Refracted Neurons

It was an office, not unlike any of the other offices around the city. There were windows, visible to the lucky few cubes on the ends of the rows. Then there was Vera's cube, situated next to the row of manager's offices. Today she was lucky, someone had left their door open and precious slant of sunlight escaped, warming her back and washing out half of her computer screen. "I never realized your hair was red," Tracy dumped a large stack of paper on her desk, "The florescent lights make everything look so soupy." "What is that?" she pointed at the stack of paper. Tracy only offered compliments when he wanted a favor. "I need this entered," he smiled, a dimple appearing in his cheek. "You have a secretary," Vera waved a freckled hand to her left, "Ask him." "He's sick," Tracy gave her puppy-dog eyes, batting his long dark eyelashes. Vera sighed and fought back a smile. Tracy was such a s

Y'all know, I don't usually talk about politics on this blog, but that changed when this arrived in the mail: This may be the funniest thing I've read all week. So, let's skip past all the expected rhetoric and cut to some of the weirdest statements in this deceptively boring-looking pamphlet: "My candidacy's an attempt to attract attention to my blog . . ."   Why didn't I think of this?  Running for office is a great way to increase your readers.  I mean, I wouldn't want to win or anything, but neither does this person.  See, they say it straight out: "I have no expectation or desire to win." ". . . the Seattle Monorail can be upgraded with the same technology the Hyperloop One is developing."   Noooooooooooooooooooooooo!  Seriously, nothing makes me more angry than the mention of the monorail.  I'm one of the people who paid ridiculous licensing fees for the expansion of the monorail .  But wait a second . . .

Well, the guinea pig house just sold for $790,000. Yes, you read that right - $790,000. At first I didn't know what my husband was talking about when he told me. He said, "You know, that really nice house with the nice fence." It wasn't until we drove by it, that I realized he was talking about the hippie house with the tree climbing guinea pig. "Do you think it comes with the guinea pig?" I asked. I was a little surprised something in my neighborhood was going for that price. I mean Pinehurst , people. No one even knows where Pinehurst is. Don't get me wrong, I love my 'hood, but that's because of it's weird little faults. I live in the city, yet I don't have a sidewalk. Our street drains are made out of wood. The entire neighborhood is built on a low hill, so the house behind us is an entire story higher than our home. Think of it this way, if you were a parkour ninja, you could jump from their backyard onto our roo

He was poor, that was one thing Lorna knew about him. The sleeves of his shirt were worn at the cuffs, the fabric giving way at the edges. His coat had a tear in it, neatly mended, and his shoes were worn nearly through. In spite of his tattered appearance, he was handsome; sandy hair, hazel eyes, a face both boyish and masculine. His name was Tarn, and when he wasn't being an errand boy, he drew pictures of people on scraps of paper. Everyday Tarn came by the dairy barn where she worked, always arriving during her break. While she rested her hands, he would lean over the stall and talk. He never asked her any questions or even paused for her to add anything, he simply told her about his day in one long narrative until her break ended. “Why do I let him do this?” she asked herself as she milked the cow with the crumpled horn. If she had the energy, if she wasn't so sad all the time, she would tell him that she was busy, that she couldn't talk. It wasn't a lie,