolled back in his head and he spoke in a language not heard for eons. It was a dire warning.

"This is the final vision you will receive. Heed this warning", a giant ball of fire filled Alfredo's vision. "A meteor is coming, holding a great peril inside, it is not the meteor you need to be afraid of, it is what is inside", a glimpse of a sharp-toothed grin flashes.

Alfredo couldn't sleep that night. Visions of meteors and what impossibilities they could entail clouded his thoughts. Perhaps the meteor would crack open for a Kinder Egg reveal, except in place of delicious treats, hordes of demons and misery. Eventually sleep came.

And in this sleep, perchance did Alfredo dream. A dream of shuffling off mortal coils of fettucine, at which point Alfredo would never be taunted about his name again, and could have all the meteors, demons, and Kinder Eggs that he wanted. Not necessarily in that order, though.

Lincoln in the Beyhive

"What should we eat?" Jan scrolled through Yelp. "Ooh, there's a new Maronite place on Division." Elena stood up and started clapping excitedly. "Ooh, I love Maronite food!"

Jan had second thoughts. "I don't know, Elena, don't you think the ritual sacrifice is a little bit... barbaric?"

“Yes, but rules can be bent. Haven’t you played Solitaire?”, she yelled. “Sometimes rules are completely ignored, like a Don’t Walk sign at 3am on a deserted street! You have to admit I have a point.”

He stared at her in disbelief. In so many words, she had completely changed his mind. “Let’s go,” she said and he solemnly complied. You could hear a pin drop when the two interlopers burst into the boardroom. “What’s the meaning of this?” erupted the chairwoman.

They looked at the chairwoman with a fierce glare. “It is time for the truth.” As they told the story all meeting participants started to think and gradually smile. “...And so now you know why we had to be here” they concluded. The chairwoman looked defeated “So it is” she said.

A Decision About Lunch Has Been Made

Meredith Adams

No one expects to get married on their 93rd birthday, but here we are.

The first time I saw Bill, he was in his dress whites, waving a newspaper on V-E Day. That was before the bomb, before our fight, before a silence that lasted 70 years.

Bill wrote me letters, at least for the first few months. He tried to make the front lines sound more bearable than they probably were and asked for pictures of our dog, Gilda.

That Bill, what a beautiful idiot. Everyone knows that Gilda doesn’t photograph well and just looks like a dark shape with ears. Pictures like that just make a war seem worse.

Gilda’s awkward portrait had been shared far and wide. She was basically a meme at this point. And yet, somehow, she was still leading in the polls. Now and again she would think to call Bill, her ex-campaign manager/amateur photographer, but inevitably couldn’t find the words.

Feeling a little lonely, she opened her laptop and turned back to that energy policy speech she had been meaning to finish.

Her life had been a bit of a whirlwind ever since Pete Buttigieg asked her to be head speechwriter. Her Pod Save America interview led to more interviews, and now she could scarcely find time to put together a simple energy policy stump speech.

Pressed for time, she multitasked, hitting “print” on the final draft of her speech while inhaling a messy slice of pizza. “Whoops,” she said, as pizza sauce dripped onto the page and obscured the first few sentences. She gave the notes to Pete anyways as he walked onstage.

Pete walked to the lectern and set down his notes. He’d just finished working the crowd when he noticed a greasy smear of tomato sauce obscuring the top of his speech. Pete panicked and said the first thing that came to mind, “Iowa, you deserve better. I must use the restroom.”

Pete fled to the men's room. After taking a moment to get his bearings, he realized he was in the most magnificent restroom in all of Iowa.

An indoor waterfall cascaded onto a flat gilded rock, sending a spray of warm rosewater into the shower—which was large enough for two horses. A tuxedoed attendant handed Pete a flute of Cava, pointing to a secluded grotto lit by candelabra. "If nature should call," he clarified…

"...DON'T ANSWER THE PHONE."

Then he stole Pete's wine and ran away.

Pete looked down with despair. He had nothing left except the scent of failure. Next he did the only sensible thing he could think of. He made a mental list of all the people who had wronged him.

Once he was done, he mentally crumpled the list. Mayor Pete pulled out his phone. It was too late for him, but maybe it wasn’t too late for his speechwriter. He texted her two words: “Forgive him.”

Her phone buzzed. She looked at the message on its screen. "Ugh, ok, fine," she texted back.

"ARGHUGHHH," responded Mayor Pete. She knew that this meant "thank you, friend."

By this time the mayor was long gone, cruising in a helicopter off the coast of Japan, his trusty cat, Pepperoni, by his side. As promised, Gilda had come through, saving Pete from the cruel, often barbaric, world of civic politics. Pete was scarred but ready to begin life anew.

Gilda Radner-Dog: A Political Life

In the glamorous, high stakes world of Grenade Polo, there are two types of players: the quick and the dead.

Fargo was an unlikely setting for the explosive equine championship. Who would have thought the innocent game of polo could be made more exciting with dangerous weapons? The drama of this year's matchups would be heightened by record snowfall and chilling temperatures.

The horses and the players were a little slower in their kevlar suits, but they were grateful for the extra layers in the subzero temperatures. The suits were absolutely necessary when a polo ball was triggered and exploded before reaching a goal.

The moment it happened you could sense a shared sentiment, that this new exploding technology and the subzero temperatures were ridiculous. They look at the remnants of the polo ball. They knew it would be hard, but not this hard. The prize was worth it. SHE was worth it.

She DESERVED that cake stand. This was the Great British Bake Off, and she was the best damn baker in all of England!!!

As it turns out, the judges thought so too. Her cake was awarded first prize, by a landslide. When asked what her secret was, she responded sheepishly, “love.” She laughed softly to herself, knowing full well that her secret ingredient was mayonnaise.

To Compete in England

Nat Steinsultz

The floors were shiny and the rooms smelled like pine. Gloria was always proud of her work, but today especially. It had been a day like any other, until she reached the room 23.

As she opened the door, she was overwhelmed by a familiar stench. It was warm, like the fermenting floor of a forest on a hot afternoon, and it reminded her of home.

She followed the stench through the kitchen, into the backyard, and wound up in a cloudy greenhouse, musty and hot. Her attention was drawn immediately to the tallest specimen.

It was a Venus Flytrap, clearly many years old. She approached it cautiously, overwhelmed by the damp heat of the greenhouse. At her touch, it recoiled. She heard someone open the door behind her. 

“I see you found Melinda,” said the tall man in the doorway. “I’m Piotr, the groundskeeper.” Piotr brushed past her, and placed a handful of Funyuns in Melinda’s verdant mouth. The flytrap slowly closed.

Melinda smacked her lips, then burped. "Gross," said Piotr. "I love Funyuns," said Melinda. "Woah, a talking plant," said me. Realizing her mistake, Melinda slowly turned to face me. "Enjoy sleeping with the Funyuns," Piotr said as Melinda opened her mouth one more time...

Room 23

Emily Grossberg

Marcus took off his sunglasses and put down his beer. "Hello? Is anyone there?" He craned his neck so he could survey the entire room. With his heart beating a mile a minute, he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower.

There was a ghost hovering in the bathroom doorway.

"Who's ther—OH, oh god, I'm so sorry, I didn't know there was anyone in the shower. I'll just leave," said the ghost.

The ghost went from a white translucency to a deep red with embarrassment as he floated down the hallway. He stopped to look in a mirror and said “I look high.” His mind drifted to when he was alive, and the high he used to get was from Becky. Oh, sweet Becky and her dank weed.

These days, Becky is mainly concerned with the weeds in her garden. She keeps it immaculately tended. Neighbors think she has a green thumb, but she’s really try to keep the spirits happy. Specifically the ghosts of the people she had to kill, whose bodies rest under her garden.

Becky found herself singing this morning as she frantically uprooted the overgrowth from her menagerie of souls. Do not suffocate my babies you nasty weeds she sang, slightly off-key. What Becky didn't know was that her ruse was almost up. Trouble lurked across the garden.

A small horde of hungry monsters approached. Becky rushed into the living room, only to find the window closed. She peeked out, and was only about halfway through the room when the door flew open. With a howl, the horde ran through the open window, smashing the couch to rubble.

Soul Patch

Joseph popped a marshmallow in his mouth as his space-car docked elegantly to the shiny space port of Amazia.

"Ah, my two favorite things," he said with a grin. "Sugary snacks and docking!"

And with that he pulled away, guiltily looking over his shoulder, stuffing his mouth so full of candy that drool leaked from each corner. If he could have said anything intelligible, he would have congratulated his partner sitting beside him. He couldn't have done it without him.

After all, his partner had given him the candy. And HE LOVED CANDY. Maybe... a little too much...

Just then, a chair stood up and transformed itself into a water cooler. “Shapeshifting aliens... Can’t trust em” Joe thought to himself. He felt a sudden sugar rush.

Unfortunately he had landed at the water's edge just shy of where the alligators convene. Just then a soft wind blew and he, as round objects tend to do, began rolling toward the shore.

As he rolled, ever so slowly, across the gentle waves towards the alligators on the beach, he began to pick up on their heated conversation. The alligators were arguing. About what, though? He listened more closely.

“Pragmatism is a cop out!” yelled one alligator, “If you ignore cogito, you might as well be a modernist!” The other alligator roared: “Aha! Spoken like a true solipsist! We’re communicating, aren’t we?” “Hardly, I’d say!” He stepped quietly on the sand to avoid getting involved.

Then both alligators turned into golf balls.

And there we have it. Two scaly green golf balls, who used to be reptiles, who used to be ex-cons, who used to be someone’s kid. If you squint at the dimpled surfaces you can just begin to imagine the crimes they committed.

And begin to dream of your own golf ball crimes that may yet come to pass.

What Happens in Amazia Stays in Amazia

His hands shaking with excitement and nerves, Max carefully poured the molten gold down the floor drain.

"There's nothing like a good bachelor party," he said, shouting over the sound of the helicopter blades so he could be heard by the large group of wolves and elves who had assembled before him.

Now elves don't usually ride wolves but then again sorcerers don't usually fly helicopters. And yet here we are. The towering wizard ducked beneath the rotor blades and carefully approached the lead elf. You knew she was the lead elf because her wolf was giant, with gilded fur.

The wolf's name was Kenneth. He was 237 years young, an avid curling fan who had met this elf, Meryl, at the 2046 Winter Olympics in Vancouver, Canada. It was a chance run-in at a concession stand.

Kenneth and Meryl immediately became inseparable. The sight of a wiry elf alighting the back of a lean gray wolf became a common sight at the beginning of curling matches across British Columbia—and beyond.

But as winter turned into spring, and the curling rinks grew wet and mushy, Kenneth and Meryl realized they would need to figure out something else to do.

It’s a tough business, preparing elite curling champions for the Winter Olympics. The off-season’s long and the athletes’ tempers are short. Some years Ken and Mer agreed they’d made poor life decisions. And yet if it weren’t for this mercurial sport they might never have met.

Sometimes, Ken wondered what his life would have been without Mer in it. How many mountains would he never have climbed? How many rocks would he never have curled? How many calzones would he never have eaten?

Ken found a small lake, pulled a single gold coin from his fanny pack and howled quietly to himself. He flung his head, then watched the coin skip across the water's surface.

Just then, he was nearly blown away by a giant gust of wind.

With his last bit of strength Ken grabbed a tree branch and swung himself to the ground. After struggling a bit he managed to free himself from the suction of wet mud below. When he finally looked up he couldn’t believe what lay before him.

AN ANGRY TIGER. Ken took a deep breath to steel himself... then charged.

Kristen Myers
@kristenmyers

Awards
Earned

Member
Since

Awards

Kristen's Stories

Kristen Myers@kristenmyers

AwardsEarned

MemberSince

Awards

Kristen's Stories

Kristen Myers
@kristenmyers

Awards
Earned

Member
Since