Author: R.

The yapping puppies

Julia liked to buy wind-up toy dogs and release them in the hallways at work.
They’d yap for a few minutes before winding down.
When someone made a battery-powered yapping dog, she bought a bunch of those and released them in the hallways.
They’d yap for thirty minutes before running out of power.
Someone suggested to Julia that actual puppies would yap for a lot longer.
So, she went to the pound and got a bunch of those.
She set them out late Friday night so they’d surprise people on Monday morning.
But she didn’t leave out food or water.

Feel the heat

It was really hot out yesterday, and our office building was caught in a rolling brownout.
The generator failed, and the air conditioning went offline.
We all went home.
Today, the office building is as cold as an icebox. They had jacked up the air conditioning to the max.
So, I’m in my office, wearing a throw blanket like a serape, trying not to get frostbite in the middle of August.
I pull out my electric blankets and plug them in.
When those blankets blow the circuit breakers, the air conditioning will stop, and it will be warm enough again.

The rest home

Jack and Molly have been together for fifty years.
People ask them how they’ve stayed together for so long.
They don’t know. Or, they don’t remember.
Jack has Dementia, Molly has Alzheimers.
Neither is sure who the other is.
Or who they are. Or where they are.
They spend a lot of time with each other, though, that’s for certain.
“If my husband finds out about us, he’ll kill us,” says Molly.
“That’s okay,” says Jack. “I’m not married.”
We don’t correct them anymore.
I mean, what’s the harm?
Unless another of our residents imagines they’re Molly’s husband, I guess.

Tea in the office

I keep a large glass jug in my office, and I make batches of herbal iced tea on Monday.
At the end of the day on Friday, whatever’s left in the jug gets dumped out in the breakroom sink, and I wash out the jug.
So it’s ready the next Monday for another batch of tea.
I like to try different blends and flavors, but whatever I enjoy on Monday, I’m sure to get sick of by Friday.
And whatever I hate on Monday, it will grow on me by the time I’m ready to dump it out on Friday.

Chekhov’s story

Once upon a time, there was a shaggy dog named Maguffin.
He lived in a doghouse made of unobtanium with two other dogs named Jack and Doyle, whom I will never mention again.
In this doghouse, there was splotlight in each corner, so Maguffin cast four shadows on the walls.
His owner, who kept a loaded rifle by the door, fed him cans of red herring, which he enjoyed very much.
One night, a glowing object appeared in the sky.
Maguffin looked up at it and barked.
Then, the object disappeared, and Maguffin went back into his doghouse to sleep.

Weekly Challenge #780 – PICK TWO: Remember only this…, Scope, Church, Melt, Fade, Bare

Myst

LIZZIE

The vet’s schedule is imprinted on my brain. For many months, that was the most important schedule in my life. Mondays and Tuesdays, morning and afternoon. Wednesdays, afternoon and evening. Thursdays, night shift. Fridays, not there. There were other vets there, of course, but… It wasn’t the same thing. They hesitated, read the files ten times, messed up the meds. And I used to ask, not sure whom, please, please, don’t let him get really ill on a Friday. Or weekend. The vet’s schedule is still imprinted on my brain, but I don’t need it anymore. My kitty is gone.

RICHARD

Words of Wisdom

It was, I suppose, one of those formative moments in life.

In his last moments, as I sat at my dying father’s bedside, he beckoned me closer and breathed the words to me: “Son, if you make nothing more of your life, remember only this…”

The wisdom he then imparted meant little to me at the time, and over the years, consumed only with life’s purely material things, his words began to fade until, eventually forgotten.

And now, lying on my deathbed, desperate to impart a lasting gift of wisdom to my own son.

I simply cannot remember those words.

SERENDIPIDY

They always used to laugh at me.

They’d mock me and say that if ever I dared to set foot inside a church, I’d most likely melt into a sinful puddle of evil, unable to bear anything even remotely good or holy.

Maybe they were right, after a fashion: I’ve hardly been a model of decorum and decency. But nobody’s perfect.

Not even that bunch of holier- than- thou hypocrites!

So I burned down the church.

And all of them burned along with it.

Somewhat ironic, don’t you think that it was they, not me, who melted within its sanctuary?

DUANE

As time goes by the memory tends to fade and you might forget a few things. Important events get etched in your mind and stay fresh forever. Favorite movies and songs tend to stick. You never forget a great movie.

My favorite is Casablanca. It has that guy. You know who I mean. Classic story that imprints on your mind. I think the movie had the French and Nazis causing trouble in his bar and he had to run off.

Not only a great movie, but it has an unforgettable song. “Remember only this, your kiss is on my list…”

TOM

What You Willing TO DO?

Covid is killing churches. It’s sort of under the radar. Many were
actually just holding on by their spiritual finger tips. For years I was a
UU trustee, we had weathered major size reduction, based on the Secondary
Retirement Syndrome. You think that home in the country is your final
destination, forgive the ref, then illness settles in, bam, you’re back in
the bay area at some miscellaneous child’s back bedroom. But now the
covid has reduced membership to the single digits. People are just
drifting away; we are just fading away. Hard to watch something so hopeful
fade away.

NORVAL JOE

Billbert ran across the graass to Linoliamanda. She dropped the cat which yowled and melted away into the darkness. “Linoliamanda. What are you doing at our Air Bnb?”

She smiled. “Oh. Hi, Billbert.” She turned to his parents. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Blanketmaker. I was just looking for my cat. That’s my house across the street, next to the church.”

Mr. Withybottom stood on the front porch, his fists on his hips. “Linny. Get away from those people. If you remember only this one thing, you might live to graduate from high school, those crazy people are a bad influence.”

JARED

In the remnants of online society after the apocalyptic flame wars over food debates, the silence was broken by the call for peace: seek not for what is best or you will risk missing out on what is good.
This new online religious movement preaches a hedonism found in moderation, pleading with the remaining self-important and self-aggrandizing pedants to set aside their judgments. “Don’t yuck someone else’s yum,” they preach.
I am returned from that dark future time to forewarn you now. I plead with you to remember only this: Do not read the bottom half of the Internet.

TURA

Church; bare
———
The church in the woods was not yet a ruin, but the interior was stripped bare. “Is this… safe?” I asked. “Oh, come on,” my girlfriend said scornfully, “they can’t watch everything. They probably don’t even know this is here.”

“Not much to see,” I said. “Where did they kill and eat their god?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Well, what was it like?”

“You’re too scared to want to know,” she snapped. “When are you going to get a backbone?”

Right now, I decided. When we got home I would report her as a religionist to the Ministry of Truth.

PLANET Z

Frederick’s head injury left him a vegetable.
The only memory left in his head was the church he was found in.
A cult’s sacrifice, rescued from death by the police, but caught in the crossfire.
Holding his bleeding head in his hands, Frederick tried to scream, but nothing came out.
His surroundings fading from view, seven surgeries later, kept alive, but for all intents and purposes, gone.
Staring out the window, if you sing a hymn or read scripture, he will smile.
Put a spoon or straw in his mouth, and he will swallow.
One cruel orderly feeds him roaches.

Hard hitting

Carlos Correa is a hard-hitting shortstop for the Houston Astros.
He also gets injured a lot. Spends a lot of time on the injured list.
But most importantly, he appears on local grocery store commercials with several other Astros.
At one point, all of the players appearing in the commercials were on the injured list.
I don’t think it’s a good sales pitch to have a bunch of injured athletes peddling ice cream and steaks and other unhealthy crap.
Instead, have them peddle ice packs and bandages and the pharmacy.
Oh, and curbside delivery to save them some heavy lifting.

History sleeps

People still find bits of bone in the field.
A button here. A bit of metal there.
From a belt? The lock of a rifle, the wood rotted away?
The grass grows on and on.
Over the low, rolling hills.
The living, the veterans, the survivors, with their medals and crutches, walk over them, remembering this, pointing here and there.
Telling their wives and children what had happened.
What they had done. And what had been done to them.
As the sun sets and the moon rises, and the wolves and ghosts come out.
History sleeps, and we grow forgetful.

Making plans

Sometimes I think about the people who had made plans for last night, but never got around to them because they died.
Or the ones who made plans for this morning, but died in their sleep.
You could conclude from these observations that you should make the most of what life has to offer, and that every day is precious.
Which I do. By not making any plans.
Because a whole lot of people who make plans appear to be dying, and I plan on living for a very long time.
Of course, that’s also a plan… oh well, I’m fucked.

Magic mushroom pizza

Back when I delivered pizza, people would prank call in the strangest orders.
Hold everything but the crust. Lots of crust.
Make it square so it will fit the box.
Use seven of those little plastic stands to keep the lid from sticking to the cheese.
That kind of thing.
“Your mushrooms,” asked a caller, “are they magic?”
Yes. Yes they are.
Sometimes, they spell out things, like LOUSY TIPPER or FAT FUCK.
Honestly, we just scatter them on the pizza before we put it in the oven.
Must be magic or something.
You fat fuck who gives lousy tips.