Category: My stories

The girl next door had some kind of immune disorder.
She was homeschooled and worked on her model train set.
I saw it once. I had to put on a surgical mask and gloves.
She showed me every detail… the town, the forest, the Polish death camp.
The boxcars full of the condemned.
“I like the History Channel,” she said, using a magnifying lens to show the detail on the barbed-wire fences.
After she died, her family gave the train set to the local Holocaust museum.
They put it out on display, but without Hitler’s speeches playing in a loop.

Emily’s patients loved her so much, they didn’t ever want to leave the hospital.
They’d hide from the orderlies with the wheelchairs and discharge papers.
Or, even worse, they’d hurt themselves just so they could stay.
Emily needed to clear the beds before the administration cracked down, so she brought in a tattoo artist.
“Every day you stay, we’re tattooing a Hello Kitty on your ass,” she said. “When we run out of ass, they go on your face.”
All of the patients checked out that day.
Except one. Who loved Hello Kitty.
She was moved to the psych ward.

When I got home, there were hundreds of messages on my machine.
One by one, people congratulating me. Way to go. You did it.
It felt good, but I had no idea what they were congratulating me for.
Nobody actually said what it was.
Just congratulations. Well done. You finally made it.
And then came the condolences.
Oh, we’re so sorry. It will be okay. Better luck next time.
Some people were crying, begging for me to call them back to let them know I’m alright.
The next morning, I had my number changed, and I went back to work.

Recently, I had two teeth pulled and replaced with implants.
Just as condemned killers get a final meal on death row, I gave my teeth a final meal on their last day.
It was a packet of caramel chocolates. The gooiest, stickiest, sweetest I could find.
The loose teeth in their sockets were excruciating, but after serving me for almost fifty years, I figured I’d let them have their moment.
Even pondered going to the mall for some rhinestones or bling so they could go out in style.
But even a condemned tooth needs to maintain its dignity, I feel.

Fred liked to throw money around.
No, he didn’t give it away to people.
He just threw it around.
After he threw it around, he’d collect it all up.
If any of it was missing, he’d shake people down for it.
Literally shake people down.
As in shake them violently, sometimes picking them up by the ankles, turning them over, and shaking them.
He’d then toss them aside, count up the money, and take only what he was missing. Not a penny more.
Fred may have been a bully and a braggart, but at least he was an honest one.

It’s eighteen miles to Denver as the crow flies.
It’s also eighteen miles to Denver as the crow walks.
Or drives. Or rides a bus. Or rides a bicycle.
Why don’t I say it’s eighteen miles to Denver and leave out the crow reference?
I don’t know. It just sounds better that way.
Makes me sound like a country boy.
I guess if I wanted to sound like an Australian, I’d say 18 miles as the kangaroo hops.
Except that they use metric down there.
Do they have crows down there?
And how far is it from there to Denver?

There’s a show coming up soon.
I was the first in line for a ticket.
I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
That evening, outside the theatre, a man in a black cloak offered me the world.
“For your ticket,” he grinned.
I thought about it for a bit.
“Nah,” I said, going into the theatre.
He ended up giving someone else the world for their ticket.
Unbridled chaos may have reigned outside the theatre, but inside, I enjoyed the performance.
“Good, isn’t it?” said the man in the black cloak.
“Shhhh,” I hissed. “I’m trying to watch the show.”

She felt the cool grass on her back, the warmth of the sun.
Slowing gliding her hand, feeling every blade bending with her fingers.
The pain was gone. All of it.
Holding up her hand, her smooth skin.
Young again.
Sitting up, looking around at the low rolling hills, the soothing blue sky.
Trees in the distance, and a river winding through the hills.
Elysium.
She would go to the river and drink and swim and laugh, releasing all her memory and fear and pain to the water.
And be free from everything forever in an endless, blissful, eternal dance.

In my younger days, I played the field.
Once, I was fought over by identical twins.
It was impossible to tell them apart.
Believe me, I checked everywhere, and in every respect, they looked and sounded and acted the same.
Well, except for one.
One had a knife. One had a gun.
“Come on, Marie!” I said to the girl with the gun pointed at me. “Let’s talk about this!”
“Dammit, I’m Wendy!” she said.
Wendy had taken Marie’s gun, I guess.
Or was it Marie, I thought, as the bullet hit my chest and I fell to the floor.

It was the cruelty of it all.
A robot girl who thought she was real.
She thought. She felt.
And she hurt.
Because all around her, over the years, everything had changed.
Everything she knew was gone.
She’d outlasted all she knew.
She’d outlasted all she loved.
Until nothing was left but her memories.
Those never faded. They were always with her.
At first, they were a comfort.
When everything around her was so strange.
And became stranger.
Then, she felt… haunted.
And then the pain.
Alone in time.
Always alone.
Sitting in the museum, staring at nothing.
And remembering.