Category: My stories

They say that good fences make good neighbors.
So, would the best fence make the best neighbor?
I bought the best fence on the market and had it professionally installed.
I was shocked that the neighbors complained.
Unlike their cheap wooden fences, I had spared no expense with my fence.
Twelve feet high, with sustainably-sourced electricity flowing through it.
And powering the motion-sensing spotlights.
Topped with the finest stainless steel razor wire.
There’s no pleasing some people.
I raised the drawbridge and ordered the household help to boil pitch and tar on the stove.
In case the ungrateful riff-raff returned.

When I get stressed, I do chores.
It’s my mind’s way of trying to find order in the chaos.
To stave off the entropy, just to keep my hands busy.
Vacuuming the carpet, washing the dishes and putting them away.
Running a few loads of laundry, putting things in the drawers or hanging them up in the right order.
Tee shirts, overshirts… sorted by color, of course.
Pairing socks. Even though they are all the same.
But especially the bed, getting that top sheet and the pillow cases and the fitted sheets in place.
And the litterboxes, fresh and neat.

It used to be that the vehicles in a theme park’s dark ride were along a conveyor belt, and they ran continuously.
You walk on to a moving pathway, step in the vehicle, and ride along.
Then when the ride was over, step out to another moving pathway and exit.
Then came semi-independent vehicles running on an electric power rail on the track.
Finally, engineers designed and built fully independent vehicles that roamed around and recharged at stopping points.
People were amazed and thrilled at the innovation.
Then they left the park, got in their cars, and drove back home.

If you rub a lamp, a genie will come out and grant you three wishes.
If you rub a vase, a demon will come out and grant you three wishes.
If you rub a top, a goblin will come out and grant you three wishes.
If you rub a wind chime, a ghost will come out and grant you three wishes.
If you rub a spring, a water nymph will come out and flop on the shore until it suffocates.
Or you can push it back into the water. So it can breathe again. And then grant you three wishes.

In 30 years, Beethoven lived in 35 different places.
Sometimes, it was the weather.
Other times, it was the neighbors.
It was always something:
The landlord didn’t let him hang things on the wall.
The lease required a pet deposit.
The bedroom had an east-facing window and he preferred to sleep in.
He was always breaking leases and losing deposits and driving realtors batty.
Not to mention the post office, which never knew where to forward his mail.
He’d send out compositions, and when the sponsor would send them back, they’d travel all around Germany, chasing their creator for months.

After the great war, when food was scarce, the bakers made the hungry full.
When the city was rebuilt and society thrived, the bakers had to make the full hungry again.
They tried fancier and fancier foods.
Enticing shoppers with colorful and amazing presentations.
Aromas that struck the nose and captured the imagination.
And when that wasn’t enough, well, the bakers started a riot… which led to a civil war.
And after that civil war, when food was scarce again, the bakers came out of their bunkers, loaded their ovens with scrapwood from the ruins, and made the hungry full.

The drive-ins have been dying out since The Sixties.
Killed off by movie theaters, which have been dying out since the new century.
No matter what the perks: stadium seating, fancy gourmet dinners, IMAX screens.
VHS, cable, DVD, Blu-Ray, streaming.
They were already ending the old way of doing things.
So when the virus hit, theaters were closed, some people thought drive-ins would come back.
Stay in your car and watch the movies in a social way.
Instead, people stayed home to watch.
The studios held back new releases.
But people didn’t care.
They just watched the old classics instead.

Every year, work gives away hoodies to the staff.
I don’t wear hoodies.
And even if I did, these hoodies are never black.
I look good in black, so I only wear black.
So, they sent out a new hoodie this year, and I opened the box and put it on the floor.
Tinny the cat got in it and used it as a cat bed.
“You don’t want it?” work asks.
“I want it,” I say. “As a cat bed.”
“Does it not fit?” work asks.
“The cat fits perfectly,” I say.
And I smile and watch her sleep.

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.