Jamie had the most expressive eyebrows of this or any other generation. They were eyebrows that could communicate what sculptor’s stone and painter’s easel have lamely attempted for centuries. When Jamie raised them, doors flung open.

While one can refute even the most carefully constructed argument, there’s no arguing against the calculated slant of an eyebrow. At a nuanced protragalation from just one of Jamie’s bushy caterpillars, fleets would unfurl their sails, old wives would once again see their husbands as young men, and whole economies would lose their composure.

So more is the shame that Jamie was a woman.

I was walking through my lawn when a choleric little gnome asked, “Why don’t you have shoes on?”

When I checked my mousetraps in the morning, I discovered the gnome’s body strewn about my kitchen floor with but a strip of leather as a reminder of the shoe he had promised would be mine.

From Guest Contributor, Anthony Tao

Every Leprechaun I’ve ever known’s nothing more than a ruddy thief. All that ‘gold’ they keep at the end of the rainbow, that’s ill-gotten pillage, buried where they think no one will ever find it.

Being half Leprechaun meself, I reckon their luck don’t work against me. Leastways, I’ve killed more Leprechauns than raindrops in Winter.

Alan Alanwich preferred to leave the details to his subordinates. That’s what he paid them for after all. He was much too busy to worry over moon landings or oxygen to nitrogen ratios.

Someday, his tombstone would beg the question of how a man who spectacularly failed as a the CEO of his own company managed to build the world’s first interplanetary skyscraper.

Caesar was warned.

The old man, still defiant, responded, “Aye, but they are not yet gone.”

On the thirty-fourth floor of the Alan Alanwich Tower, Arthur sat between cabinets of yellowing paperwork. Had he been near a window, he still would not have noticed as the Tower crested the troposphere.

While the calculus of rocket trajectories was not terribly different from the calculus of financial modeling, the transition resulted in a couple of irregularities, putting Arthur behind schedule. Arthur always felt nauseous when he fell behind schedule.

As stage two of the tower detached, dropping the accounting department and mail-room back towards Earth, Arthur sighed. He would miss the company picnics. He had always enjoyed those.

Against the flat gray sky of the Financial District, the skyline begins to stir. Clouds of soot bellow down the narrow cross-streets and grand avenues, away from the Alan Alanwich Tower, which teeters, lurches, and completely parts company with the ground. Triumphant as Jupiter, the ten thousand ton fledgling of cement and steel lifts itself above the be-spired brotherhood of sober banks, ascending towards the heavens.

On the penthouse viewing deck, Alan Alanwich raises his fists. As all eighty-seven floors of his company rocket away from insolvency, one thought reverberates through his mind – “This will teach those fucking Democrats!”

Last Tuesday morning, I woke up with a moustache. It had not been there the day before. It appeared, fully formed, overnight.

And I know it is only a matter of time before it kills again.

I carried my shipwreck bag with me everywhere. Inside, I kept everything I would need were I ever stranded on a desert island. A Swiss army knife. A first aid kit. Fishing line and hooks. A Zippo lighter with extra fuel. My five favorite books. An mp3 player with my favorite music. A solar charger. The U.S. Army Survival Manual. Duct tape. A torch. Mosquito repellent.

In hindsight, it would have made more sense to pack a satellite phone. Then I wouldn’t still be stranded on this god forsaken island.