Here's an extra story, since I've been so bad about posting recently.
I wrote this back in April, for a project called Postcard from Hell. That name explains the basic premise. I tried to take a unique route and also be a little humorous...but I ended up not doing anything with the story, and I stopped following the project, too. But it was fun to write and nothing else it happening with it, so here you go. (You get 125 words more than you usually get from me at once!)
I really shouldn't complain.
S'a thankless, dead-end job just like any other thankless, dead-end job. And hey, at least I know I ain't ever gonna get fired.
Haha, "fired." Laugh, it's a joke.
Don't get me wrong--it's not all cream and roses. I bet you'd have a hard time finding anyone who enjoyed being a janitor, and I'm certain it's worse here than a lotta places. For one thing, I never actually get the satisfaction of a job well-done, 'cause nothing ever really gets clean. You know how they say that police use Coca-Cola to clean blood off crime scenes? Doesn't work here; we only have off-brand cola and it doesn't do the trick. Besides, even if I did get it cleaned up, there would just be a bigger, grosser mess in the same place tomorrow. Blood, organs, vomit, fetuses—have you ever had to clean fetus off a wall? Try three walls—there's a continuous supply down here. And lemme tell you—you can never get the smell of sulfur out of anything. Sisyphus has his rock and me, I've got goat's blood, cat guts, and an eternity of backed up toilets.
Still, it's easier than washing away your sins--Bossman only knows I tried. Holy water ain't that much of a miracle solvent.
"Dead-end job," hehe. That's a pretty good one, too.