Super short original tales to snack on
by Rebekah Postupak
by Rebekah Postupak
500 words on the snout
“You’ll find monsters where you least expect them.”
I thumbed through the rest of the pamphlet with a shudder. It only got worse from there—glossy photos, testimonials, statistics, everything you’d expect to find. Don’t laugh, but somehow it’s so much more intimidating when sitting in the Office of Monster Catching waiting for them to call your name and talk you into the service you know you need but are terrified to sign up for. (Sorry for the run-on—goes to show how upset I am at the whole thing.)
Well, they called my name, and a lot sooner than I’d hoped. I folded the pamphlet up and tucked it neatly back into its spot on the rack. It really gnaws at me when folks leave papers on tables or throw them carelessly on the floor, especially in an office. There’s a RACK right there, for Pete’s sake, and it would take you exactly THREE SECONDS to put the thing back where you got it, would it KILL YOU to make that tiny effort???
Whoops. Deep breath. Sorry, got off track for a second. I hope you realized some of those comments were probably directed toward my ex, and didn’t take it personally. Anyway.
So they called my name, and into the back office I go, trembling like a closet door at midnight. (Arrrgh. Tense shift. Sorry. Into the back office I *went.*)
“Welcome to OMC,” said a soft voice. I could tell she meant to sound warm and fuzzy and soothing; I gave her three invisible points for that, even if I didn’t feel warm or soothed (I always feel fuzzy. Genetics.).
“Thanks,” I said.
“I’m Sylvia,” she said, pointing me to a chair. She was tall and slender to my short and squat, and I had to remind myself eleven times that she was there to help me, before I could stop hating her.
“Hi Sylvia,” I said. I didn’t bother introducing myself, since a folder with my name on it in block letters lay open on her desk. My own photo glared back at me from the inside flap.
“So, I understand—” and here she flipped through the pages of my file, like a monkey rifling a head of hair for lice, “—I understand you have a monster problem?”
I was thinking maybe it’d be all right to hate her after all. Was she going to make me spell it out?
“Yeah,” I said. “Monster problem.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place!” Sylvia grinned brightly, reaching into a drawer for a thick three-ring binder. “Let’s start with the basics. How long have you been single, dear, and what sort of monster is your type?”
I scratched an ear with a very un-ladylike shaggy finger, feeling sick. Soul-searching, right off the bat? There’d BETTER be one of their promised “least expected” monsters waiting for me at the end of this ordeal.
Or there’s no telling what I might could do.
(Make that “might do.” Sorry.)