Monday, June 9, 2014

It's Too Bright

This week is the start of the new schedule.  Mondays will now be short fiction, Wednesdays are for a bit of inspiration or interesting site out in the world, and Fridays I’ll look at film or television.  If you don’t want to have to remember all of that, subscribe to the email feed at the bottom of this page and you’ll get each post delivered to your inbox automatically the day after it goes live.

I never see you email address and you won’t get spammed. 

Hopefully this new lineup will keep it fresh, deliver a sufficient quantity of what you’ve come to expect from my keyboard, and free up some time in my schedule for more work on the big money projects.  HA!  Big money.  Everyone at the station is looking at me because I’m ROTPL.

True stories from auto-correct: I just typed ‘htat’ but instead of correcting it to ‘that’ it changed it to ‘Htat’ which is insane.

It’s Too Bright
50 cars.  That’s what the rule was.  It had been drilled into his head at the academy and then by his patrol sergeant.  50 cars.  No more.  No less.  Then the other way.  Fair and fast, win-win.  Everybody’s the same.

The trouble was that 50 cars took a long time.  And it was too bright.  He couldn’t keep looking that way.  His head hurt from last night when he woke up.  The exceedingly painful sunlight was going to ruin the day.  So he only let 20 go before switching sides.  There was a lot of honking but that didn’t hurt his head quite as badly.

Of course now, as he counted 10, 11, 12, his arm hurt from where he’d fallen on it during the ill-advised trip over McGee’s wall to steal flowers for the ladies.  By 18 he’d had enough and switched to another direction.

The honking was obnoxious and several drivers even called him out, rather brazenly, he thought.  His head was pounding and after only a dozen cars he needed to use both hands to keep his brains from exploding.  Didn’t these drivers get it?  He had a busy life too full of all sorts of problems and they shouldn’t be mad at him because they were late.  That was there fault.

He’d made it in to work on time, even hungover and with a dislocated shoulder.  And 50 was more of a guideline than a rule.  He was the authority here.  They would wait for his head.

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