if the sun explodes now
right now
it will take eight minutes
for us to realize that it has exploded
it takes eight minutes
for light to travel
from the sun to us
we won’t know sooner
because nothing travels faster than light
even if we surrounded the sun
with satellites
it would take eight minutes
for the radio signals
to travel
so, any time you’re stuck somewhere
and wish that the sun would explode
right now
to end it all
you’ve got another eight minutes of that shit
instead
wish for the sun
to have exploded eight minutes ago.
Category: My stories
In the room…
When people are ignoring something important, some people say “There’s an 800-pound gorilla in the room.” Or “There’s an elephant in the room.” And a few still say “There’s an n-word in the woodpile.”
The problem is, there is an 800-pound gorilla in the room. And an elephant. And an African American in the woodpile. It’s rude to say n-word these days. But if you ask the guy sitting in the woodpile, he prefers that you just call him “Steve.”
Instead of avoiding the issue, I pick up the phone and call the front desk.
“I’d like another room, please.”
No bribe uncounted
One candidate said that he would leave no stone unturned in the hunt for corruption.
The other candidate said that she would go no holds unbarred in the hunt for corruption.
They sparred constantly during the campaign.
The winner ended up leaving no stone unbarred in the hunt for corruption.
While the loser spent the next two years accusing the winner of failing to leave no hold unturned.
When the microphones were off, both would check their pockets for the money that had been slipped in there.
Whatever their campaign claims and lies, they ended up leaving no bribe uncounted.
They say
Fisk says that Arabs are Semites, so they can’t be anti-Semitic.
Fisk says that they can’t be terrorists because they’re resisting occupation.
By killing women.
By killing children.
By killing the elderly.
So, I call them Jew Haters.
I call them bloodthirsty barbarians.
I call them murderers.
I call them genocidal maniacs.
I call them animal predators.
I call them brainwashed deathcultists.
Then Fisk calls me a hater.
Do I hate the people who want to kill me?
Who teach their children to hate and want to kill me?
Come close, Fisk. Closer.
And let me spit in your face.
The good twins
Willy and Billy were identical twins, born to a nice Catholic couple.
They were raised in the church, baptized and taught all they needed to know.
They were good kids, and Willy and Billy never had anything to confess.
They didn’t even pretend to be the other twin to fool people.
“This is just too good to be true,” said Father Williams.
So, he tried to get them to snitch on each other.
But they had nothing to say.
“I guess they’re perfect then,” said Father Williams.
He tossed a coin to determine which to sacrifice for the Dark Mass.
Remind me of the dead
You remind me of the dead.
They were once alive, and happy.
Then something changed.
Something always changes.
Life is change.
When change stops, when nothing changes, life itself stops.
And death is there.
Death is always there, when nothing changes anymore.
When you say you don’t want to change, you are saying you want to be dead.
The dead don’t change. They stay that way forever.
Oh, we might tell your story and stretch the truth.
A little. Or a lot.
But that’s not change.
That’s the truth, rotting away, just as you rot.
In the hands of death.
Hairomatic
The Hairomatic is a brilliant device.
Put it over your head, push start, and it styles your hair perfectly.
You can choose from a dozen preset styles, or add more stylepacks with a subscription service.
Hackers modified the encryption locks to allow third-party hairstyles.
Dark Web sites offered thousands of styles.
Search a television show or movie, yeah, I want that style… and three minutes later, it was yours.
Hairomatic made billions, but there were the lawsuits.
Error-correction algorithms didn’t always prevent accidents.
And more than one customer found themselves scalped.
And the bald ended up with shattered, mangled skulls.
Hexenbrenner
Massacres spread across the continent, across the ocean, and the new lands.
The Bishop-Prince, they call him Hexenbrenner: The Witch Burner.
In one town alone, hundreds of women captured, tortured, and burned.
And then, his greatest triumph.
The capture of The Witch Queen.
She cast a curse upon the Prince.
He took it as her confession, and tied her to the wooden stake himself.
The townspeople brought the kindling and laid it at her feet.
She laughed as she burned, and a thick black smoke spread from the town center.
People, clutching their throats, unable to scream, suffocating in waves.
The Creepy Election
Halloween before a major election is never fun.
The stores sell masks of the major candidates.
People go to bars in their costumes, get drunk, and a fight breaks out.
Or some kid goes door to door, someone says something snide, and the parents have at it.
At least Thanksgiving comes after the election, so the family can come together and be thankful that it’s over.
Until someone brings up the loser… or the winner.
And that explains the rise of electric knife “accidents” across the country.
Pass the rolls… so I can stuff one in your big fat mouth.
Who weeps?
Who weeps for Merithne Grundle?
Not her mother, who bore her?
Or her father, who sold her into servitude?
Her brothers and sisters, glad to be rid of another mouth to feed when their stomachs were already rumbling from hunger before her arrival, and that much more afterwards?
She has no memory of them now, only the memory of the plow, the basket, and the fields.
To the master’s house.
To the master’s bed.
To the master’s embrace.
They find her the next day, covered with the master’s blood, holding a bloody knife.
Who weeps for Merinthe Grundle?
We do.