Only in Miami Stories from The Miami Creation Myth

Cynthia twisted around and fell to her stomach, grasping desperately at rocks and roots as her body slipped into the chasm.

“I do indeed,” said Daniel. “Y’all had plenty of your own tribal traditions in Europe, but Christianity carpet bombed that straight to hell 2,000 years ago."

Cynthia’s eyes narrowed. She opened a box of Plan B, removed the pill, and swallowed it, all without breaking eye contact with the cashier.

Rhonda Santos sat cross-legged (Indian style, if it weren’t for the goddamned PC police) on a king-sized mattress in the Palm Beach Four Seasons’ presidential suite.

“Your fetish isn’t dumbification…” Cynthia's voice grew louder, more firm. She looked him dead in the eye. “Your real kink is mansplaining.”

The back of her head hit the concrete hard, obscuring her vision with a flurry of dark spots, but she didn’t mind. She deserved far worse.

Monica’s alarm woke her the same way she always transitioned into consciousness: violently, with a flurry of arms, legs, and sheets all fueled by panic.

Florida Governor Rhonda Santos was 30,000 feet above Central Florida on a private jet, her hands gripping her head in disbelief.

“ANTIFA!” yelled the Guardsman before emptying an entire magazine into the menacing shadow.

Just one of Carlos’ two guest rooms was larger than Cynthia’s entire apartment. The bathroom was larger than her bedroom.

Carlos shook his head. This was far too much for a Saturday afternoon. It was about to get far worse.

"The train is about to approach a turn," said bluebunny. "That’s when you’re going to jump out.”

Instead of public bullet trains, Floridians purchases outrageously expensive tickets to travel the country’s killing-est locomotive from South to Central Florida.

Looking around the stage, Cynthia was certain she was the only one who hadn’t had any work done.

Shrieking tires echoed up and down the hall while a corner DJ booth pumped Danish electro-funk into the cavernous space.

Good morning, partisan populists, patriarchs, and pussy pounders, and welcome to the Panhandle Patriot Podcast!

Cynthia awoke to 238 missed emails, 186 missed calls, and 502 missed text messages.

Governor Santos had lined up the entire, eight-man Thing squad shoulder to shoulder against the back wall of her office.

Monica Castellanos lived in a van parked in an Atlanta campground.

Cynthia spent 20 minutes convincing a pair of police officers that, no, she wasn’t the victim of an attempted murder.

400 miles back south, a woman in a Midtown Miami apartment gave a celebratory yell so loud that three different neighbors called the cops.

The following morning, Cynthia found a new folder on her desktop.

A woman shifted on the crinkly paper pulled across the examination couch, a perturbed look on her face, staring at the “Beware of Eye Syphilis” poster.

Carlos sidestepped to the left, so Cynthia sidestepped to the left. He shifted back to the right and she mirrored his move. She gave him a nervous smile.

By the time Carlos powerwalked offstage, head down, ramrod in his pants swaying left and right with each step, the crowd was in a near-mutinous clamor.

By the time Carlos powerwalked offstage, head down, ramrod in his pants swaying left and right with each step, the crowd was in a near-mutinous clamor.

Daniel Cypress was having a rough morning.

Florida Governor Rhonda Santos sat in her mahogany paneled office behind a monolithic block of wood consciously modeled off the presidential Resolute Desk.

Florida Governor Rhonda Santos sat in her mahogany paneled office behind a monolithic block of wood consciously modeled off the presidential Resolute Desk.

The ground cantankerously growled, then it groused, then it grumbled, and then, after several hours of geologic griping, it finally shook for 30 seconds.