Two stories, backwards and forwards.
"Wigwams may be cozier than high-rises," declared Darryl, "but they don't hold a patch on spending your nights in the crook of a tree." Nobody responded to this surprising piece of news, coming as it did in the middle of the quarterly sales meeting. "I've started hunting my own food as well," Daryl continued, "even though there's nothing in the city but squirrels and pets." Carl and Tania locked him in his office for the rest of the afternoon.
Daryl pulled out a piece of paper and did a few calculations on the back of a manila envelope. "S'pose I'll take a chance" he said to himself, and jumped out the window with a parachute made of twine and old dot matrix paper. "Huh," he said to himself as the parachute ripped itself to shreds and his body dropped twenty stories.
No second story today! Why? Well, I was facing the prospect of a second story with some indifference, feeling almost adrift on a current of creative apathy. I calculated the odds of locking away my slight guilt over not writing a story, perhaps even drawing one back in the bow and putting the project out of its misery. Then I went for a walk in the park, passing by the G.D. Roberts building and ending up by the First Nations University. That was a surprisingly long walk, I reflected, and certainly not one I'd ever make in real life.