Category: My stories

“What is the point of anger? While you raise your voice, your enemy will raise his gun.”
Our leader, our prophet tells us this.
As we gather in the basement under our compound.
Filling old coke bottles with gasoline.
Sticking rags in them.
“Shoot first. Shoot often. Shoot before your enemy knows you’re going to shoot.”
Handing out candles and bottles to the children.
“Get up close with the lit candles. Then light the rags and throw.”
They won’t dare shoot children.
Knives and guns are easy to spot.
But kids wearing white holding candles?
We’ll watch the enemy burn.

We were together for so long, we barely knew each other anymore.
She wasn’t the person I thought she was.
And I wasn’t the person she thought I was.
Somewhere, those two people, the ones we thought we were, maybe they’re together.
While we’re here, not together anymore.
Maybe they think about us. Like I think about them.
And her.
But when I think of her, I think of the person I thought she was.
And I have to remind myself of who she really is.
Only then can I finally move on with my life.
And truly be myself.

Every night at the dinner table, Hank thumps his chest and proudly says “Because of the cars I build, someone’s coming home alive to their family that wouldn’t come home in any other car!”
Hank couldn’t afford a car he’d built. He drove a cheaper, less safe model.
So when he got into a wreck, he was killed instantly.
The other driver survived just fine. He had been driving a car that Hank had built.
Hank had a life insurance policy, so his wife was taken care of, his kids got to college.
And neither got a job building cars.

So, the story is. I lost a lot of weight.
I bought new pants and shorts and shirts and underwear.
Then, I donated the fat stuff.
Turns out, I donated some of the slim stuff too.
I had to buy some more pants and shorts and shirts and underwear.
An expensive mistake, but some homeless dude is walking around with some new pants, shorts, shirts, and underwear now.
It all balances out in the end. Chalk it up to a good deed.
But if I see him walking around, yeah, I’m running his ass over and taking my shit back.

A friend’s mom is terminally ill.
He’s constantly asking on social media for people to pray for her.
Calls it “The Prayer Army.”
So, I asked if there’s a Prayer Navy.
“What about a Prayer Air Force?” I asked. “That’s a good name for angels, isn’t it? Prayer Air Force? And Prayer rhymes with Air.”
Then there’s the Prayer Navy, Prayer Marines, Prayer Coast Guard.
Of course, the people who don’t believe and refuse to pray, they’re the Prayer Conscientious Objectors.
They have to flee to Canada or they’ll get arrested for refusing to serve in the Prayer Military.
Cowards.

Tinny the cat likes to sleep on my shoulder.
When I am not around, she likes to sleep in my laundry pile.
Because it smells like me.
Sometimes, when I am around, she sleeps in the laundry pile.
Maybe it smells more like me than I do?
Or perhaps I smell too much like me?
I do eat a lot of onions and garlic.
And my farts are wicked horrible.
But then my laundry pile will smell like them, too, right?
Maybe I should eat so much garlic and so many onions.
And I should do my laundry more often.

Did you hear the news about Dr. Blake?
You didn’t? That’s odd. It’s all over the news.
Top story everywhere.
Even on the Walter Smith Channel.
You know, the channel that’s dedicated to news about Walter Smith.
But this one time, they went with news about someone other than Walter Smith.
That’s how important it was.
“Coming up, our top story: Dr. Blake.” the anchor said.
Then they cut to a commercial.
Instead of telling us what’s so important, they tease it.
And then it turns out to be nothing.
This is why I read the Walter Smith newspaper instead.

We bought a new microwave.
The old one was okay, but it’s twenty years old and lower-wattage.
And all the food out there is for higher-wattage microwaves.
The beeps are quieter, too.
It’s easier to clean.
Just wipe with a paper towel.
Of course, the old one was easy to clean, too.
Until I missed a week of cleaning it.
And another.
Then, the caked-on grunge wasn’t so easy to clean anymore.
Instead of cleaning it, I got a new microwave.
What? You want me to clean the car?
Maybe it’s time that I should get a new car, too.

The first performers in Hollywood were actors and actresses.
But some became stars.
And some of the stars became superstars.
Meanwhile, in the background, there were the extras.
Were there star extras? Superstar extras? Or superextras?
No.
Same with character actors. Nobody ever became a star character actor or superstar character extra.
Or, if you prefer, supercharacter.
The ultimate role being the cameo, of course.
Superstars so super, they can be themselves and not have to act or do anything.
Just be there and be themselves.
No more acting needed at all.
Show up, smile, and pick up a check.

The bomber arrived at the cafe before the scientist did.
He screamed his fiancee’s name into the fire.
Setting up a research foundation in her name wasn’t enough… he had to do something.
So, he went back to his lab, and completed his time machine.
He went back in time, and shot the bomber.
Pulling off his mask… revealing his own face.
“You’ll see,” he whispered before dying.
That didn’t matter. They were together again.
And yet, the research they did together… it was… well, truly, profoundly evil.
He sighed, and began work on a time machine.
And a bomb.