No More Medals

By: Ed Dzitko

The skis, a sign of happier days, were tucked into the back of the closet. They’d been there since the accident, standing at attention in their hard shell case, buckled in tight as a warning of a danger lurking within.

Jonas looked at the trophy case across the room as the sunshine breaking in through the open door reflected off the gold and silver medals on display. Six of them. He shook his head and breathed deep.

It was time. He reached in, grabbed the top handle, tilted the case, and pulled it out. The buyer would be by soon.


By: Andrew Dahl

Arthur had time for one thought before the cab clipped him in the hip and sent him pinwheeling out into the intersection of 23rd and 6th, in front of the Trader Joe’s shitheads, and the thought, unfortunately, was “Aw, crudge.” Not that anyone was capable of noting Arthur’s internal thoughts, but he still felt vaguely embarrassed to not even be able to form an effective curse when the moment called for it. “Crudging shut fluckers,” he internally sputtered as the ground flew up to meet him and the Trader Joe’s shitheads clutched their paper bags to their tightly sport-bra-ed chests.

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