Category: My stories

I’m not impressed with a lot of forms of pride.
Especially when it’s pride in an attribute and not an accomplishment.
In the end, most “pride” is about genital attributes.
Their color, their size.
Where your ancestors’ genitals came from.
Or if you’ve had them surgically altered for whatever reason, including an edict from God.
Unless you did it yourself. Then, okay… that’s impressive.
Pride in who or what you like to stick your genitals in or in your genitals is your business, really.
Done it with a few thousand people?
Then you should get checked for herpes right now.

The cyclone hit around midnight.
Winds. Lightning. Tornadoes.
Floods and fires.
A storm surge rolled across the city, smashing buildings and dragging debris out to sea.
Thousands died, thousands more missing and presumed dead.
Hospitals filled up, the bloody and broken spilled out in parking lots.
Bodies laid out in plastic, survivors walking along the rows to identify the dead.
Two couples, arguing over the smashed-up body of a child.
Both claiming it as their own. Shouting and screaming.
A nearby crewman with a chainsaw, clearing debris and fallen trees, chops it in half and orders them all to leave.

They say that Edwin Block didn’t write any of his stories, and that’s true, to a degree.
Edwin would sit at the bar and ramble for hours about things, and Martin the Barkeep wrote everything down he heard.
He couldn’t keep up, so he got a tape recorder, handing the tapes to his wife to transcribe.
Martin got the stories published, and kept the money.
“Edwin only drinks the good stuff, and that’s not cheap.”
After Edwin died, Martin tried to groom other drunks to take his place, but it wasn’t the same.
At least they drank the cheap stuff.

There are ten villages in the Storytellers’ Circuit, one Storyteller for each.
At the end of the year, they load up their wagons and head to the next village.
That way, their stories don’t become old, and they learn new tales from each village they visit.
Usually, the Storytellers arrive within a few days.
But if the Storyteller never arrives, or one dies during his residency, a contest is held in that village.
And a new Storyteller is appointed.
Their forehead branded with The Mark.
And they tell their stories.
Until the year is up, and they begin their journey.

Lonnie wrote books, and they were a modest success.
The movies adapted from them were a bigger success than his books.
Box office, awards…
They paid well, but it bothered Lonnie that people preferred to watch others interpretations of his stories than his actual stories.
So, he hired the writer who adapted his books for movies to polish up his next book.
It sold well, as well as the others, but the movie ruled the box office for months, swept the Golden Globes and Oscars.
Lonnie bought a bookstore and retired, signing books for fans, refusing to sign movie posters.

Gymnastics is a nasty, ugly sport.
So many injuries, so many child molesters among the trainers and coaches.
And yet, mothers allow their daughters to participate in this body and psyche wrecking sport.
All for what? Trophies? Medals? Ribbons?
A documentary or two, a book?
I know Mary Lou Retton had a television show. For PBS.
The black chick who quit at the Olympics scored a DoorDash commercial.
And another girl is in a GEICO commercial.
She jumps on the roof and grabs a frisbee for some dumbass stoners.
Forget gymnastics. Spend those free hours studying math, science, and engineering.

I’m not close to my family.
I don’t even think of them as my family or family anymore.
They’re just people.
So, every now and then, I get word somehow that something happens.
A wedding. A baby. A hospital stay. A funeral.
And then they ask “How are you?” out of habit.
I just say “Fine.”
Nothing about the job or cats or my health or my writing.
Sometimes, I’ll get a Kickstarter invite to fundraise funeral expenses or something.
‘Why should I pay for a show I won’t get to see?” I write back.
And close the browser tab.

It has been a long time since I last made a snowman.
Of course, people in tropics and deserts who have never made a snowman.
Or seen snow.
In Dubai, they’re so rich, there’s a park with snow machines and a ski slope.
People pay to build snowmen and have snowball fights.
One kid said that his snowman was the Prophet Mohammed.
The crowd tore him apart for the blasphemy.
The park was closed for an hour as a foreign labor crew gathered up the carnage and bloody snow.
Then, the winter wonderland was open for business again.
Such fun!

Every time I go to Walmart, some chick gets in my way and tries to sell me on a new phone plan or internet provider or electricity contract.
“Who is your electricity provider?” she asks.
“I make my own,” I say and walk past her.
“Solar?”
“Pig shit,” I say. “Just like Mad Max.”
“Does that midget get annoying with all the Embargo talk?” she responds.
I stop. “Yeah. Can you fix that?”
“Pay better than eight an hour?”
“With medical, dental, and 401k.”
I had to throw in a chainmail dress and a crossbow, but it was worth it.

I’m used to the window screens falling to the patio.
The kid that lives upstairs knocks those out all the time.
When I hear running and stomping and yelling, I know a window screen is about to drop.
But when a baby fell to the patio, that was odd.
“Bozhe bozhe bozhe!”
The mother came running down, I had a pen and paper and the phone set to translate from Russian.
She had me call her husband. They ran off to the clinic. Baby’s fine.
For now. Because, who knows, right?
Should I lay out pillows for the next time?