Three Shorts by Charles J. March III

FEBRUARY 8, 2023

“No-Reply”

We knew that when he was unresponsive, he was living his best life.

“Trident”

A client of mine accidentally died during a surfing outing, so the lawyers have started to affectionately refer to her as “Aquawoman.”

“Veteran’s Day”

His hospice nurse started stealing his pills to help her dying dog.

Written by Charles J. March III

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The Cement Mixer - Jon Doughboy

It’s 2002 and 2008 and 2012 and 2023 and the Millennials collectively, the entire generation, have rented a cement mixer the size of a global recession from Jean Twenge’s cousin who works in the building trade making a buttload of dough renovating subprime mold-farm homes and turning them into hot commodities with some fresh sheetrock and gentrification gray paint and a sheet or two of brightly-colored metal siding for “curb appeal.” On one side of the mixer is emblazoned the word “Time” in Vantablack spray paint. On the other, smeared in feces and blood, is the word “Culture.” The Millennials excitedly crowd around this two-named mixer like it’s churning out unviable yet charming third-party candidates. And this is no ordinary mixer. It’s state-of-the-art and the art consists of taking in hopes, fads, fears, archetypes, myths, and generation-defining themes and mixing them all up into something sturdy for future generations to crawl then ...

Going to Hell - Alex Kudera

The years raced by until I found myself standing on a street corner in China. I was in Xi’an, and I was in my wife’s old neighborhood. We lived in her tiny studio—a few narrow rooms, linoleum floors, hot pot and range, no oven or fridge. A plastic seat on the toilet so frangible, I broke it twice by sitting down. Twenty-first century living in yesterday’s mainland. An authentic experience in the world. But I was out for a stroll. This is what I loved to do—walk and look around. It was hot, but the neighborhood was out and about. A crowd stood alone or congregated on every corner. Laolao and Yeye claimed every spot on rusty metal benches shaded by trees. Many more people walked in the sun. They had umbrellas; I did not. In ten minutes, I strode around the corner and up the block. The sun’s bright rays seared my retinas. The heat beat against the pavement and splashed ...

Without Baggage - Sloan James

There is something to be said for peace. Harmony; always such an evasive little bastard. Too big for one person. It sticks in the throat or backs up your bowels. In some manner you are constipated by the efficiency of worldly connectivity. Things are cheap or things are old and stale. The airport felt like they usually do. The feeling of getting away, of going away, seeps into the skin and the blood and the mind goes wild. Before you know it, you’ve downed a full and non-repressed Xanax brick and a three quarter tab of buprenorphine before reaching security. The paranoia of sniffer dogs at your bags and pockets. The ques. The time. Always the time. The gate number. The flight number. The baggage, to check or not check? Oh, the bag’s too big? check it in at $70 like a fool. Legs sway you through security swipings and beepings. Adult sized x-rays like idiotic toys and stupid serious morons in funny uniforms who are this country’s last line of defence against TERR...

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