Category: My stories

Allen has Perfect Pitch.
Well, he calls it Absolute Pitch.
Musicians and experts tend to call it that instead of the pedestrian term Perfect Pitch.
He can hear a sound and tell you what note on the scale it is.
That coffee mug is a B flat.
That siren is a C sharp.
That woman is screaming in a high A.
And that explosion is… well… after the bright flash and shock wave and the wall of flame, Allen can’t tell us what its note was.
I think the Geiger Counter clicks a D.
But I don’t have Perfect Pitch.

I know a guy named Harry.
He hates his name.
As a kid, everyone called him Hairy Harry.
Or, when he started carrying a knife and threatening to cut out everyone’s eyes, Scary Hairy.
The song “I’m so wild about Harry” would drive Harry wild.
I guess he wasn’t so wild about me.
Even tried to kill me when I sang it.
For that, he was put in jail.
He was delighted to know he’d only be known as an inmate number.
No more teasing.
Until he got his number
8765309.
He killed his first cellmate for calling him Jenny.

Long ago, this was a forest.
Then, settlers came and cut down the trees.
And they planted crops.
They held barn-raisings and had square dances.
Then came movies and the radio and cars.
Every barn had a side painted white to show movies off of.
When the sun went down and all the work done, it was time.
And the people gathered together and watched.
And they laughed and they cried, held each other when they were scared.
It’s hard to find a place like that anymore, but if you look, you’ll find it.
And you’ll never want to leave.

I suffer from a lot of wax in my ear canals.
So, yeah, I dig down deep with the Q-tips.
Lots of gunk comes out.
Even though you’re only supposed to swab them around the earlobe.
I’ve tried all kinds of oils and chemicals and weird devices, but none seem to work better than swabs.
I try to be careful, but every now and then… I make a mistake and end up in the ER.
They lecture me about it, give me more useless potions and bad advice.
What do you expect when they have Q-tips with even longer sticks.

Bruce asked that his ashes be spread on the mountain he used to climb.
He also asked that his ashes be spread on his high school’s football field where he used to play.
Then there was the fishing hole at the farm he spent a few summers. He wanted his ashes to go there, too.
There was a long list of places he wanted his ashes spread.
Too many places… Bruce was a small man, mind you.
So we tossed in a few extra two-by-fours and filled him out, portioned out the bags, and sent him on his final adventures.

When Arthur isn’t performing, it’s as if he didn’t exist.
He just sits there, listening and watching.
If you say hello to him, he’ll smile and say hello back.
Maybe with a little wave.
Ask him anything, and he’ll think for a minute, maybe say “Let me think about it. I’ll get back to you on that.”
And go back to sitting there quietly.
He’ll drink and eat, and will say “This is good.” if asked about it.
But that’s pretty much it.
Sitting at home, reading scripts his agent sends him, and saving his energy for the next performance.

All summer long, the ants gathered up food and supplies to prepare for the winter.
The grasshoppers, on the other hand, danced and sang and played.
When winter came, the grasshoppers tried to forage, but often failing and freezing to death.
The cicadas buried themselves in tree roots, emerging every few years to mate, lay eggs, and die.
Such a safe, boring life.
Meanwhile, the cockroaches scuttled around in buildings and dumpsters, feasting on the trash of humanity.
Sure, a few were stuck in glue traps or ate poison pellets, but for the most part, they led a good life.

Long ago, pilgrims would travel to visit the cathedral.
They would buy tiny metal badges to pin to their clothes.
These were proof that the pilgrim had visited the cathedral.
People would touch the badges, thinking any miracles or blessings would pass to them as well.
Now, it’s tourists visiting the cathedral.
They buy trinkets and souvenirs at the stores around the cathedral.
Little framed stained glass windows.
Things that end up getting lost, or breaking in their luggage during the flight home.
And the real miracles, the few trinkets that survive the trip, to gather dust on a shelf.

I have a lot of books. Too many books.
All of the walls are covered with bookshelves, and all of the bookshelves are full.
Stacks and stacks of books.
I tried to sell some excess books to a half-price store, but I ended up buying even more books there.
I thought I could give them away to schools, but they don’t want any.
And my garage sale ended up with even more books dumped on my table than I sold.
I built a lending library frame and was about to fill it with books, but neighbors already filled the thing.

This story marks seventeen years of writing and podcasting.

A great king once said that he’d rather use his purse, not his sword.
The saying suggests that it’s better to negotiate than to fight.
But the truth is, that king ran into battle armed with a purse.
He’d fill it with gold coins and beat enemy’s soldiers over the head with it.
Sometimes, the purse would burst, and coins will spill everywhere, and the enemy’s solders would scramble for the coins.
Which made it easier for the king to beat them over the head.
With the empty purse. Rather ineffective and silly.
The king shrugged and drew his sword.