He left the meeting sagging, a half inflated pool toy sinking in the acrid water. The sun was making him sweat, though he hadn't though that was possible. He's sweat so much during the interview he felt as desiccated as one of those silica packets they put in electronics to keep them dry.
Vanquished. Again. Another job lost because of flop sweat and his perplexing genetic gift of turning bright red under any form of pressure. How had his ancestors managed to carry their seed so far up the line? A bunch of panicky, stammering fools who traded flight or fight for freeze and sweat.
He loosened his tie and wondered what was next. Immediately, next meant eggs and bacon at the diner and then a nap in his too-hot apartment. After that, he'd hit the classifieds to find out what other jobs he wasn't qualified for.
That's when the idea of robbing a bank crossed his mind. If he could do that, perhaps he could breat the cu
The first story I remember writing was about a man who caught a two-headed fish. He held it in his hand, marveling at it for a while, and then he noticed that it had another hook in it's mouth. Somebody else had caught it and let it go. So he carefully removed his hook and set it free.
I don't know how old I was when I wrote that, but I'm still trying to write a better story.
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