Category: My stories

I’ve lived in this complex for twenty years.
At the end of the street, there’s a corner convenience store.
They sell the basics: beer, milk, candy, and chips.
They used to sell gas, but they had the pumps removed.
Back in the day, the place just looked run-down, but now, it’s downright seedy.
I walked down there for a jug of milk, and it was closed… not just for the holiday, but closed.
A truck and trailer out front, filled with wood and debris.
Peering through the window, the place had been gutted.
Oh well. I’ll have my coffee black.

The song says that in Heaven, there is no beer.
There’s wine and whiskey and ouzo, and pretty much everything else, but there is no beer.
You can’t even smuggle it in. The angels will catch you and confiscate the beer.
Do the angels drink it?
No, they pour it out in the street.
That’s why we sneak out at night.
There are a bunch of breweries and bars right outside the gates of Heaven.
And because we’re already on the list, we can get back in again.
Even though St. Peter always goes “You look familiar.”
And he winks.

Let the punishment match the sin, says God.
We, the punishers, keep a list of sins.
And their matching punishments.
With social and technological advances come new sins.
And new punishments.
We catalog them all, and debate new opportunities for each sin and punishment.
Some sins are not as sinful these days, meriting lesser punishments.
And with various medicines and surgeries, remedies can be employed in the place of punishments.
And for the greatest sins of all, we just leave them be.
Encased in glass for all to see.
The memory of their sin and its consequences is punishment enough.

We couldn’t afford our own baby, so we bought a used one on eBaby.
It arrived in a box, preassembled.
The instructions said to put a layer of paper towels on a baking sheet, and to warm it up in an open oven at minimum temperature for 10 minutes.
We set the timer, and ten minutes later, we heard the baby’s cry as we pulled out the baking sheet.
That’s when we noticed… we’d forgotten a step. An important step.
After five minutes, turn the baby over.
Oh well. Maybe we can trade it in for another. Or a puppy.

Rico was King of Salsa Dancing, but he only had enough sequins to put KING OF SALSA on his jacket.
He started a dance school, King’s Salsa School, and taught couples how to Salsa dance.
Rico ran afoul of Jack, King of Salsa.
The condiment, not the dance.
Jack didn’t have a jacket with sequins on it.
Instead, he had sold his company to a major food conglomerate, and they had a lot of attorneys.
Bankrupted, Rico had to close his school and stick to posting lessons through YouTube videos.
After that, the bitter man only ate chips with queso.

Mommy warned me that if I made a face, it would freeze that way.
“For the last time,” said Mommy. “Don’t do it.”
So, I made a face.
Mommy saw it, and she picked up her remote and clicked Freeze.
I was unable to move. Mommy had frozen me in place.
I could still see. And think.
And feel Mommy’s screwdriver removing the screws from my faceplate.
She pulled it off, disconnected the power and sensor cable, and set my face on the shelf.
“I warned you,” said Mommy, shoving my body into the closet and slamming the door shut.

Three Laws Safe.
You see that sticker on every robot we sell.
It’s not only our motto, but it’s the law.
If a robot causes so much as a scratch or a stubbed toe, we take it to the shop and tear it down.
Bad programming? Corrupt files?
A bit flip, caused by a cosmic ray?
Those used to happen a lot.
A one flipped to a zero can cause all kinds of mayhem.
So we put in triple error-checking. Everything runs three times.
Two out of three calculations wins the argument.
Comic rays don’t strike twice, or, do they?

The artist signs her name as Mary O’Net.
Strings attached to her arms and legs and head lead into a hole in the ceiling.
She moves in the most imprecise way, as if those strings control her.
Her eyes don’t seem to blink.
She doesn’t seem to breathe.
The most brilliant mime alive, she is.
But… is she alive?
I hold her wrist, and feel no pulse.
I hold a mirror to her face, and there is no breath.
She falls to the floor, completely limp.
“Who are you!” I shout at the ceiling.
Nobody responds.
I sit in silence.

It used to be that movies were shot on film, and the directors rushed daily copies for review by the studios.
They’d take multiple takes, and either pick out the best or reshoot.
Then Jerry Lewis came up with video assist, and they had an instant method of assessing a shot or performance.
More and more innovations came about, making it easier for the studio and director to assess the performances, to the point where they could determine a hit or a bomb from the pitch meeting.
Every pitch was a determined to be a bomb, and the industry collapsed.