PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The woman aimed straight & true, "Wake the fuck up son. Your piece of paper don't weigh against 40 years of my blood, sweat & tears." With that sentiment she shot him right between the eyes. Admiring her own handiwork she noted, "You're welcome."

There was just one employee in the office that knew what happened to the last guy they sent out there. Well he didn't exactly know, only that the last guy hadn't came back after telling him where he was going as he waved the Stella file and walked out the door never to be seen or heard from again. Apparently no one had even reported him missing. No one ever came around asking about him either. Back then there had been rumors - you did not want to get stuck with the Stella file which had puportedly followed at least three collectors to their mysterious disappearences and then strangely reappeared in somebody else's inbox days later. He looked at the twelve-inch stack of file folders on his desk, all of them manila but for a crimson slice of color about halfway down. He'd been shuffling it towards the bottom for over a year now though it would creep up a little every few days. He had thrown it away twice only to come in the following day to find it at the top of the pile. This time he was gonna burn it. He slipped it into his briefcase, took it home, threw it into the old oil drum in his backyard and lit it on fire with a dousing of whiskey from the bottle of Jack Black he was swilling on.

When he came in the next morning the folder was nowhere to be found. He had searched every inch of his tiny cubicle, opened every drawer in his desk and file cabinet. With a cautious sigh he sat down. His supervisor strode in, "This needs to be taken care of by the end of the day". Directly a red file floated slow-motion through the air landing square in the middle of his desk.