Author: R.

More likely

I’m sure that you’ve heard that a handgun is more likely to kill a family member than a burglar.
But what if the family member is a burglar?
In that case, I think it’s perfectly okay to kill them.
Especially if they’re going to rob my house.
It’s perfectly fine to kill them if they’ve just come home from robbing my house, too.
Hopefully, the police who show up to investigate the shooting will realize that the van in the driveway is full of stolen goods.
And not believe the bullshit story that they were in the middle of moving.

Angry

Aristotle said that it is easy for anyone to become angry, but knowing the right person, reason, time, and degree are not easy.
Somehow, Plato always knew.
“Why are you always in that dark cave?” shouted Plato.
Aristotle tried to hide something behind his back, but Plato shook the boy until a set of geometric forms fell to the ground.
“Those are mine!” growled Plato.
“They belong to Pythagoras!” whined Aristotle.
“I was respectful to my teacher,” said Plato.
“Oh, sure,” retorted Aristotle. “He probably drank the hemlock so he wouldn’t have to teach you anymore.”
Plato slapped Aristotle hard.

Trust of a cat

I never sleep well.
Myst pesters me when I try to sleep.
Pawing my face, claws out, biting my hands and toes.
I have bad dreams.
Too many hypocrites out there.
Making their way in.
With all their noise.
The bed’s too warm.
Sweating and reeking.
When I wake up, I lay on the sofa.
Tinny sniffs and headbutts me to check if I’m okay.
She finds a spot on my shoulder.
Settles in.
Grooms her fur for a few minutes.
Closes her eyes.
She trusts me.
And then she stops, tucks up, and sleeps.
That’s good enough for me.

Weekly Challenge #692 – PEER

Sofa baby panther

LIZZIE

Those bags looked interesting, he thought. He walked closer, watching the passengers, checking if anyone was keeping an eye on them. Nope. He sat next to them. Vintage. He could sell them for a nice amount, plus all the clothes inside, perhaps even a computer. As he walked away, he felt something wiggling inside one of them. He hid behind a building and opened it slowly. The clothes were moving. The moment he decided to close the bag and leave it behind, something jumped from underneath and bit him on the face. His last words were “Curiosity killed the thief”.

RICHARD

Night terrors

You awake suddenly: Your sleep disturbed by an unexpected noise in the silence of the night.

Straining to hear, the only sound is the thumping of your own heart and the white noise of an empty house.

You peer into the darkness, eyes wide, your fevered imagination turning shadows into demons; unfamiliar shapes into unwelcome intruders.

Silence. Darkness. A void into which your primal fears creep, disturbing and all too real.

You’re on edge, even though logic says there’s nothing to fear. You force yourself to relax.

Then, terror! As a warm, heavy mass thuds onto your chest!

Bloody cat!

SERENDIPIDY

The great thing with having a hole in the fence, conveniently situated at eye level is people can’t resist peeping through; especially when the fence surrounds the house at the end of the street that spawns all those whispered rumours.

However, there’s little to see – an overgrown patch of land, a child’s rusty swing, that’s about it.

At least that’s all that you’ll register before you learn why you should never peer through holes in the fence around the house at the end of the street.

And the last thing you’ll see?

The crossbow, aimed precisely at your eyeball.

TURA

Peer
———
Someone had driven dangerously, but who? The self-aware, self-employed, self-driving taxi, or the passenger who had ordered such haste? The passenger blamed the car, which surprisingly agreed, contested the charge, and insisted on trial by a jury of its peers.

But who is the peer of a sentient taxi? Eventually, it was tried by a human jury, but precedent was set.

And now, pretty much anything with a brain, whatever it’s made of, is equal before the law— but perhaps not for long. With robots getting smarter, the question must soon be asked, are humans still the equal of robots?

NORVAL JOE

Billbert lay on his back and closed his eyes, breathing slowly, waiting for the pain in his stomach to pass. He heard someone approach and stop beside him. He opened his eyes to peer at the students towering above him, hoping to see a familiar, friendly face. He recognized none from the group of peers crowding around him.

A boy pointed at him. “Dude. What happened to you?”

Billbert slowly drew in a breath to explain, but stopped when he heard a familiar voice from outside the circle of students.

“Billbert. Is that you?” Linoliumanda pushed through the gawking bystanders.

PLANET Z

I’m a good writer.
But I still make mistakes.
So, everything I write gets peer reviewed.
That way, someone else can catch my mistakes.
Then, I can produce even better writing.
The peer review is meant to be covering my blind spot for mistakes.
But someimes, I feel hunted. In the spotlight. Attacked.
Any mistake I make is that much worse.
Which makes me nervous, so I make even more mistakes.
But that’s okay. I can be as sloppy as I want to be.
Someone else will catch the mistakes.
Until… it’s time for me to peer review someone else.

Birdfeeder

We have a big bird feeder in the back yard.
We fill it with bird seed, and so many birds come to eat the bird seed.
So many different kinds of birds. So many colors.
I have a spotters guide and binoculars, and I keep a diary of the birds I see.
I figured out that kinds of seed attracts different kinds of birds.
Every now and then, a hawk swoops down and grabs a bird at the feeder.
Which, I suppose, is okay, since it is a bird feeder.
It’s just attracting birds to feed to other birds.

The Tree Of Liberty

They say that the Tree of Liberty needs to be watered occasionally with the blood of patriots.
Not that rioters who are burning down businesses and smashing cars should be mistaken for patriots.
They’re just violent jerks, and when they destroy other people’s property and livelihoods, they’re not bleeding on the Tree Of Liberty.
They’re pissing on it.
Well, on the rare occasion, they do bleed on it.
When they throw rocks and molotovs at the cops, and get their heads beaten in.
That’s when they scream about police brutality, and for their mommies and daddies to bail them out.

The Ash

Cut the wire on the gates and push them open.
Look around.
Over there, you see the piles of shoes.
Over there, you see the piles of suitcases.
Over there, you see the piles of eyeglasses.
Over there, and there.
So many piles.
Clothes. Hats. Belts.
And bodies. Piles and piles of bodies.
Men. Women.
Children.
There is a fine grey ash over everything.
Run your finger through it.
It’s the ones they burned in the ovens.
Up the smokestacks they went.
Into the air.
And they drifted, and settled down.
On the piles. On the ground. And on everything.

So many angry people

So many hateful, angry people.
And people angry at those people.
It’s best not to say anything, really.
No good will come from it.
There is no common ground anymore.
It’s just a No Man’s Land, and nothing lives there.
Throwing insults. Throwing rocks.
So much hate.
The only thing you can do.
Is to sell slings to both sides.
They can scrounge up the rocks themselves.
Find some cover, and wait for the noise to die down.
Gather up the slings from the fallen.
Fix them up, and sell them all over again.
And again. And again. And again.

Burgers Again

Hamburger patties sizzling on the stove.
Can you smell that?
Slicing up the pickles as the buns heat up in the toaster.
I like to warm my hands over them.
Just a dab of mustard, not too much.
Flip the burgers, and then put on the cheese so it melts a little.
On to the buns they go.
But it needs… something more.
Mushrooms? I open a can of mushrooms, toss them into the pan, and sprinkle on red wine and butter.
Stir them up, let them simmer, until they dry out and pop.
Now that’s what I call dinner.

I think I’ll add mushrooms

I bought some hamburger meat and buns at the store to make hamburgers for dinner.
We’ve already got cheese, mustard, and pickles at home.
I toasted the buns in the toaster while the burgers cooked in a skillet.
When the buns were ready, I put cheese and mustard on them, and then sliced up pickles to lay on top.
When the burgers were ready, I thought “I think I’ll add some mushrooms.”
I opened a can, dumped it in the pan, and splashed on red wine vinegar and butter.
Everything in life needs that “I think I’ll add mushrooms moment.”