This week, The Kreation Korner brings you a promising fiction writer named Jawn Steighmeaus. Steighmeaus' stories are short--usually no more than 100 words--and are often typed impromptu during half-conscious self-induced hypnotic trances. The following sample--entitled "Untitled?"--captures the essence of Steighmeaus' unbridled spontaneity and tells a whole hell of a lot with very little. Heed:
Waking up. Rolling out of bed. Got to go to work. I eat a modest breakfast of leftover pizza and bread. Then I hit the street. The buffet where I bus tables isn't far: just up the General Westmoreland Boulevard past the Tsar Mart. I reach the front door 80 seconds late.
"You're late," says Rhonda, my boss. She's third generation Czech-Chinese and rarely smiles.
"What's the special, Rhonda?" I scream.
"Salisbury shrimp," she replies, vomiting on the floor. I don't panic. I straighten my ten-gallon hat and stare at the vomit, which has begun to form the shape of a face. A beautiful face. A face I have only seen four times before.