It used to be that being a werewolf was a death sentence.
But thanks to modern medicine and sturdy cages, a werewolf can expect to live out as close-to-normal life as expected.
Insurance companies can no longer jack up premiums or dump these afflicted patients as “suffering from a pre-existing condition” or as an “act of God.” Thank you, President Obama!
And employers cannot discriminate against them as long as they don’t pose a danger to their coworkers. Clever and careful scheduling resolves any potential, deadly, and costly conflicts.
(Especially with the vampires we hired to supervise the night shift.)
Category: My stories
The Predator
The predator lay in a growing pool of his own blood, flowing over the photos and newspaper clippings he’d taken to remember his crimes.
I’d shot him in the hands, the feet, the legs, the arms.
He begged for mercy as I reloaded my gun.
I ignored his pleas and the growing sound of sirens.
He then found some courage. “Who are you to judge me?” he growled, “You have blood on your hands too.”
And, so I did.
“But it’s your blood,” I said. “Hardly innocent.”
And then I shot him in the chest, again and again.
Click. Click.
How Cats Defeated Hitler
In an underground cafe in Berlin, sitting at a table with a bottle of something dark and crisp, an old man hobbles up to me and hands me a fluffy grey cat.
“Cats defeated Hitler,” he said, smiling.
And he walked back into the shadows.
I looked at the cat.
The cat looked at me.
And purred.
I wanted to get up and follow the old man and ask him what he meant, but the cat was so soft and furry, and the purring was so nice.
So, I just sat, drank my beer, and surrendered to the grey cat.
The Bully
The Bully watches the playground, grinning.
Kids are swinging on the swings, sliding down the slide, and they’re all having fun.
Nobody is fighting or crying.
He can’t remember the last time there was any trouble in this playground.
The other bullies are gone.
Back then, he had heard kids crying, and instead of bullying them, he bullied the bullies.
And won.
A girl runs up to him and puts a flower in his lap.
“Thank you,” she says.
The bully reaches for the flower with his good hand and smells it.
It’s wonderful.
Then he steers his wheelchair home.
Gertie and Eustus
My rich Great Aunt Gertie lays in bed, eyes closed, arm around her beloved cat, Eustus.
He’s not the original Eustus.
Gertie tried cloning. Cloning is hit-or-miss with personalities, though.
Luckily, the last came out nice and docile.
Now, she’s trying out the latest in hologram fields.
Before, they just rendered dusty, translucent ghosts.
These days, they’re quite lifelike with tactile presence.
Eustus wakes up, stretches, and curls back up, purring contentedly.
Gertie flickers for a moment, smiles in her electronic sleep.
She left everything in her will to Eustus.
(Even though he’s just a cloned copy, my lawyers say.)
Unfair
It’s interesting to see people adjusting to ever-advancing technology.
From chalk and slate to Microsoft MindLink, teachers preparing kids for yesterday’s challenges, kids distracted by the newest gadgets.
Susie has a dataport on her arm, and she covers it with a long sleeve.
MindLink still has brainwipe issues, her parents say. A class in Chicago got zombied last week.
She pouts, runs to her room, crying.
Plugging in, she updates her journal, tagging it with all the unfairness, all the envy of her friends who got their way.
Just like her daughter will do.
(With the next generation of technology.)
Bed
I lift the covers and slide back into bed.
It still smells of you. I imagine that it’s still warm with you.
I turn off the light, letting my eyes adjust to the dark.
The room hasn’t changed much. A few familiar things gone, a few new things on the dresser and nightstand.
People change. Even you.
That’s when I hear your key in the lock downstairs.
I get out of bed, pull on my clothes, and crawl back out the window.
As I watch you sleep, I wonder if you can feel my warmth, smell my skin.
Sleep well.
The Creepy Silence
When you live in a world of light, the darkness is what you fear.
And when you live in a world of darkness, you grow to fear the light.
Creeping into the cave, the human bumps his head on a stalactite. “Damn it!”
Waiting for him is a dark elf, watching quietly.
The human hands over a sleeping baby, and the elf hands back a satchel full of gems.
“Princess Garamond wants to talk about alimony and visitation,” says the human.
The dark elf nods. “Less often and for longer, I hope.”
They both chuckle and return to their worlds.
Potion of Sleep
You’ve got troubles, I’ve got troubles, we’ve all got troubles.
Tell me your troubles, and I’ll make you a potion for them.
Got a cut? Got a scrape?
Pour this on it.
Losing your hair?
Rub a little of this one on your head. (And be sure to wear gloves. Trust me on this.)
Love? Pain? Joy?
This one’s special: sleep and death.
Just depends how much you take.
Careful, kid.
I got ’em all in these bottles, every color, every flavor.
Sip this, rub that, some drops in your eyes.
Give me your arm, this won’t hurt a bit.
The Hate Of Cake
I take the cake out to the grocery store parking lot, remove the lid, and start punching it.
Frosting splatters all over the ground and my clothes as my fists pummel the cake into a mushy pulp.
Then, I lick my fists and go back into the grocery store.
“I’d like another cake,” I say.
“You’ve bought four today,” says the manager. “And you’re covered with cake. What are you doing with them?”
“Punching them,” I say. “It’s cathartic.”
The manager looks around, sees his employees goofing off, and picks up 2 cakes.
“Mind if I join you?” he says.