Rebirth

He ambled down the stairs to the dingy room in the farther corner of the basement. Shutting the door behind him, the janitor flexed his muscles as he stifled a yawn. The night would be long, with a topping of some backbreaking cleaning to do.

In an unbroken ritual of sorts, he cleaned his toolbox and reorganized his plumber’s kit.
Armed with his ‘briefcase’ (why, his trusty mop and duster)and a bucket of water, he climbed back to the second floor.

He had been sweeping the office floor for only a while when he felt water under his boots. He grunted listlessly: he always managed to ruin a good pair, pants or boots. He turned up the lights a little and discovered that it was a large pool of blood.

He called out, tip-toeing in the direction of the blood flowing free as a river.

He thought he saw the outline of a woman in the dark. She did not have one hand.

He quickly switched on the lights: there was no one in the men’s restroom.

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Psychomanteum

I had dared to reveal my love for him when my parents tried suggesting suitable men for my hand in marriage.
They were horrified at first; to think that their darling daughter had sealed another’s lips with hers and locked hands with someone while walking down the cobbled path to the city garden.
I am twenty six years old: what can I say?
The date and time were fixed so they could poke and prod him at length.
Even though my parents were the ones who would do most of the talking– I could tell– they were anxiously setting straight every piece of furniture at home, dusting the shelves endlessly and stocking the pantry with things I have never seen.
The last time I saw cookies in the left cupboard was on my eighteenth birthday. The time agreed upon came and flew away. An hour passed, then another.
He did not come.

My parents knew better than to tell me they told me so, but the finality in their voice was unmistakable. Once again, I had disappointed them.

That evening, I got a phone call informing about a man who miraculously survived and walked away.

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The Art of the Fart

I don’t remember when I fell asleep, but I sure as hell remember farting. That’s when I woke up, you know.

I am really conscious of making a ruckus out of flatulence, particularly after chomping through entire fields of onions and garlic. It has to be discrete, you know?
Farts bring out the most absurd in human behaviour. It is probably ranked way higher than even belching, yawning or stretching.
I can imagine.
The trick is to let it out in pauses; small, controlled bursts of espionage. When the first nose is crinkled, you shouldn’t figure on that nose’s list of suspects. It’s not an easy job, as any fat guy will tell ya.
We, in our daily lives, face a barrage of social situations wherein the social protocol dictating that the other person(s) not recognize your fart kicks in. Millions of people put their pants at risk daily and save the world. Some will rush into washrooms and unleash the perfume, while yet others have perfected the aforementioned espionage.
There still remains one threat to our mission as humans: the poop fart, known in the intellectual circles as ‘shart’.
Men of the mind, men of science have devoted their resources to countering this force of nature and make the world a better place. They are a shining example of Human Will, trying to open doors for all humanity.
Dude, that was me. I just farted. See? You did not even know. The next time you smell one, just close your eyes in acknowledgement of one of the many nameless artists the world has seen.