Category: My stories

It’s been seventy years since I last went home.
So much has changed. I don’t recognize the place.
Back then, it was just one main street of a few brick stores, all surrounded by farms and houses.
Now it’s a freeway and offices and franchises of everything.
The farms stopped raising corn and wheat, pushing up one final crop of subdivisions and retirement homes.
It’s just like everywhere else these days.
If it weren’t for the Welcome sign, I wouldn’t know where I was.
Where did the spirit of home go?
Covered by concrete and lights and conformist modern life.

Carter soaked up languages like a sponge.
In a day, he was following along in a conversation.
In a week, you could hardly believe he wasn’t born there.
Pretty soon, Carter spoke every language.
There was nothing hidden from his ear.
But he couldn’t read a word.
Except for the wind.
He did his best to listen to the breathing of the world.
But it never spoke to him.
He swore he almost understood what it was saying.
Just barely out of his reach, almost there.
Not quite, but he knew it was saying something.
Like whispers from far away.

One network showed the lightweight fights.
One network showed the middleweight fights.
One network showed the heavyweight fights.
Whatever the network, whatever the fight… the mob got their cut.
You punch. You get punched.
You move around a bit.
Put a guy on the ropes, get put on the ropes.
When it’s your round, you go down.
Because if you don’t go down, well, you’ve got family.
And you can’t watch them all the time.
The phone stops ringing. No more fights.
They tie you to cinderblocks and throw you in a lake.
From lightweight to heavyweight, the mobsters joke.

I really like Vegetarian burritos.
Well, okay. Some makers call them wraps. But they’re really burritos.
They’re healthy, for the most part.
The ones with plant-based fake meats and fake cheese have gotten pretty good, too.
And simple to heat up in the microwave.
Just toss it in, hit the Burrito button, and wait for the beeps.
The next day, I find the burrito sitting there in the microwave when I’m putting in a mug full of soup.
Oh. Right. I forgot the burrito.
I put it on my shopping list again.
As I forget about the soup in there.

Have you seen Arthur?
No? Where did Arthur go?
Did he leave a note?
Is anything missing from his place?
His car? A suitcase? Clothes and other things he’d need for travel?
Can you check his mail?
Or did he forward it, or have a hold put on it?
What about Find Your Friends? Have you got permissions to track his phone?
Are his bills getting paid? Or strange credit card charges appearing?
What about someone watering his lawn and plants?
Oh, that’s on a timer.
Maybe Arthur will show up tomorrow. Or the next day.
From wherever he went.

It is international pie day.
What is my favorite pie?
Chicken pot pie, of course.
I like it a lot more than any other pie.
Especially in a pie fight.
Cream pies don’t do squat to an opponent.
A piping hot chicken pot pie will surprise the crap out of them as well as scald their eyes.
If the fight only allows cream pies, then cover the chicken pot pie with cream.
Yes, I know. That sounds disgusting.
Whipped cream and chicken do not mix.
But if you’re throwing the pies, it’s not like you have to taste it, right?

The artist has had many assistants.
Some answered his mail.
Others made meals and cleaned.
Pushing him around in his wheelchair.
Carrying him up and down the stairs.
Some modeled for him.
While a few summoned the demons to bring inspiration.
No, that isn’t metaphorical.
They literally summoned demons.
Candles in a circle. A dish with a blood offering.
You know, the usual.
Make a sacrifice, a demon appears, and make some art.
Sending the demons back, that’s the hard part.
That’s why you leave it to an assistant.
And how it’s so hard to keep good help these days.

During the power outage, I gathered up all the lanterns and candles.
I even pulled out some menorah candles that I hadn’t used up.
You’re not supposed to use a menorah for light or heat, but the candles themselves are fine, right?
I decided to try it out by putting some menorah candles in a shot glass and lighting them.
And they gave off plenty of light and heat to read by.
As they were burning out, I picked up the shot glass.
And burned my thumb, raising a blister.
Maybe that’s God’s way of saying “I don’t think so.”

I bought a stack of spiral-bound notebooks with the hope of writing stories out on the patio.
But I haven’t written anything at all.
So, I tore out a sheet of paper, wadded it up, and threw it into a flowerpot.
I wadded up a few more sheets of paper and shot baskets.
Maybe I should get a tablet to write on?
Or a laptop?
So, I went to the store and picked up a basic Chromebook.
I turned it on, got everything loaded, and watched the screen for a while.
It ended up as a backboard for the flowerpot.

My spirit animal is Jack Daniels.
Well, it was Jack Daniels.
Then my doctor told me to swear off all alcohol.
Might have to do with my liver issues.
Triglycerides through the roof.
And the kidney stones that come from grain alcohol.
So, I gave it up, and I was left without a spirit animal.
Can your cat be a spirit animal?
Or does it have to be an actual spirit animal?
Like when after a cat dies.
Thinking about this too much gives me a headache.
I want to drink.
This is why my spirit animal was Jack Daniels.