My friends and I are in an on-again/off-again writing club where the rules are simple. Every two weeks you have to submit three short stories that it took you 20 minutes or less to write. These are the results.

Everywhere I look, people are eating yogurt.  On the subway, in the laundromat, the register lady at the strip club—every one of them spooning this goop into their mouths in public.  At work I sit across from a guy who eats yogurt every morning.  Our desks face each other, if I stood up and leaned over my monitor I could slap him across the face.

Yogurt smells like a beautiful evil witch’s vagina.  There are fables in Romania that tell of a woodland succubus named Oana who carried a raspberry in her pussy everywhere she went.  She greeted travelers with her immaculate form, brought them back to her thatch fortress in the forest and seduced them.  The instant the traveler removed the raspberry: all noise stopped, the wind became a banshee, an enormous grasping thing like a five-headed black anaconda made of tree roots flew out of the witch’s crotch and inhaled the victim into her vagina, consuming him whole and liquefying his bones.

At least that’s what yogurt smells like to me.